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The memories of my mother’s prostitution are among my most confusing recollections. They clash wildly with the persona my mother presented most of the time, to most people. Usually my mother was shy, with the voice and demeanor of a nervous young girl. She wore fuzzy sweaters and tennis shoes, her hair clipped back in barrettes, and she got me to pay the men in the gas station or to ask the neighbors for butter. Her eyes easily filled when confronted with strangers, especially in those early years: She was skittish, with an overlay of sweetness.
But then, at night, the men would come, between the regulars. I would hear them clomping up the stairs, and I would hear her, too, in the room across the hall. The sound of sex, the smell, seemed to be everywhere. When she was in her room, she sounded like she was being tortured, and also defiant, like a person I didn’t know. Sometimes I’d see them in the morning: dark-haired, mustachioed, ’70s men, buckling their Sansabelt pants or lacing up their work boots before they shut the door. My mom would shuffle down later in a rose-colored nightie, her breasts low and heavy, making instant coffee in the microwave. She didn’t talk about the men, didn’t introduce us, and mostly they didn’t say anything to my brother or me, either. We just ate our cereal and left for school.
In an unusual moment of protectiveness when I was 9, my mom bought me a deadbolt for my bedroom door and told me to use it.
I was scared of the lock, actually. I was scared there would be a fire and nobody would be able to break down the door and save me. But when I asked my mom why I had to shut the bolt at night, she wouldn’t explain.
And in this way, I was less afraid of the men than I was of my mom. I don’t know if she was exchanging sex for money or just exchanging a lot of sex. What I do know is that talking about the men could make her split into her “bad mom” self, the one she wouldn’t remember. Or maybe it was the other way around: When my mom was normal, she was quiet and shy and good; when she split, she was a whore.
All of my mother’s personality splits revolved around sex—usually violent, screaming outbursts about violent, terrifying encounters. Maybe, with all those men, she was acting out those images, reliving her childhood and the grandfather who, she claimed, had raped her. Maybe these “other jobs” were a way to take back control. Or else she was just lying about being a prostitute. And maybe that would be worse. I was only 9 or 10. The way she talked about it was what scared me most of all.
“Why do you think you’re better than me?” she once shouted, apropos of nothing. When my mother shouted and accused, I knew she had changed; when she was her normal self, guilt was her weapon, not rage. This particular day she was holding a plate; I thought she was going to throw it at me. “You’re not a whore—you’ve never had to be a whore!”
My mother laughed, and this is how she was when she shifted: She stood up straighter, her shoulders went back; she seemed taller, electric, charged. Her grin was tighter, her eyes brighter; even her hair seemed to rise. She wielded the plate in the air. “I have to be a whore to put food in your body! And you think you’re too good for me. You think you’re better than everybody!” She leaned in, the spit from her screaming landing on my cheeks. “How do you think I paid for my college? I was a whore! A whore! I’ve always been a whore!”
Beyond her hulking form I saw my toddler brother hiding behind the couch. I calculated the timing. Could I duck beneath her arm, grab my brother, carry him up the stairs, and lock him in my room with me without her catching us? Impossible. My mom was big, but she could be fast.
She gave me an opportunity to save my brother when she stomped into the kitchen and broke the plate in the sink: I grabbed him and made it to my room. I knew if we waited, this bad mom would go away, and I wished hard on all my stuffed animals for her to go driving, because good mom would come back from those drives, normal and tired and knowing nothing at all about the terrible things she’d said.
I didn’t know it then, but there was a diagnosis that was popular at the time that my mother seemed to conform to: multiple personality disorder, mocked and demonized after Hollywood’s Sybil. Thirty years later, the diagnosis would still be controversial, and I would still be embarrassed and afraid to stick my mom with such a label. Like prostitution, the very idea is salacious and sensationalized, rarely capturing the lived experience of those with the condition. It’s now called dissociative identity disorder (DID), and people who suffer from it have disrupted identities and can’t recall significant personal information. Almost always they’ve been deeply traumatized in childhood, often through repeated and prolonged sexual abuse. People with DID have two or more distinct personality states.

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