Carole Smith - The Magic Castle: A Mothers Harrowing True Story Of Her Adoptive Sons Multiple Personalities— And The Triumph Of Healing

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Contents

To my husband

without his love,

patience, and support,

there would have been no story to tell.

Illustrations

Acknowledgments

This book never would have been finished if it werent for one of my sons personalities. His name was Brian, he was fourteen years old, and he was created to handle the need for revenge. His idea of revenge was to kill, and I can still hear that deep, guttural voice in Dr. Kingsburys office. Death! Death to Christine! After a lot of communication with the doctor and my son, Brian was willing to settle for the book. If everyone could know what Christine and the other perpetrators had done, he would agree to become integrated.

Brian put the pressure on. Sometimes the rewriting and revisions took longer than he thought they should, so he would take over and cause a great deal of trouble. When it was finally done, Brian kept his promise. He was the last of the personalities.

I am especially grateful to Bill Conti, our therapist. When the project was more wishful thinking than reality, he would read those first drafts, and his praiseful words helped me to believe in my ability to actually write the book. Dr. Steven J. Kingsbury also read the manuscript and provided helpful technical advice. I would like to thank my agent, Ken Atchity, for his unwavering faith, and Jennifer Enderlin, my editor at St. Martins Press, for her invaluable criticism. In addition, I would like to express my appreciation to Sue McDonald, for handling the much-detested chore of typing, and to Nancy Bland for managing to get printable copies from dog-eared originals of predisclosure drawings.

Authors Note

This is a true account of my experiences in successfully raising a child who suffered from multiple personality disorder. In writing the book, I have made extensive use of notes I took during therapy sessions and directly after encounters with alters, mental health personnel, a child placement organization, and the office of the district attorney. Occasionally, I have combined several similar events to avoid repetition.

I was not present at the original incidents but I did observe many revivifications of the actual events. My belief in the truth of the personalities revelations is based upon physical and circumstantial evidence and also occasional verification from witnesses. All of my encounters with the alters, including revivifications, have been accurately depicted and have not been exaggerated in any way.

Many names, locations, and identifying details, including those of my family, have been changed or modified. The only names used in this book that have not been altered are those of Bill Conti, Dr. Steven J. Kingsbury, Dr. Nina Fish-Murray, Marie Parente, and Dr. Van der Kolk. The names of places and institutions that have not been changed are Boston Childrens Hospital; Camp Wedicko; County District Attorneys Office; Massachusetts Department of Social Services; Massachusetts Mental Health Center; Mount Auburn Hospital; Northboro, Massachusetts; Robert F. Kennedy Residential School; and University of Massachusetts Acute Adolescent Psychiatric Unit at Westboro.

As a final note, when he was thirteen years old, my son wanted to sever all connections to the perpetrators and asked to have his first, middle, and last names legally changed. I gave him an old family name of mine, my husbands middle name, and, of course, our last name. It is important that the reader know of these changes. However, throughout this book I have simply called him Alex.

I

July to August 1984

Alex

My husband, Sam, and I were sitting across from each other at the scarred trestle table in the kitchen. Shafts of morning sunlight were coming through a window and my eyes idly followed the bright rays as they played across the pine-paneled walls. For two weeks now, we had been considering the option of taking a special-needs foster child into our home, and Sam was waiting for me to make a decision. Peering at me inquiringly, he had his elbows on the table and his blue coffee mug clasped in both hands. So what do you think, Carole? he said, lifting the mug to his lips. Do you want to give it a try? Would you like to work for these people?

He was referring to an agency that handled state contracts for the placement of emotionally disturbed children. IIm not sure, I answered with a touch of hesitation and a lot of concern. These kids have got some severe problems. Many of them have been institutionalized. Maybe I should go back to teaching.

A smile flickered across Sams handsome features. A lock of gray-streaked hair fell across his forehead and he brushed it aside with a casual, absentminded gesture. Is that what you really want?

As Sam was well aware, teaching English to seventh- and eighth-graders was not very high on my job appeal agenda. I had not forgotten the frustrations of discipline and piles of paperwork. No, I acknowledged. But I knew I had to do something. My husband, a masonry contractor, had injured his back in a fall last May. It was now midsummer, the bills had been piling up, and it would be December or January before he could resume the necessary lifting and climbing.

At thirty-three thousand a year, this pays more than teaching, said Sam, tuning into my thoughts. I think youd find a hell of a lot more satisfaction in dealing with only one kid at a time. And Carole, its not as though we dont have the place for it.

Sipping my coffee, I nodded in agreement. We did have the place for it. A sprawling ranch house. Twenty acres of oak, maple, and white pine bounded by a river and lichen-covered stone walls. Beyond the gnarled oak tree on the front lawn and down a gently sloping hill, there was a barn. It had a gambrel roof and it was stained a dark, almost black, brown to match the house. Inside were stalls for my horses, a generous hayloft, and more than enough room for Sams pet rabbits.

Sam and I had raised four children here on this land in this small Massachusetts town of West River. We seldom saw the older three. Scott, an electronics engineer, was married and lived in California. Matt was a long-distance truck driver and lived in northern Maine, and Corey was in the navy.

I wouldnt have dreamed of bringing in a foster child if one of my own was still at home, but our youngest son, Eddie, had gone off to college, and there was a void, an emptiness. We did have a beagle puppy named Bailey and an orange angora cat named Rusty. I dont know, Sam. I suppose it might be a good thing to have a child around again.

And as for problems, Carole, look here, he said, waving his hand toward a stack of literature Id brought home from the preliminary interview.

Yes, I know. Ive read it. I reached to the end of the table, picked up a booklet, and flipped through the glossy pages. Id read about the complete support services and the twenty-four-hour emergency backup. Id read about the supervision by trained experts and the clinical staff of psychiatrists, psychologists, and other professionals who could be contacted at any time to help in crisis situations. Id also read about the respite procedure. If the care of the child became too stressful, the child would be temporarily placed elsewhere. Every possible contingency, every conceivable drawback, seemed to be covered. Okay, I said to my husband. Lets do it. But I wont be just giving it a try. You know how I am. If I start something, I stick with it. I am not a quitter.