After she was abused by her father as a child, Jeni Haynes created 2,681 personalities. This is her story.

This story deals with child abuse and rape and may be triggering for some readers.

In 2019, Brisbane woman Jeni Haynes made headlines for being the first person in Australia to testify against her abuser — her father, 77-year-old Richard Haynes — from the perspectives of her Multiple Personality Disorder alters. (Note: While Jeni uses the term Multiple Personality Disorder, the clinical terminology is Dissociative Identity Disorder.)

The abuse that began when Jeni was only a baby is unimaginable to most. It was physically, psychologically and emotionally sadistic and never-ending. The fact she survived may be called a miracle by some — but the reality is, it is testament to the extraordinary strength of Jeni's mind.

What saved her was the process of dissociation, a defence mechanism that saw Jeni create 2,681 separate personalities, or alters, who protected her as best they could from the trauma. This army of alters included four-year-old Symphony, teenage motorcycle-loving Muscles, elegant Gabrielle, forthright Judas and eight-year-old Ricky.

Listen to Mia Freedman's full interview with Jeni Haynes on the No Filter podcast. Story continues below.

Richard Haynes was sentenced to 45 years in prison, and will not be eligible for parole until 2050. He will likely die in jail.

Jeni, now 52, has gone on to inspire many survivors of child sexual abuse and those living with multiple personalities.

This is her story.

The following is an extract from The Girl in the Green Dress by Jeni Haynes and Dr George Blair West, with Alley Pascoe. It is often written from the perspectives of Jeni’s alters.

SYMPHONY

It looks painful. I don’t know what ‘it’ is, but I know it must be hurting him and I figure the only way to ease his pain is to make it vomit. It looks like it splits in half, like a snake shedding its skin.

Taking my dad’s pain away hurts me.

My dad calls them games, but I don’t like playing with him. He tells me I’m doing him a big favour, that my mum and my sister could never help him the way that I do, and that they’d be upset with me if they knew. I’m taking care of Daddy, but no one else can know. It’s private and confidential. My dad pronounces ‘private’ like the weed ‘privet’.

Jeni as a child. Image: Supplied.

I can’t keep up with Dad’s demands. Every time Dad hurts me, I have to create a new alter to deal with the new distraction. I need help and more alters walk out of the back of my head. I create someone to take away the sound of Dad inhaling sharply, the heat of his exhaling breath and the smell of his sweat.

I don’t realise that alters aren’t like toilet paper. They’re more like tea towels. Once I create an alter, I can’t flush them away. They stick around. They’re not disposable the minute they’re no longer needed. Besides, they’re constantly needed because Dad keeps attacking me, again and again and again.

We don’t learn that until much later on. For the first five years of our life, I create a hundred or more new alters a week, depending on how violent Dad is and how often he abuses us. I create all of the alters except for one. Erik creates Little Ricky, who is eight and wears an old grey suit.

ERIK

In the beginning, our internal landscape looks like a medieval dungeon. We each have a room to ourselves with a heavy iron door. It’s an underground bunker, a rabbit hole, a prison.

Symphony created our inside world and I fill it with all the things we need to survive. In every room there are two buttons for our voting system. Everyone gets a vote. It’s a democracy. There are tunnels full of alters grouped together according to their job descriptions. We call them the chunnels and we have one each for sight, smell, sound, taste and touch.

Underneath the dungeon are two rooms filled with communication equipment so we can talk to one another. It started with tin cans and rope, and became more sophisticated as we grew.

We don’t grow like everyone else. Most of us stay the same age as the day we were created.

The house where Jeni grew up and where the abuse took place. Image: Supplied.

LITTLE RICKY

I hate my job. I’m the one who sends people out to face Dad, to help Symphony, to save Jennifer. I choose who takes over when the child in the body can’t take it anymore. It’s my fault they get hurt. We have hundreds of alters who take the pain. They each have a bucket, and if it overflows they get drenched with the full force of the agony. It’s my job to monitor the buckets. I have eyes in the front and the back of my head. I’m constantly looking outward and inward at the same time. If a bucket is close to spilling over, I need to have a replacement lined up. I send the replacement in to take the abuse. I know that makes me as bad as Dad.

There’s an unnamed alter who takes Dad’s sounds and paints them on the wall like a mural of horror. She’s always covered in paint smears.

There’s an alter called Maggot who takes the daily beatings from Dad. She’s always covered in bruises.

There are alters who take away our thoughts because thoughts are distractions – and they’re dangerous. Dad can read our mind, so we can never think clearly or honestly or independently.

There are alters who take away the blood dripping down our legs. They’re always exhausted from holding onto the blood and doing the mental gymnastics needed to convince ourselves that we’re not bleeding. If Dad says there’s nothing wrong with us, then there’s nothing wrong with us and the blood-holders have to make sure of that. There’s no arguing with Dad. So if he says we’re not bleeding, we’re not bleeding. End of story.

Jeni's parents on their wedding day. Image: Supplied.

I’m the one who sends people out, but I can’t bring them back. There’s a death committee for that. When we think someone is close to reaching their limit – if they can no longer take the pain, if they have run out of blood to bleed, if they can’t stifle their screams, if they are on the verge of death – we call a committee meeting. There’s ten of us sitting at the round table: me, Erik, Symphony, the Assassin and whichever alters are most relevant to the worker at hand.

Everyone on the committee gets a vote. We decide if the child dealing with Dad can take more, or if we should send in the Assassin to tap them on the shoulder. The Assassin might sound scary, but really he’s a ten-year-old boy, a child doing an adult’s job, an innocent wearing a mask. If an alter says the magic words – ‘Can I go now?’ – we pull them out. When we send in the Assassin, he escorts the alter to the doorway and they never come back. They disappear – never to be seen again.

Then I have to decide who will take their place. And I have to train them.

Nobody knows what’s on the other side of the Assassin’s doorway. We’re terrified of the beyond – until we dismantle the door at the age of twenty-eight and make a startling discovery. On the other side is an enormous room filled with every toy we’ve ever studied: Sindy dolls, jigsaw puzzles, ballerinas, teddies and cats. Every toy we’ve ever wanted to play with, but have been too scared to ask for, exists behind the door. There’s an alter who can look at a toy, absorb it and create it inside for us to play with. He’s created a toy paradise for all the alters who’ve been assassinated.

The Assassin is pissed. He’s always thought he killed everyone he tapped on the shoulder, sentenced them to death, ended their existence. And here they all are, whooping it up in toy paradise. I’m thrilled.

There’s a reason we didn’t know what’s on the other side of the door. Hope is a deadly thing in our world. If we give one person hope of escaping Dad, then there will be a long line of people wanting to be tapped on the shoulder by the Assassin. If we all choose to die, the system will collapse around us. We must keep going. We must take what we get. We must stay alive. As if that isn’t enough, we must also keep everyone else alive.

CAPTAIN BUSBY

Sometime in 1971 or 1972, I see a man on a horse wearing an impossibly furry hat. I want to pet it like a cat. Mum catches me admiring the tall cap and explains that it’s a Busby military headdress and the man is protecting the Queen of England. In this moment, I am born: my name is Captain Busby and I’m four.

If the Queen has an army of ‘Busby’ men to take care of her, then Mum needs one too because she is our queen. I may be small, but I am mighty. My army is made up of soldiers aged between three and seven. We all wear Busby hats and some of us even ride horses. There are hundreds of us, and every time I need more backup I ask Symphony to create a new alter to join our ranks. It’s our explicit duty to protect Mum.

What does Mum need protection from? Daddy.

Daddy threatens to kill Mum so often, we need to be on high alert at all times. We monitor the world for danger, we monitor Mum for signs of distress, and we monitor Dad for red flags. From the moment we wake up in the morning to the moment we fall asleep at night, we’re on duty. It’s an exhausting job, but someone has to do it.

Jeni Haynes today. Image: Supplied.

If this post brings up any issues for you, or if you just feel like you need to speak to someone, please call 1800 RESPECT (1800 737 732) – the national sexual assault, domestic and family violence counselling service. It doesn’t matter where you live, they will take your call and, if need be, refer you to a service closer to home.

You can also call safe steps 24/7 Family Violence Response Line on 1800 015 188 or visit safesteps.org.au for further information.

If you think you may be experiencing depression or another mental health problem, please contact your general practitioner. If you're based in Australia, 24-hour support is available through Lifeline on 13 11 14 or Beyond Blue on 1300 22 4636.

The Girl in the Green Dress (Hachette Australia, $32.99) by Jeni Haynes and Dr George Blair West, with Alley Pascoe, is available now.

For more No Filter episodes, go to mamamia.com.au/podcasts/no-filter.

Feature Image: Supplied.