“Why do you want to be psychotherapist?” I was young and green but

bursting with confidence being a natural born relater off the streets of

Brooklyn, ready to relate to anyone, anytime, about anything.

For some reason, the question caught off guard because it wasn’t on the tip

of my tongue. It wasn’t like I wanted to be a psychotherapist when I grow

up, as much as a foregone conclusion, I was pre-ordained. “What else was I

going to do?” It left me fumbling for an answer. I defaulted to the simple

truth. “Discovering what’s beyond the façade is what I live for!”

A few months later, there was a case that left me humbled and wary and

second guessing myself, “Be careful for what you wish for.” No longer did I

romanticize discovery and truth-seeking or “getting beyond the façade.”

My interest was piqued when I saw her name, “Mary Jane Smith,”

penciled in his appointment book. I laughed to myself, “With a name like

that, she could be anybody or nobody. It’s probably an alias.”

Something about her struck me as odd from the get-go but couldn’t put my

finger on what it was. When I greeted her with an introductory handshake

gave her paperwork to fill out, again there was something different about

her, something mysterious or out of whack.

Mary appeared childlike, yet an adult. She was wearing a Western flannel

shirt underneath overall; her hair in pigtails, her face dotted with large

freckles, had big brown eyes, wore no make-up or lipstick, had no

handbag, nothing, she looked as though she had just come from a

farm, in a world of her own.

The first thing I did when I got the clipboard of her paperwork was check

what she wrote down for her age, 27. She had filled out the bare

demographics and left the rest blank.

When I asked her why she didn’t answer any questions or about something

she wrote that was intelligible, she looked at me blankly. I pointed to the

form. “What’s this say?”

It didn’t take long for me to realize that she must have had her reasons for

not answering those questions or wanting to discuss in the waiting room. I

looked at her, smiled and invited her to follow me. “Let’s talk in my office.”



Extending her hand, she got up with a huge smile, “Thank you so

much for seeing me.”

“Could you tell me about why you’re here?” I asked her. Her eyes

scanned the room as if she hadn’t heard the question, finally settling on

for a split second. I was wondering whether she didn’t want to get into it, or

was suspicious, overwhelmed or what was going on for her.

It seemed a bit out of context, almost cryptic when she blurted out, with an

incongruous smirk, “You never saw anyone like me before, did you?” There

was an air about her that was flirtatious or seductive.

Undaunted by her strangeness, I remained on track. “Could you tell me what

brought you here?”

“Yes. It was hard. My whole life.”

“Could you be more specific? What happened?”

She began whispering. “I’m not allowed to leave the house. Ever.”

I felt adrenaline beginning to surge in my body as a foreboding mystery was

unfolding before his eyes.

Even though she wrote 27 was her age, I had no idea how old she was. She

could have been 15, so I asked her, “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

I guess I had to believe her. I was trained to validate the client’s experience,

whether real or imagined, it was real to the person. At the same time, I had

a professional responsibility to make sure she was safe, wasn’t being held

against her will, not in some kind of danger.

Just for my own piece of mind, I was needing to clarify, “Who’s holding you

prisoner?” I asked with genuine curiosity.

“If I leave the house, she’ll do bad things to me.”

“Who’s she?”

“I’m not supposed to tell.”



I found myself in a bit of a quandary; busting with curiosity while Mary’s

fragility was becoming more evident. I didn’t want to push too hard too fast,

certainly not scare her off and, more than anything, wanting her to feel safe.

And it didn’t seem that she was at imminent risk. As a matter of course, I

asked her, “Who do you live with?”

“Mary.”

“Who’s Mary?”

“My mother.”

“Your name is Mary too?”

“That’s what she named me.”

“Your mother named you Mary? Mary the 2nd?”

She goes by Mary Jane Smith and I’m Mary.

“Do you call her Mother or Mom’?”

I was sensing her anxiety rising when she said, “We don’t have that kind of

relationship.”

This was the first time in my young career, I was stumped. I wasn’t

sure, what was happening or what I was dealing with so just tried to stay

engaged and pick my spots, still winging it.

“You’re right about one thing, I never did meet anyone like you.”

“I do have more questions and concerns, but I see we’re running out of

time. How do you feel about coming back next week, same time?”

Mary’s face collapsed like a popped balloon. “But we just started.”

Wanting to assure her, “Filling out the paperwork took more time than I

would have liked. No matter, we’ll just pick up from where we left off next

session. Next week, same time?”

“But I have this secret I shouldn’t tell you.”



Taken by her coy abruptness, but still hoping that she felt safe enough to tell

me, I felt compelled to ask, “Are you going to tell me what it is?” but was

mindful enough to wait for her to answer.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“You won’t see me.”

“What do you mean?”

“You won’t see me if I tell you.”

Incredulously, “What could you possibly tell me that would make me not see

you? I’m not sure what the secret is. But I can tell you this. Unless

you’re a threat to yourself or someone else, there is nothing else that could

keep me from continuing to see you.”

“No matter what?”

With some trepidation, “No matter what.”

“You will…stop seeing me. They all do.”

“There is nothing you could say that would make me stop seeing

you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.’

“It’s my name.”

Dumbfounded. “Your name?”

“It’s a secret.”

“Your name???

“Nobody.”

“Nobody. Nobody is your name?



That stopped me dead in my tracks, while I was also distracted by my next

client in the waiting room.

I thought better of asking her whether she was serious, again, because of

my training, I was inclined to take her seriously, give her the benefit of the

doubt.

“Okay,” I said with more than a modicum of hesitation, “If that’s your name,

I don’t think I can call you Nobody. It wouldn’t be therapeutic. Can I call you

Mary?”

“I’m Nobody.”

“OK, but I have to call you Mary, the name you wrote down. And I’m going

to see you next week.” ’m going to see you next week and need to call you

by the name you signed on your paperwork.”

Acquiescing, in a soft submissive tone, “Okay.”

“You think you’ll be able to get here okay next week?”

Taking a moment to think about it, she responded, “Yeah. Mary is doing an

aerobics class. She’s not going to be home.”

Even though we had a plan in place, things were still not adding up.

Mary was there the following week, right on schedule. Same childlike

appearance—pigtails, freckles, big brown eyes, flannel shirt and

overalls, eagerly awaiting the start of the session.

Naturally, I picked up from where we left off.

“Tell me about your relationship with your mother.”

“She’s mean and I don’t like her.”

“Why doesn’t she want you to leave the house?”

“She tells me I’m bad and that she doesn’t want anyone to ever know about

me.”

“You never leave the house?”

“I’m afraid to. One time when I thought she wasn’t going to be



there, she saw me outside of the house. Then she chained me to

the bed.”

“When was this?”

“At different times. I try so hard to be good. No matter what I do, it’s never

enough. I’m afraid of what she’d do to me if she found out I was here.”

I was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Her story and presentation

weren’t matching. She didn’t appear psychotic. I thought she could be in an

abusive situation. But she was an adult. I saw her dependency, fragility,

naiveté and innocence, but wasn’t close to a diagnosis.

“What would she do to you?”

“Try to teach me a lesson.”

“What’d she do?”

“I can’t say. Please. I don’t want to think about it.”

“Take a moment. If you don’t tell me, I doubt I’ll be able to help you.”

“She’s burned me with cigarettes…in places you can’t see. I have

scars.”

“She burns you with cigarettes?”

“Not recently.”

“How does she treat you when you’re good?”

“Sometimes she reads me stories, which I like a lot.”

I was wondering about her family, who she lives with and those

relationships. “Do you have any sisters or brothers?”

“Sisters. Mary controls them all.”

“Who controls them?”

“Mary.”

“Mary?”



“My mother.”

“Oh yeah,”

Her tone turned frightened, almost desperate. “You’re not going to tell Mary

I’m here, are you?”

“Of course not.”

After two sessions, I still had no idea what was going on and couldn’t zero in

on what exactly her problem was. Mary was something different from

anything I’d ever seen or known.

Bereft of any clarity or direction, I decided to seek the consult of

a colleague, who proposed that Mary was most likely a victim of severe

abuse and encouraged a back-to-basics approach. He gave me a vote of

confidence and supported me to trust his instincts. “Keep doing hat you’re

doing. Find out more about her relationship with her mother.”

I was so relieved to hear that I was on the right track and that colleague

was in his corner. My excitement returned. I couldn’t wait for the big day,

our third session.

That day came none too soon. When I entered the waiting room at

the appointed time, Mary wasn’t there. I saw someone in the waiting room

sitting where Mary sat, but I assumed was there to see another counselor. I

went back to my office to give her a bit more time to get there. But when I

came back, the same woman was still sitting there, who asked me. “Are you

Dr. Linder?”

I was frozen, totally at a loss. I never saw this woman before, but she knew

who I was.

“Yes,” not knowing what else to say.

I’m Mary Jane Smith.”

I wasn’t sure whether I was more flabbergasted or more shocked, but still

desperate to put the missing pieces together. “Who are you?”

“Mary Jane Smith.”



“No way!” I insisted in a loud and hyperbolic tone, “You’re telling me that

you’re Mary Jane Smith? The same person that here last week and the week

before that?”

“Yes and no.”

He thought he was being played and nearly snapped. “Am I supposed to

know what that means?

“Dr. Linder, let me explain. “Could we go into your office?”

I had to set her straight. “I’m not a doctor, only a therapist.”

Where’s Mary or Nobody?”

“She wasn’t supposed to see you at all. I am aware that you saw

her two times.”

“Who are you?”

“Mary Jane.”

The thought crossed my mind I was being played and to just throw her out

of my office. I couldn’t betray Mary’s (or Nobody’s) confidence to someone I

didn’t know or what her relationship was with Mary.

This (adult-like) Mary Jane’s hair was long and straight, down to her

shoulders and darker than Mary’s was. She was dressed in a corporate,

cosmopolitan attire, carried a shoulder bag, wore light make-up,

and her complexion was clear- not dotted with freckles. She had

striking features, and there was a high powered and intimidating and that

she wasn’t messing around.

All he could do was to just be honest and professional. “I’m sure you’ll

understand my being a bit perturbed. I shouldn’t even be talking to you. You

are not my patient.”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

“I don’t know you.”

“I’m here to tell you that Mary can no longer see you.”

“What! Why can’t she see me?”



“She’s already seeing someone else.”

“But she told me that she wasn’t seeing anyone else. I asked her

that specifically.”

“This is the situation, Dr. Linder. I am diagnosed a multiple

personality disorder and am under the care of a psychiatrist,

who is experienced and had been working with me for the past

four years.”

“But I am already seeing her. And I still don’t know who you

are.”

“Do you want my doctor to call you?”

“Yes. I do. Are you telling me that you and Mary Jane are the

same?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t believe you.”

“You can call him. His name is Dr. Stringer and here’s his number.

There’s not much else to say. You are not to see Mary Jane.”

“That’s not even her name.”

“I know she calls herself Nobody. Don’t be fooled by her childish routine.

She runs away from me, spreads all these rumors, is always trying to blame

me for her hard, miserable life.”

She seemed so cold and hard and abrupt compared to Nobody.

“Dr. Linder, I have no desire to speak with you further. If she

sees you, tell her that you can no longer see her.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

“Dr. Linder. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

“I don’t.”



“You understand, Dr. Linder that you could be liable, lose your license if you

persist.”

“I will have to speak to your doctor.”

“Here’s his card.”

I had a lot to mull over. I had learned nothing about Multiple Personality

Disorder in graduate school and never met an MPD, other than the movies,

The Faces of Eve and Sybil.

Here was an opportunity to learn about something that really piqued my

interest as a clinician. I was fascinated by the concept of different

personalities manifesting in the same person, how a person could be two,

three or more different people at the same time.

At the same time, I was in an ethical dilemma, that there was no way I

could justify continuing to see Mary, when she had already been working

with Stringer.

The next thing he had to do was to call him, to corroborate her story.

With high trepidation, I began dialing the phone. All I got was his

answering service, so I left a message for him to call back.

When Stringer called, it was a very brief conversation. He confirmed

that Mary Jane was indeed his patient and that he was treating her

multiple personality disorder. He sternly emphasized that he was the

treating physician, and that wasn’t to see Mary again.

When I asked him what his treatment consisted of, he sounded quite

pompous, but to the point. As you might imagine, treating multiple

personalities is quite complicated. There’s a host, the dominant

personality and any number of sub or other personalities. And at any

time, switching from one to another can occur. The goal is to get the

dominant personality in control and in charge, to render the subordinates

non-factors, so she could live a more normal life.”

“Thank you that.” “OK,” I relented. “I guess I have to get out of the way.”

I was dreading my appointment with Mary that was set for the following

week, hoping and praying she doesn’t show up. “Now that her doctor has

gotten involved and the dominant personality stepped in, it’s a long shot

that she does show up.” So, I thought.



Worried about my career and afraid of getting into some kind of trouble,

charged for malpractice by the Board, the last thing I wanted to do was to

face Mary, after breaking my promise. When she hadn’t shown up for the

next two weeks, I was counting my lucky stars.

My relief, however, was short-lived. By happenstance, I had no-one

scheduled in that four pm slot the third week. When I strolled to the waiting

room for some water, I was caught completely off guard to see Mary sitting

there, business as usual; waiting for me to greet her.

“Mary? I wasn’t expecting to see you again.”

With that same happy-go-lucky smile, she inquired, “Yo mean you weren’t

expecting me???

“Uuuhh…You missed two weeks. You didn’t call.”

“Don’t you remember me telling you I might sometimes have to miss a

session or two. I couldn’t call you.”

It was surprisingly apparent that Mary and Nobody never communicated

about it. I thought that Mary would have made sure that Nobody doesn’t end

up in another therapist’s office.

“Let’s go in. We need to talk this through.”

At this point, I was visibly nervous, sweating and my voice was cracking.

I had to ask. “Do you know that Mary came to see me?”

“She did?!”

“You didn’t know?”

“She didn’t tell me.”

“She was here three weeks ago.”

“She told you not to see me, right?”

“Yes. And that you are already under the care of another

doctor.”

“And now you can’t see me. Right?”



“I’m sorry. That’s right.”

“I need to see someone for myself. Someone else. Not Stringer, he doesn’t

care about me or believe me.”

“But if I continued to see you, I’d only make it worse.”

“I want to see you.”

“I can’t. I could get into a lot of trouble.”

“But you promised.”

“I had no idea you were seeing someone else.”

“But you promised!”

“I’m sorry.”

She just sat there staring at me. Her eyes welling up, looking as

though she just lost the only friend she ever had. She slumped back

into her chair.

Then, in the matter of the moment, everything suddenly changed. Her eyes

were vacant and seemed Her face paled and began to contort. She tilted her

back and her face turned chalk-white.

I had no idea what was happening or what was going to happen. I wasn’t

even sure she was conscious. The hair on his arms stood straight up and had

goose bumps all over my body.

Finally, after about two long minutes, Mary came to. She opened her

eyes and color returned to her face. She looked disoriented.

As if she was seeing me for the first time, “Who are you?”

“Daniel Linder.”

“What am I doing here? Where am I?”

“In a therapy office in Chicago.”

“I don’t know you.”



I was afraid to ask. “Who are you?”

“Lorna.”

I was thinking while my hands were shaking, unsure when or if she was

going to leave my office. I asked, “Do you know what time it is?”

Looking out of the window, she said, “It’s dark.”

With no intention of engaging her further, “Do you know how to

get home?”

“I’ll find my way.”

As relieved as he was to see her leave my office, and perhaps never have to

deal with her again, questions kept bubbling up in my head. I was wondering

what impact my broken promise would have on her, if any. I learned a

lesson, to never lie or mislead a patient by making promises I can’t keep,

​and I would never, “No matter what” again.