The night we met she’d worn a cloud of red taffeta and matching lips.
It was love at first fight.
“Barely lukewarm” was how Clara described my relationship with politics, making it clear that were I to have any hope in hell of dating her, I would have to up my game. So I did, quickly, noisily, making sure she saw and learned of my joining the Young Communist League as commitment for a date. Six months later we moved in together; we were married the following year.
It was Mohsin who had encouraged me four years after Clara’s death to start thinking about dating. Warning me of the easy pitfalls of becoming too comfortable with solitude, as he often is. At first, I’d brushed off his advice, too hurt to even consider having sex with another woman. It felt wrong somehow, disloyal. And alien.
“I’m afraid it’s just a matter of time,” I had been told, in a calm bedside manner. The doctor avoiding my puffy eyes. Two weeks later the cancer snatched her away.
Alone and broken, I closed her dead eyes. Covered her limp body, turned skeletal. Riddled with pain.
Crippled with powerlessness, I’d felt hateful—of the doctors; the nurses; the man cleaning the ward’s pale linoleum floor that afternoon when she passed; the young woman who, while on her phone, crashed into me; the local shopkeeper who knew I was an alcoholic refusing the malt whiskey I wanted to drown my grief; the child who’d kicked a ball and laughed as I entered my front door; the front door and its awkward lock; the sound it made when it finally closed; the world; I hated the whole fucking world, and everyone and everything living in it.
Mohsin looks over his menu.
“So. How’s things? The new patient—Alexa?”
I nod. “Good. I’m still digesting our first session and the information she provided in the forms. There’s a lot to process.”
“Did anything unusual come up?”
I think for a moment. “She’s scared of balloons.”
“Globophobia.”
“There’s a name for it?”
“There’s a name for most things these days. What is it: thinking of them, or seeing them, or touching or popping them?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, bewildered. “She wrote it in her notes.”
“With most phobias, the symptoms depend on the roots of the fear.”
“Well, that would be her father.”
“I see.”
“I’m wondering what the most effective treatment might be, considering his abandonment of her,” I say.
“Boundaries and consistency.”
“And if she does have DID?” I ask.
“Then your task is to prevent her from losing time.”
“I thought you might say that.”
“Otherwise she could find herself checking out and in serious danger. That said, she may be losing time already, unable to remember her actions. You mentioned her limited memory.”
“That’s right.”
“Depending on how dissociated her mind is, the personalities can work so autonomously that the patient might not even know who’s running the body. Could be that Alexa, the host, checks out too.”
I nod, wondering about this. The fractured self. How one’s dissociation can be so effective that it prevents a person from feeling—or remembering, even—an alternate personality taking over, what shrinks term the ANP (apparently normal personality). But as one patient, Ruby, I seem to recall, pointed out: “There’s nothing ‘normal’ about a personality that doesn’t feel. It’s like having an avoidant autopilot to navigate your day.”
Ruby was constantly getting fired from work. She would turn up with no recollection that she’d even been dismissed, her desk cleared, belongings packed. Then she’d receive a letter or phone call stating her violent and abusive behavior was unacceptable and she’d be terminated immediately. We later discovered the personality that was getting her fired had been created in her teens. A fierce and destructive personality that thought nothing of hurling a glass, chair, or body at the wall.
I shake off the memory. “Well, I’ll let you know how things go. So, tell me, how have you been?” I ask.
Mohsin sighs.
“They’re working me like a dog,” he says. “I need a holiday.”
“When did you last take one?”
“January. Skiing, remember?”
“I remember it was no holiday. You were exhausted when you got back.”
“Cecelia, or was it Cordelia, happened to be very energetic that holiday.” He stares off. A dreamy doe-eyed schoolboy in adult slacks.
“On and off the slopes if I recall,” I say. “Oh, and it was Cecelia, by the way.”
“Incredible mind, Cecelia.”
“You kill me.”
“Now where is that waitress of yours? I could do with a drink.”
“Is she here?” I shine.
“Yes. And looking particularly lovely.”
“Great. Let’s order.”
6
Alexa Wú
Morning. Early, by the looks of things.
Yawning, I stretch my body into an X, moving my arms up and down—a snow angel—the elasticated bedsheet crinkling. Unsettled by the less-than-perfect snow linen I roll over, lift one corner of the mattress, and pull the sheet tightly underneath, watching it ping back to a freshly fallen bed of snow. There. Better.
The blind in my bedroom has never quite reached the bottom of my window, but for some reason, I accept this irritation into my bedroom every single morning. Pathetic, really. Procrastination easier than heed. Rolling over, I grab my camera, aiming it at the slither of sunshine sneaking in beneath the blackout blind, a shard of yellow light spearing tonight’s killer outfit already laid out.
Leather pants? Runner snorts. Are you sure?
I wonder now if they’re a poor choice.
Runner makes a face. Sweaty fanny, she warns.
I look around my L-shaped room, photographs of strangers taped to my magnolia walls like a family of unknowns that offer comfort on drawn-out nights. A young girl in pink polka dots. An elderly man wearing a fedora. Soft curious eyes, I imagine, caring for me, smiles to affirm. Joy caught on camera like we’ve been to a swanky restaurant, a party, or maybe a West End show. Sometimes I talk to them. Tell them what’s on my mind. Their company witnessing all manner of triumphs and struggles over the years.
I sigh at all the clutter—chaos being an unavoidable side effect of multiplicity, despite my obsessive compulsions to keep things neat and tidy. Just staring out from my bed I can see: Dolly’s Soft’n Slo Squishies, colored pencils, and stuffed elephant. Oneiroi’s dream catcher, rose quartz heart, and lacy bra. Runner’s Zippo lighter, leather purse, mouth guard, and deck of cards. My Canon camera and last month’s issue of PhotoPlus. A striped sweater that used to belong to Runner, now handed down to Dolly because the mohair apparently makes her itch. A red leather satchel, also Dolly’s. A bong belonging to Runner currently gathering dust, and a collection of DVDs that belong to all of us ranging from Harry Potter to Kill Bill—all alphabetically arranged. There are also a dozen clocks dotted about the room—as protection against losing time—along with a heap of unironed clothes, which I imagine no one will take ownership of, therefore making them my responsibility. Were I to open my closet door, I’m sure I’d find something belonging to the Fouls. But for now we’ll keep that door closed. It’s just safer that way.
Handling a bunch of mail on my oak dresser, I file it away in my top drawer: a letter on top from Daniel confirming my twice-weekly therapy and his foreseeable fees. I take a moment to acknowledge the help I need to manage my disorder, my personas. That I, Alexa, am what the medical profession calls the Host, though I much prefer to think of myself as the Nest Builder for the Flock. Over the years, I’ve preserved this refuge in my mind, picturing it much like the nests you see among ancient trees. Twigs gathered and placed with moss and earth, a peppering of feathers and lint held together by saliva for added warmth and protection. Occasionally, we have to safeguard
the Nest from intruders like those killer cats you see circling thick trunks of trees, claws bared and awaiting bad weather.
I used to maintain complete control of the Body, but over the years I’ve encouraged more spontaneity, each of my personalities now able to take the Light and use the Body to experience the world much like any other human being might. Only occasionally do I have to negotiate with everyone inside about who comes out, especially if I don’t think it’s safe or fitting. For example, Dolly is only nine years old, which means she can’t smoke, drink alcohol, watch rude TV, or do anything that’s not age appropriate. That being said (I’m making it all sound very orderly), it doesn’t always work out this way. Sometimes if I’m mega-stressed (DID and stress don’t fly), in denial (DID and denial cause conflict), or drink too much (DID plus booze equals disaster), I check out—what shrinks call dissociation—and that’s when it can get real messy, because I have no control over what I do or memory of what I have done. When this happens, I have to rely on the Flock to take over the Body. Sometimes it works out but sometimes it doesn’t; after all, we all know families don’t always make the best choices on our behalf—especially those born out of trauma.
And really, the best way to describe living with multiple personalities is to say it’s like taking care of a family—a very, very large family with me at the center—each personality in possession of different hopes, fears, desires, interests, aspirations and memories.
There’s only one rule we all agree to:
No one from the real world must enter the Nest. Not ever.
By this I mean no one can get to know us all so well that they have more knowledge about the Flock than I do. This could result in my losing control of the Mind and the Body. After all, the Nest is our home, our sanctuary. A place to pause our racing mind. And should anyone enter from the real world, they could destroy it and everyone who lives here.
Oneiroi props me up with a pillow.
We’ll help you tidy up, she assures me.
Thanks, I say.
Our voices are toned soft in my head, medication causing it to throb. My eye sockets throb too, like someone has pressed down hard with fat thumbs. I reach for my sunglasses as if I’m some spoiled movie star. Secretly, I envy the life of an actress—her wardrobe, her ability to sleep until noon (let’s face it, she’d probably have better-fitting blinds) as well as droves of admirers. Also her talent to step outside herself and assume new identities as I have, only she gets to leave hers behind after the camera stops rolling. I, on the other hand, have to carry everyone around without a break, day after day and long nights too. The responsibility of caring for everyone inside sometimes exhausting and insufferable—especially if they’re not in agreement and fighting one another for control.
Take yesterday: Dolly woke up first and sprang out of bed, which, in turn, woke me up. I was still sleepy and insisted she stay in bed a while longer, but no: Won’t! I’m not tired.
Dolly is nine years old and has been since 2003. She arrived the night my father paid his first visit—my mother having had only six months to mulch in her tan plastic urn. Dolly is the youngest of my personalities, and even though she’s been with me the longest, she remains the fledgling of the Flock.
Next awake was Oneiroi, who cracked one eye open, then closed it again. Tired and somewhat cranky. She’s thirty-two and is in charge of exercise and our bedtime routine, making sure we floss and moisturize in preparation for her favorite activity: dreaming. Some of the others consider her vain and airheaded, but she’s kind and well meaning. Keeps us from getting too roused or ruffled.
Dolly’s playing animal hospital eventually woke Runner.
Quit it, Dolly! For Christ’s sake, go back to bed, she’d shouted in my head, her throat raspy and hoarse from all the Lucky Strikes she’d smoked the night before.
Won’t, Dolly snapped, Nelly needs to go to the hospital, she’s broken her trunk!
By this time everyone was awake—including the Fouls.
The Fouls arrived shortly after my mother killed herself, their voices more vile and rising over time. They insist it was my fault she jumped in front of a train, and had I not been such a selfish little bitch, she would still be alive. Calculated cruelty is just one of the Fouls’ many callous qualities woven into a hideous web of cunning spite. Of all my personalities, they are the ones I welcome least and have little or no control over. I leave that to Runner.
Occasionally, a personality can even exist without the Host (me, my-“self”) knowing, though this has only ever happened to me once, not long after my father left. I was sixteen years old.
It had been a cold morning bleached white with snow when I suddenly found myself reentering the Body to discover Flo—a personality I didn’t know was living inside me at the time—had “accidentally” killed someone’s pet guinea pig. As I stared down at the family pet, his body stiff with cold, I was confronted with the crime and reality that it was in fact me who had starved the poor creature to death.
I’d broken down and cried when I finally picked him up. His tiny eyes like glazed marbles, his pale nose shriveled like a macadamia nut. Before the slow killing, I believed Flo existed as a separate person from me. This is what shrinks call an amnesic barrier or a denial/defense/survival mechanism. So in my denial, I subconsciously disavowed Flo, as if by banishing her from the Body I could relinquish the qualities I despised in her, and therefore in myself. Fearful of her potential for destruction, I forced her into exile. She became known as Flo the Outcast.
I even imagined Flo living somewhere separate from me: in a flat somewhere on the sixth floor along the west block of the neighborhood. She also had her own family: a mother, a father, and two older brothers. Flo’s face was pinched, her eyes a mean icy blue, and she was ruthless, sneaky and violent, a potential killer. I didn’t like her one bit—just as I hadn’t liked myself very much back then.
I later learned Flo the Outcast had seized the Body, seeking revenge on a boy called Ross—a bully who had lived on my street—and had pignapped his prized pet to teach him a lesson. Then she’d hidden the guinea pig in a cardboard box in the potting shed at the back of our house. It wasn’t until sometime later that the Flock confessed to also having turned a blind eye to Flo’s crime. Apparently Dolly had attempted to sneak some green leftovers for the hungry hostage, but the Flock had curtailed her kindness, fearful that Flo might punish them or that I might disapprove because they hadn’t intervened sooner.
Don’t forget your medication. Runner points, plumping up my pillow, pulling me from the memory.
I do as I’m told, popping a blistered risperidone from its crackly foil, washing it down with a glug of last night’s stale water. Runner, I’ve decided, is the protector of the Flock. She runs rings around the rest of us and is the only one who dares stand up to the Fouls. Runner’s in her twenties and arrived when I started secondary school. I figured we might need a personality to keep us safe, someone fierce, though safety was just an idea back then. I didn’t really know what it meant.
Sometimes I’d “forget” to take my medication on purpose, just to see what would happen. I have to say it rarely turned out well. And like I said to Daniel, this time around I’d like to reduce it gradually, sensibly, so that everyone inside is up to speed and knows what’s going on. This way, I can avoid the kind of chaos that’s happened in the past.
For instance, one time I stopped taking it without telling the Flock. It was anarchy. Arguments erupted about whose responsibility it was to get dressed, make the bed, perform morning ablutions, and prepare breakfast—too many cooks, I think the saying goes—and that was just the morning. A couple of hours into the day and it was time to tackle public transport and complete strangers serving coffee. Then there was college, coursework, and other students. Later still, the gym—a breeding ground for anxiety with so many half-naked bodies and fragile egos. Next, the supermarket, which was a riot waiting to happen, what with us all liking different types of food, drinks, and
bathroom products. I eventually began losing time and checked out from the stress of it all, and that’s when things got really messy. Dolly took the Light, seizing control of the Body, and found herself at Chen’s. After a few nights of her ringing the cash register, earnings were down by five hundred pounds. Then Runner had to step in, explaining business had been dead all week and lying that a competitor had flyered discount vouchers in the Euston area.
Away from home, I, Alexa, try my best to guide the Flock about who takes the Body without being too controlling, especially at work or on nights out. For instance, Dolly obviously can’t do math and Runner, unlike Oneiroi, isn’t the friendliest of people, so you can imagine the tussle between those two on a night out. Sometimes the task of looking after so many personalities causes my brain to simply short-circuit, an unpleasant feeling much like some motherboard sparking and frying my skull. When this happens, I lose time, making me feel so powerless that my OCD kicks in, and that’s when the relentless counting begins: of steps walked, stairs climbed, doors opened and closed, lights switched on and off (odd numbers preferred). Sometimes I even wear the same clothes three days in a row if nothing bad happened on the previous days I wore them. Then there’s the hoarding, ruminations, orderliness, symmetry, and intrusive thoughts. The list is endless.
I check my bedside clock—8:05—and reach for my copy of Doctor Zhivago stashed under my bed like porn. I’m at the part where Anna Gromeko discovers she has pneumonia, but just as I’m settling in, four letters flash up on my phone: ella.
Mildly irritated, I answer after the third ring.
“Don’t tell me you’re lying in bed reading one of those depressing Russian novels.” She scoffs.
“Yes to both. What do you want?”
“A favor.”
“What?” I say.
“I know you’ve got a date with Shaun tonight, but will you come to the Electra with me? To meet Navid, the owner?”
The Eighth Girl Page 5