Gudrun Frerichs
Beyond The Tree House
Copyright © 2020 by Gudrun Frerichs
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Gudrun Frerichs asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
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First edition
Editing by Svea Berling
Cover art by Suzie O'Connel
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Contents
Disclaimer
Preface
The Tribe Family
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Thank You
Preview Chapter One: Girl From The Tree House
Acknowlegements
About the Author
Also by Gudrun Frerichs
Disclaimer
This story may triggers some people. Even though I have abstained from describing experiences of childhood abuse in detail, there are general references to abuse. Survivors who read this book might need to make sure they have access to supportive services and or caring others as reading the book could triggers personal experiences.
Even though I am writing about real problems trauma survivors with DID are experiencing in their lives, this is a novel, a made up story. For the sake of the narrative, my heroine has a high level of functioning. This is not always the case and often requires years of working with supportive health professionals.
Multiples usually have had horrendous childhood experiences that cause them emotional pain, overwhelming fears and anxieties, that may have led to unhelpful coping strategies. At no time is it my intention to minimize the need for compassion, emotional support, and care Multiples require whilst on their journey of recovery.
At last but not least:
My depiction of the internal communication and co-operation in both my novels about the tree house people is a simplified and idealized one to serve the narrative. Although I have seen this happening in my practice, it requires in most cases intensive therapy to achieve that.
This is also the case for the integration process. This too is very different from person to person. I never intended it to be a ‘road-map’ for what has to happen in order for the Multiple to be well. Communication, co-operation, and integration are different for each person.
Preface
For over twenty-five years I’ve worked as a psychotherapist with trauma survivors diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID, previously Multiple Personality Disorder). Most of them thought they were crazy while I didn’t see anything I could label as ‘crazy’.
When you read Elise’s story, you hopefully get a sense of my respect and admiration for people with that diagnosis. Over the years I’ve listened to believers, non-believers, and doubters only to realize that in all that verbal warfare the person at the center of the discussion got left behind. Often the condition is sensationalized and the focus is on the ‘dysfunctional’ behavior. I wanted to show the perspective of the Multiple and the courage and strength required to face one’s traumatic past.
Many Multiples are highly functioning and work successfully in responsible, demanding jobs. In times of stress, being triggered, or suffering additional trauma, Multiples, like any other person, dissociate more and their ability to cope can quickly reach critical limits.
A multiple once told me: The other day I told a friend of many years - he actually has experienced me at my worst when things were really hanging on a thin thread - that I am a Multiple. I couldn’t believe his reaction - he is a health professional and knows about DID - he just didn’t believe me. No way, he said. He even got angry when I insisted…I thought that was quite funny. Here I was, for years plagued by shame, thinking it must be written on my forehead that I am strange and odd - and people didn’t notice anything.
I invite you to walk for a while in the shoes of a Multiple, try them on for size, and hopefully come to see that Multiples are neither green-eyed monsters nor raving lunatics but people who need support and compassion.
The Tribe Family
Ama: mother of the Tribe, in her fifties.
Amadeus: (angry) protector, in his twenties
Caroline: self-harms, 24 yrs. old
Elise: our front person 43 yrs. old
Elizabeth: the original child born 1976
Jimmy: boy, early teens
Lilly: fixes situations, 19 yrs. old
Lizette: speaks French, loves fashion, 17 yrs. old
Luke: man around the house, 18 yrs. old
Maddie: holds many abuse memories, 4 yrs. old
Mikey: 8 or 9 yrs. old, loves pirates, treasures, secrets
Phoenix: old man in his fifties or sixties, he’s the guard
Sky: wise one – ageless
Toby: Maddie’s friend, 5 yrs. old
And lots of others that are not specifically named in the book.
Chapter One
Lilly: 24 February 2017, Morning, Wright’s Homestead
I guess I have to fill you in about what happened. Miss Marple, our therapist, told me people hate it when things are left unexplained. Open gestalts—that’s what she’d called them—are confusing to most. People get irritated when not everything is tied up and explained to the smallest detail. They have an inherent need for closure. They don’t try to be difficult. It’s psychology.
Our story began with Horace Reid’s funeral. We were married to him for…it doesn’t matter. Too many years.
But please, go ahead and forget him. He was a jerk and child molester all his life
and his passing was better than the coming down of the Berlin Wall.
Unlike the East Germans we, however, didn’t stage a big revolution. Most of us were too afraid. We were like the fish in the pond that didn’t notice the gradual pollution of the water until it was almost too late. We had too many child-parts and us older ones didn’t work together well enough to operate effectively.
Doctors diagnosed us with Dissociative Identity Disorder or DID as they call it. But don’t get all hung up about it. You could call it green eggs and ham; it wouldn’t make a difference. It’s just a term that holds no meaning for us. The Disorder part doesn’t describe us, but the scumbags who inflicted multiple waves of abuse on us from early childhood. All the term ‘disorder’ does is it shifts the blame to the victim of the abuse and lets the perpetrator go scot-free. For me, DID means we are a family of parts. There are many of us—fifty altogether—and we call ourselves the Tribe and when we come out in force, a lot is going on.
Becoming a person with different, distinct parts was our way of coping with abuse and bringing order into the chaos of our life. The Original person was Elizabeth. When bad things happened early on in her life, she’d called on the angels for help—and the angels listened. She could go away into the recesses of her mind and we came along, taking over and coping with whatever happened.
To begin with, we were two, but soon we had to call on more help. Things were just too hard for just one or two people to cope. It turned out we all love Elizabeth and go through fire for her … and many of us have, even if we weren’t aware of her in the past.
Call us crazy, maybe we are. Enough people have called us that over the years. To us, it’s the world that’s crazy with all the wars, mayhem, murder, and abuse wherever you look. Compared to that, we think we are pretty cool.
After Horace died, we needed a Five-Star-General to plan our getaway. That’s when Sky stepped up and organized us. To be honest, that was probably the first time we older ones worked together. And it worked. We escaped and found the start of freedom and a new life in our late aunt’s homestead on the South Island.
As it happened, total peace and freedom had to wait because our childhood abusers must have felt threatened about our newfound freedom and tried to get rid of us.
The good news was, though, we were no longer the confused woman they’d known, the one who didn’t have the slightest idea if she was coming or going. We became organized and started working together as a team. That was our turning point and the beginning of their demise.
Let that be a warning to all the filthy abusers. There will be a reckoning. Karma is a bitch. One day she’ll be back to bite you.
We helped to put the bad guys that hurt us behind bars. That was super cool but it also was a super scary time. The aftermath was ugly. It’s what I struggle with the most. It turns out, when people find out you have a psychiatric diagnosis, they can’t help but hold it against you. We immediately became the mental one and people gave us a wide berth. Often I regret that we had to stand up and tell our story to get Sebastian Feldman and his Gateway cronies behind bars. But it was necessary. They had to be stopped. Many children’s lives depended on it.
So now we live on Auntie Amanda’s homestead with Scottie. He’s our hero and we love him. He’s our lover, brother, father, mate, best friend, and protector. He’s become part of our family and every single one of us loves him differently. That makes for a lot of love. Miss Marple said once,
You guys are pure love.
You all came from love,
from helping a helpless child.
No matter what it cost you.
That was a neat thing to say.
Yep, she was a great lady and we all miss her a lot.
Chapter Two
Elise: 1 March 2017, Midday, Wright’s Homestead
“Next time you talk to the cow at the city council. I was this close to giving her a piece of my mind.” Lilly indicates about an inch with her index finger and thumb. She’s fuming but underneath all that bluster I know are frustration and hurt. She feels people treat us as if we’re attractions of a Victorian freak show like the bearded lady, the elephant man, or the woman with three breasts.
She sits back on the stairs, her elbows resting behind her on the landing, staring forlornly into the empty space.
“I’m glad you didn’t.” I put as much feeling into my voice as I can to let her know she’s not alone, that I have her back, even if I’m less feisty than she is. “The last thing we want is to draw even more attention to us. We want the building permit to go through quickly and without much hassle.”
But Lilly is far from being pacified. Her eyes all but shoot darts.
“Did you see her smug face? “I don’t know what’s wrong with people. You appear totally normal to me.” She mimicked the condescending tone of the office clerk at the town hall.
“She literally said that. This far. Honestly.” Up came her fingers again.
Of all of us, Lilly suffers the most under the unpleasant attention the court case and Annabelle’s article about us has caused. She feels responsible that the newspapers reported about life in detail. As if we had any other choice. We all agreed to go to court.
“Just ignore her. I’m sure she meant well.” At least I hope so, but like Lilly, I’m disheartened by some people’s attitude. We all are.
“Heaven save me from people who mean well.” She rolls her eyes and is gone, leaving me with a residue of her feelings.
I move to the open window and lean out, inhaling the crisp air filled with the earthy perfume of the forest. Summer is on its way out. A little over three months ago we’d returned home from Wellington leaving behind the ugliness of the Gateway court case.
Back then summer had come rushing in on a warm, brazen nor’-westerly driving out the unreliable spring and spreading an abundance of light and color over our small paradise. Complete with buzzing bees and a myriad of insects dancing on the sun’s rays, it announced its arrival with fanfare and drumroll. For a few short weeks, a stunning display of flowers ignited around us, weeds heavy with seeds swayed in the warm breeze ready to spill, and birdsong competed with the rustling of the trees as the lightest of winds danced through their branches.
It was as if nature knew it had to hurry because summers are short on the West Coast of the South Island. Every day counts before the storms of fall and winter take hold again, chilling our bones and driving us to the warmth of cozy fireplaces.
It was our first real summer at the homestead. By that I mean it was the first summer we’d been happy.
Really happy.
It was like eating ice cream for the first time, an unexpected, surprising enjoyment. We’d run barefoot in the high grass, let the wind tousle our hair and let kisses travel to Scott on the warm air. We had lazy picnics by the creek, danced over boulders and waded into ice-cold water, clothes and all. We couldn’t get enough of our new life. Michael said, it’s better than finding a treasure, and that means a lot.
I look up when the two males who make my heart sing come around the corner. They must have been at the creek because Prince’s fur is still wet and glistening in the sunlight. Scott carries a big smile and four fish strung up.
He holds up the bundle and shouts, “Trout!”
Looks like we’re having trout for dinner. I open the backdoor and send him an appreciative smile while trying to keep Prince and his wet fur away from my jeans.
“How was your morning?” Scott kicks off his rubber boots, puts the fish in a bowl in the sink, and wipes his hands on his jeans.
“It was busy in town.”
I bask in the beloved, familiar smell of the forest, earth, fish, and wood-fire that always surrounds him like a precious cloak. He takes me into his arms and kisses me as we crab-walk into the living room. In his arms I’m at home, safe, and surrounded by love. I know that because my inner world is messy like a crumpled bed sheet in the morning. When he’s close, though, it’s as if an invisible hand straighte
ns out the ripples and twists of my life. Even Prince knows that all is good and jumps excitedly around us.
My heart expands and leaps about. It hits me and takes my breath away. I love this man to distraction. Will I ever get used to the wave of love coming from all the different parts of me? Will he ever know the depth of my feeling for him? At times I’m afraid I’ll burst.
Lilly thinks we’ve turned him into a multiple too. He shifts and changes effortlessly to meet the needs of all the different parts of the Tribe.
“You look tired.” He cups my head with his hands and gazes into my eyes. I’m never quite sure whether he’s searching for an answer or wondering who he’s talking to.
“I’ve been thinking.”
How much shall I reveal? I nestle deeper into his arms. If only we could stay like this forever. Just the two of us…three counting Prince, without any interference from others. The last year had revolved around the Gateway community, the childhood abuse, and me being a multiple. I’m sick and tired of rehashing it over and over again and so too must he be.
I’d hoped the guilty verdict and the fact that the leaders of Gateway are behind prison bars would return our life to normal. Not that I have a clue what a normal life looks like. Would I even recognize it if I had it?
We are a celebrity now but not in a good way. People are wary. I guess they expect us to transform at any moment into some kind of unpredictable monster. We should have expected it.
“You’re worrying too much. You should have joined us at the creek after you returned from the city council, air your gray cells, and enjoy nature.” He kisses my forehead. I don’t want the moment to end and bury my hands in his hair. After all this time I can hardly believe that he’s on my side. Not only that, he’s mine.
“Next time I’ll try to go with you. I promise.”
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