True Stories
Preface
“The Multiple Personalities of Chancy,” is a narrative delving into the intricate psychological landscape of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) through the life of Chancy Camprell, a woman in her twenties grappling with numerous distinct personas resulting from severe childhood trauma and abuse. The narrative explores repression, dissociation, and the fragmentation of the self as defense mechanisms against trauma. It illustrates how severe and prolonged childhood abuse can lead to the development of multiple identities within a single individual. The metaphorical ‘house’ in Chancy’s mind displays different rooms for each persona, aligning with Jungian concepts of the psyche and Freud’s compartmentalization of the unconscious.
The story depicts how Chancy’s multiple personalities emerge as coping mechanisms in response to dysfunctional, abusive relationships with family members, particularly her father. Each persona embodies specific repositories of emotions, memories, or traumas Chancy cannot consciously process. The persona ‘Taylor’ represents her anger and protective instincts. The persona ‘Little Chancy’ embodies her vulnerable and traumatized childhood self. The persona often interact within her internal ‘house,’ symbolizing her voices within her fragmented psyche.
Lilly Gundersen, a high school English teacher becomes Chancy’s pivotal therapist. She employs guided visualization, hypnosis, and Gestalt confrontation to help Chancy confront and integrate her personalities. The narrative illustrates the challenges of treating DID, including resistance from persona, ethical dilemmas and the therapist’s boundary management.
The Guthries, Chancy’s legal guardians, are portrayed as exploiting her condition for personal gain. Their unethical practices include hypnosis without consent and public manipulation of her persona, highlighting the potential for abuse in foster homes. The use of the ‘house’ metaphor serves as a central symbolic framework within the narrative. Different rooms represent repressed memories. Locked rooms and hidden basements symbolize the barriers in accessing traumatic memories and the difficulties in achieving integration.
The narrative employs a first-person perspective blended with a third-person omniscient view, providing an intimate portrayal of Chancy’s internal experiences and perceptions of those around her. This approach effectively immerses the reader in the fascinating complexities of DID from both individual and observer viewpoints.
The Multiple Personalities of Chancy
Chancy Camprell was not like other women. By the time I met her she lived dozens of lives with ample scars as evidence. To the untrained eye she was simply a troubled woman in her twenties. She resembled a frail, introverted woman with piercing blue eyes carrying the weight of a thousand lifetimes. To those who knew her background, Chancy was a kaleidoscope of identities. Each persona represented a fragment of her abused, shattered past.
My introduction to Chancy came through Lilly Gundersen, a high school English teacher by day and therapist by night. Her methods were unorthodox yet effective. Her work with Chancy became the cornerstone of a decade-long journey into the depths of the human psyche. My exposure to multiple personality disorders prior to Chancy came from two movies; The Three Faces of Eve and Sybil.
For the sake of privacy, names, dates and locations are changed. A fictional approach with fidelity to actual events is foremost in mind. Decades passed since I last saw Chancy and Lilly. The Guthrie’s are deceased. I am relying on notes, personal experience, and candid disclosures from Chancy’ and Lilly’s journals to piece together this amazing story. I beg your indulgence and understanding. Despite my participation and contribution, the focus is on the central characters; Lilly and Chancy. Let the story begin.
The Greyhound Terminal
Palm Springs Bus Terminal | March 14, 1976
The woman reeked of Jean Naté and regret. The citrus perfume clashed with the stale air of the empty bus terminal. Her chipped Passion Plum acrylic nails dug into Chancy’s shoulder. The scent of nicotine and drugstore vodka billowed from her breath. “Stay put, little mouse,” she murmured with a voice rasping like a rusty screen door. Cold fingers trembled from last night’s withdrawals. She fumbled with Chancy’s unraveling hem. The dress was a Salvation Army castoff two sizes too small. The dress exposed Chancy’s chicken-bone thighs. The faded daisy print failed to hide the constellation of bruises blooming along her limbs.
Chancy clutched her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Hobbs. It still reeked from Sister Miriam’s sanctimonious sage smoke. Its lone glass eye reflected the flickering DEPARTURES board. Her mother’s stretched patent leather pumps click-clacked across linoleum as she exited the rotating doors of the terminal. Diesel fumes wafted from the truck stop across the lot.
Fluorescent lights hummed like hornets trapped in glass. Chancy counted cracked floor tiles; thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, until the numbers bled into hieroglyphs. Somewhere behind a janitor’s mop sloshed pink-tinged water smelling of industrial Pine Sol.
“Yo, Corpse Bride. You lost?”
Chancy turned. A girl slouched against the adjacent bench. Her combat boots were propped on a torn bag leaking pregnancy test boxes. Her jacket screamed with band patches; Misfits, Bikini Kill, Dead Kennedys. She sported a septum piercing glinting like a bullring.
“I’m waiting for my mother,” Chancy whispered, rubbing the frayed ear of Mr. Hobbs’ with her fingers. Her nails were nervously chewed to the quick.
The girl lit a clove cigarette with a Zippo engraved FUCK OFF. “You might as well be waiting for the Rapture.” She exhaled smoke rings dissolving beneath the AC vent. “Your mum is halfway to Jersey by now.”
The static-whisper crescendoed. Chancy’s vision split: two girls flickering like a broken film reel superimposed into one. The stranger’s true form shimmered beneath golden light outlining a winged figure with eyes like molten mercury.
“Your aura’s like car trash,” the girl uttered, knocking ash from her cigarette. “You won’t last till sunrise.”
At dawn, the station manager shook Chancy awake. Her tongue felt swollen. Syllables sludged in her mouth like tar: “Var är min riktiga mamma?” The words tasted of Gothenburg winters and a life she’d never lived.
The ER intake form read: 11 y/o female. Psychosis? Trafficking victim? Mother unknown. During the psych evaluation, Chancy drew spirals in crayon while the social worker and psychiatrist debated: Dissociative episode? Schizophrenia?
The shrink leaned forward with the recording light blinking red. “Who taught you Swedish?”
Chancy did not respond. Mr. Hobbs’ remaining eye stared from the trash can as the social worker led her to the state van. Through barred windows she watched the city bleed into suburbs. Each identical house represented unspoken horrors and futures unknown. Chancy was assigned to the Guthries’ foster home. The home smelled of Pine-Sol and cigarettes. In the blink of an eye Chancey’s life resembled a stray relegated to a dilapidated dog pound.
Palm City High School, Spring 1980
The morning sunlight filtered through the windows of Palm City High School’s third-period English class. Long shadows cast across the rows of desks. Lilly adjusted her glasses and glanced at the clock. The hands ticked steadily toward the middle of the period. She taught High School for three decades. This Spring would prove to be the most significant in her career.
Her gaze fell on Chancy Camprell, the new transfer student sitting in the back row. Chancy was a wisp of a girl. She stood five foot, seven inches and weighed less than one hundred pounds. Her pale skin was almost translucent under fluorescent lights. Her piercing blue eyes darted nervously around the room. They never settled on one spot long. She clutched her notebook like a lifeline. Her knuckles were white against the faded cover.
Lilly read Chancy’s sparse enrollment documents. No parent signatures, merely the names Remi and Hugh Guthrie scrawled in uneven handwriting. Legal Guardians, it read. No emergency contacts, no medical history, merely a blank space where background information should have been.
“Let’s continue with Wuthering Heights,” Lilly announced, her voice steady. “Chancy, why don’t you take the next paragraph?”
The room fell silent. All eyes turned to the new student, Chancy froze like a deer caught in headlights. Her fingers tightened around her desk. Her lips parted slightly. Lilly noticed tremor in her hands. The way her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow breaths signaled a strong fear response.
“
Chancy?” Lilly prompted gently. “It’s all right. Take your time.”
Chancy’s lips moved. The words were not English. Lämna Chancy ifred din kärring. The sounds were sharp, discordant, and like broken glass. The class erupted into murmurs. A few students exchanged nervous glances. Others stifled giggles.
“Quiet,” Lilly ordered, directing a glare at the students. Her teacher instincts kicked in. She approached Chancy’s desk with slow, deliberate movements. “Chancy, are you feeling all right?”
Chancy’s head tilted slightly. Her eyes narrowed as though she didn’t understand the question. Then, in a voice not her own, she hissed, “Lämna Chancy ifred din kärring.”
Lilly thought she recognized the words as Swedish. The voice was deeper and harsher. It carried a menacing edge not belonging to a seventeen-year-old girl.
Lilly took a step back, her mind racing. Something unsettling was occurring. “Chancy,” she said carefully, “Let’s go see the nurse.”
Chancy didn’t resist. Lilly guided her from the classroom to the nurse’s station. Chancy’s movements were stiff and jerky like a puppet on strings. The hallway was empty. The sound of their footsteps echoed off the linoleum floor. Lilly’s heart pounded as she tried to make sense of what she witnessed.
As soon as they entered the nurse’s office, Chancy’s demeanor shifted again. Her body tensed. Her eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal. When the nurse approached with a thermometer Chancy lashed out. Her voice rose to an earsplitting pitch as she shouted, Lämna Chancy ifred din kärring.
It took eight paramedics to restrain her. By the time Chancy was successfully strapped her to the gurney, several bore scratches and bruises. She continued to thrash violently. Her screams echoed through the halls as the ambulance doors slammed shut.
Lilly stood at the curb, shaken to her core. She was experienced with troubled students. She worked with kids from broken homes, kids with anger issues, and kids who acted out for attention. This was profoundly different. This was something she couldn’t explain. An event truly defying logic.
During the break between classes, Lily glanced at the contact card pulled from Chancy’s file. She found Remi and Hugh Guthrie’s phone number. A sense of foreboding settled over her like a dark cloud while she waited for someone on the other end to pick up the phone.
The Guthries
Palm City, California – Spring 1980
The Guthries’ home was nothing like Lilly imagined. From the outside it looked like a modest suburban house. It was a single-story structure with faded yellow paint. The lawn hadn’t seen a mower in weeks. There were moving boxes on the porch. As soon as Lilly stepped inside she was struck by the overwhelming sense of chaos.
The air smelled faintly of incense and something sour like spoiled milk. The living room was cluttered with mismatched furniture. Stacks of books on astrology and parapsychology were scattered about. A large, circular table dominated the center of the room. Its surface was covered with tarot cards, crystals, and a half-empty bottle of white wine.
Remi Guthrie greeted Lilly with theatrical flourish. Her wide-brimmed hat tilted at an angle to obscure her face. The ploy was an attempt to conceal several failed face lifts to remove wrinkles from sun and nicotine addiction. Remi was a tall, wiry woman with sharp features. A cigarette holder dangled from her fingers. She waved the holder like a conductor’s wand to syncopate her conversation. Her voice was loud and commanding and dripped with an exaggerated air of sophistication.
“You must be Lilly!” Remi exclaimed, extending a hand adorned with gaudy rings. “So lovely to meet you. I hear you’ve taken an interest in our little Chancy.”
Lilly shook her hand noting the faint tremor in Remi’s fingers. “Yes, I’m her teacher. I wanted to check in on her after what happened at school.”
Remi waved her free hand dismissively while exhaling a plume of smoke. “Oh, you know how teenagers are, so full of drama. Chancy’s always been a bit high strung. Hugh and I have been doing our best to help her. This is her third school in six months. I hope she won’t be expelled. As you can see, we are closing the group home. We are moving to Mexico.”
Lilly’s eyes flicked to Hugh seated in a worn recliner by the window. He was a heavyset man with a bald head and a pointed gray soul patch beard. His expression was one of mild amusement. A pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of his nose as he flipped through a book on Mexico. Adjacent to the recliner was a wheelchair. Hugh was missing both legs beneath the knees due to peripheral artery disease.
“Remi’s the spiritual healer. I’m the hypnotherapist. Together, we make quite the team,” Hugh interrupted with a sly grin spreading across his round face.
Lilly suppressed a shiver. There was something unsettling about Hugh’s grin. His eyes lingered a moment too long. Lilly immediately concluded he used his stare to intimidate people.
“Chancy’s been through a lot,” Remi continued, gesturing for Lilly to take a seat at the circular table. “Her mother has pretty much abandoned her. Her father… well, let’s just say he won’t be winning any Father of the Year awards.”
Lilly sat down, her gaze steady. “I’d like to understand more about Chancy’s background. It might help me support her better at school. She is in one of my GATE classes for gifted students.”
Remi leaned back in her chair. She took a long drag from her cigarette. “She is very bright. Oh, where to begin? Chancy’s always been… different. Hypersensitive, you might say. She hears things and sees things most people can’t. It’s a gift, really. But it’s been a burden for her and for us.”
Hugh chuckled from his recliner. “A burden for us, that’s for sure.”
Lilly ignored him, focusing on Remi. “Define different’? Has she been diagnosed with any mental health conditions?”
Remi’s smile tightened. “Too many, but we don’t subscribe to labels. They’re so limiting, don’t you think? Chancy’s not sick… she’s special. She’s connected to the spiritual realm in ways most people can’t comprehend. She can communicate with spirits.”
Lilly’s stomach churned. She felt like she was about to throw up. In her years as a teacher she encountered a fair share of eccentric parents and guardians, but the Guthries were beyond odd. Their vague, hyperbolic answers only deepened her concern.
“Does Chancy see a therapist?” Lilly pressed.
Remi hesitated, her eyes darting to Hugh. “Well, she used to. She still sees a court appointed psychiatrist, a personal friend of mine. Therapists don’t understand her the way we do. They just want to medicate her. I provide counseling for the children in our foster home through my ministerial license. Hugh’s hypnosis sessions are also effective in helping the children.”
Lilly’s jaw tightened. “Hypnosis?”
Hugh set his book aside, leaning forward with a smug grin. “Oh, yes. Chancy’s quite the subject. You wouldn’t believe some of the things we’ve uncovered during our sessions… Past lives, suppressed memories, hidden personalities… You would find it fascinating.”
Lilly’s chest tightened. “Am I correct in presuming you have formal training in hypnosis?”
Hugh’s grin widened. “Does a lifetime of experience count?”
Before Lilly could respond, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway. Chancy appeared in the doorway. Her pale face was framed by a curtain of blonde hair. She looked smaller than Lilly remembered. Her shoulders hunched as though trying to make herself invisible.
“Chancy, darling!” Remi exclaimed, her voice dripping with pretentious affection. “Come say hello to your teacher.”
Chancy hesitated, her eyes flicking to Lilly before awkwardly stepping into the room. Her movements were stiff and hesitant like a mouse caught in a trap.
“Oh, Hello Ms. Gundersen,” she obsequiously murmured, her voice barely audible.
Lilly offered her a gentle smile. “Hello, Chancy. How are you feeling today?”
Chancy shrugged, her gaze fixed on the floor.
Remi clapped her hands together. The sound was sharp and jarring. “Well, isn’t this a lovely little reunion? Why don’t we all have some tea? Hugh, be a dear and fetch the kettle.”
Hugh grumbled under his breath while pushing himself out of the recliner and into the wheelchair. He rolled toward the kitchen. Remi busied herself clearing tarot cards off of the table. Chancy arranged three cups from a nearby packing box.
Lilly leaned toward Chancy and lowered her voice. “Are you okay, Chancy? Is there anything you want to talk about?”
Chancy hesitated, her hands twisting together in her lap. Finally, she whispered, “I don’t like it here.”
Lilly’s heart ached at the vulnerability in Chancy’s voice. She glanced at Remi, who was now engrossed in assembling the Tarot cards in a pattern.
“Why don’t you like it?” Lilly asked softly.
Chancy’s eyes filled with tears, but she quickly blinked them away.
Before Chancy could continue, Hugh returned with a steaming kettle on a lap tray. Remi removed the tray and set the kettle down with a flourish.
“Tea time!” she announced. “What Chancy means is she doesn’t like the fact we are closing the foster home and moving to Mexico. She worries about being left alone. We have made arrangements for her to have her own apartment.”
Chancy flinched at the sound of her voice. Her hands clenched into fists. Remi was always putting words in her mouth. Lilly reached out, placing a reassuring hand on her arm.
“It’s okay,” Lilly murmured. “You’re safe.”
But as she looked into Chancy’s haunted eyes, she was confident there was more to Chancy’s discomfort.
END OF SAMPLE