Sybil

by Flora Rheta Schreiber

  Dr. Wilbur thanked Mrs. Trout, waited a few minutes, and then decided to telephone the Broadwood to persuade Peggy Lou to come home; for although Peggy Ann had written the letter, Mrs. Trout had evidently spoken to Peggy Lou. It was Peggy Lou who drew in black and white, Peggy Lou who would buy the pajamas Mrs. Trout had described. What seemed probable was that Peggy Lou and Peggy Ann had taken the trip together, as they often did--Peggy Lou as Sybil's defense against anger and Peggy Ann as the defense against fear.

  There was nobody in room 1113, however, when the doctor put in her call. Later, when she succeeded in reaching Mrs. Trout, who was then doing desk duty because the night desk clerk had been delayed in the storm, Mrs. Trout said, "Miss Dorsett's out in that storm. I begged her not to go out because a storm was coming. But she said she could take care of herself." At 10:15 P.m. the doctor, again trying to reach room 1113, was told that Miss Dorsett had checked out.

  The doctor could only hope that Sybil would "come to" as herself and return safely or that the alternating personality who took over would return, or even that Vicky, as she had done during some of the many other blackouts Sybil had experienced in the course of the analysis, would somehow manage to telephone the doctor. But no call came.

  The next morning the doctor, stepping into the waiting room to place some magazines on an end table, found the slender form of Sybil Dorsett waiting. Not knowing which personality it was, the doctor, using no name, simply said, "Come in."

  There was an awkward silence.

  "I've done it again," the patient said sadly. "It is going to be even harder to tell you than I had thought."

  "Sybil?" the doctor asked.

  "Sybil. I "came to" in a Philadelphia street in a hideous warehouse district. This was even worse than some of the other blackouts. A real nightmare. And after we thought it would never happen again. Oh, Doctor, I'm so ashamed."

  "Relax before you talk about it," the doctor said reassuringly.

  "I always promise myself it won't happen again, that I'll start over again. But this time I really hoped. How many times have I started over again?"

  "I don't know how many times," the doctor replied. "Will you please quit trying? It won't do any good at all. Why start over? Why not go on from where you are?"

  "I don't know what was done in my name," Sybil blurted. "Maybe mayhem. Murder."

  "Sybil," the doctor replied firmly, "I've told you again and again that none of the others go against your ethical code."

  "You've told me," Sybil replied anxiously. "But do you really know? We can't be sure."

  "Sybil," the doctor ventured for what in the course of over three years was easily the hundredth time, "I should like you to hear the other selves on tape."

  "No." Sybil shook her head decisively. "The only thing I want to hear about these others, as you call them, is that they no longer exist."

  "It will reassure you," the doctor persisted. "When the Peggys tell me their story of Philadelphia, why don't I tape it? Then you can hear for yourself."

  "The Peggys?" Sybil asked in consternation. "You know they were the ones? How can you possibly know that?"

  "Peggy Ann wrote me from the Broadwood," the doctor replied in a direct, factual manner.

  "The Broadwood?" Sybil answered in shocked surprise. "You know I was there?"

  "You found yourself in Philadelphia because the Peggys took you there. They are part of you, a part over which you have no control. But we're going to change that when we bring you girls together."

  "Philadelphia proves I'm not getting any better," Sybil replied brokenly. "I'll never be well."

  "You know that I want to help you," the doctor said gently. "You know that I have known about these problems for more than three years now, and you know that they are part of your illness."

  "Yes, yes," Sybil replied anxiously. "You've told me that many times."

  "And when you feel otherwise," the doctor said pointedly, "you are needlessly suspicious and frightened."

  "Not strange?" Sybil blurted.

  "No, not strange," the doctor replied emphatically.

  "Likable?"

  "Yes, Sybil. Very likable. I like you. I don't know if you realize how much." The doctor had responded to the bid for approval with the genuine emotion of her growing fondness for her patient.

  There was a suggestion of tears in Sybil's eyes--the tears that in the first year and a half of the analysis she had not been able to shed. Sybil asked quietly, "You still think I can get well?"

  "With all my heart I think it, Sybil. With all my mind. And with all my experience as a psychoanalyst."

  Sybil's slender hand moved into Dr. Wilbur's hand, as doctor and patient sat together on the couch. "Then," Sybil asked in a low, stilted voice, "why am I getting worse?"

  "In analysis," the doctor replied objectively, "the further you go, the closer you get to the core conflicts. The closer you get to the core conflicts, the more you have to face in terms of resistance and in terms of the conflicts themselves."

  "But I'm not facing anything," Sybil pointed out bitterly. "I'm running away."

  "It's not you--waking Sybil, representing the conscious mind--but the others, who belong to the unconscious, who are running away," the doctor explained.

  "You call them the unconscious and say they are part of me," Sybil replied thoughtfully. "But you also say they can take me where they please. Oh, Doctor, I'm afraid, terribly afraid. It's a predicament to which I've never become accustomed. These others drive me, possess me, destroy me."

  "It's not possession, Sybil," the doctor declared emphatically. "Not some invasion from without. It comes from within, and it can be explained not by the supernatural but in very natural terms."

  "It doesn't seem very natural to me," Sybil was quick to answer.

  "Not natural in the sense of being common to lots of people," the doctor conceded. "But natural because it can be explained in terms of your own environment. All the personalities are younger than you. There is a reason for that. When your mother told you, "You have so much," she was creating a distortion because you didn't have the things that you needed for growing up. Consequently, you couldn't grow up and be all one person. You had to leave bits and parts behind. You didn't know you were doing it. You didn't know about these other selves. You still haven't met them, still refuse to meet them on tape, so you are not directly aware of them. You still don't really accept them except as a sort of intellectual exercise."

  Sybil's mouth twitched uneasily.

  "I have not yet been able to determine the precise ages of the selves, but some of them are little girls," Dr. Wilbur continued, "walking around in your woman's body. When the Peggys fled to Philadelphia, they were running away from your mother. They deny that your mother was theirs, but it is a surface denial. Deeply etched within them are fear and anger against your mother. Fear and anger make them take flight, break loose from the feeling of entrapment your mother created for them. And because the Peggys and some of the others are little girls, in a sense they keep you a little girl."

  "Not only crazy," Sybil replied with bitter irony, "but immature?"

  The doctor put her arm around Sybil and spoke with intensity: "Nobody ever said you were crazy, except you yourself, and I want you to banish that word from your vocabulary in relationship to yourself. Your mother interfered with your growing up. You didn't succumb totally to your mother because you had a core of strength that made your life different from hers. And when you found out that your mother was wrong, you began to be able to do the things with yourself that you wanted to do--even though there were bits and pieces from the past, forming other selves, that made you unlike other people and afraid of what you were."

  The doctor's eyes held Sybil's as she said, "Sick, yes, but not schizophrenic. Your mother was schizophrenic. Her perception was totally different from yours. You told me once that she could not see the whole of a building but only a part; that when you heard the opera Hansel and Gretel, she could only see the
candy canes on the door, not the door itself or the set as a whole. You see wholes. Yes, you are fragmented, but yours is not the fragmentation of a schizophrenic. Your kind of fragmentation is the result not of perception but of dissociation. Don't ever call yourself crazy again. You are sane, sane enough to have survived the torture chamber in which your mother trapped you and to have made so much of yourself with the terrible childhood you had to hold you back. Now tell me about your experiences in Philadelphia. Talking will help."

  When Sybil told the January 2 to 7, 1958, Philadelphia story from her point of view, the doctor wished she could also talk to Peggy Ann and Peggy Lou to get their side of the story. There was at this stage of the analysis no way, however, of summoning the Peggys. The doctor just had to wait for them to appear spontaneously. That did not occur until a month later.

  Meantime, Sybil returned to school. But she continued to live in terror about what might have or perhaps actually had happened in Philadelphia. She did not and could not accept Dr. Wilbur's assurance that these creatures within her were incapable of evil. Since the inception of the analysis, they had taken her, not only to Philadelphia but also to Elizabeth, Trenton, Altoona, and even San Francisco. Where they had taken her before the analysis began she often did not know. These others controlled her purse, transported her body, acted without her will. She always learned only after the event what the others had wrought. And always there was the fear that what had been wrought was worse, far worse, than what Dr. Wilbur had told her.

  Even if these others did nothing wrong in a legal or criminal sense, the chiaroscuro of their actions was causing experience to be so constantly changing and recomposing that--whatever the apparent intention of any action she herself initiated or proposed to take--these others were the victors, acting in the limelight of her despair.

  Then came the day, a month after the return from Philadelphia, when the doctor said, "I have Peggy Lou and Peggy Ann on tape. When you hear what they did in Philadelphia, you will be greatly relieved." The doctor was deliberately casual but had grave doubts that, after the persistent, intense refusal to listen, Sybil would now agree. Just getting her to listen was the prime problem.

  Sybil's irises became dilated with fear. "Well?" the doctor asked.

  Sybil did not reply.

  "Sybil, this can be a turning point in the analysis."

  "I don't see how," Sybil replied. Her words were muted, her throat obviously constricted.

  "It is only by getting to know the others that you can make them part of you--that you can make their experiences your experiences, their memories, your memories."

  "I don't want any part of it. Doctor, why are you torturing me?"

  "If this were a physical illness," the doctor explained, "you would not tear up the prescription for a medicine that could tide you over a crisis, help to make you well."

  "I don't really think the analogy is apt," Sybil replied doggedly.

  "It is more apt than you realize," the doctor insisted. "These other selves are not your illness but the symptoms of your illness. They possess you, overwhelm you, subvert your intentions and desires. It is only by coming closer to these others that you can move toward a more normal life."

  Sybil's lips curled in an ironic smile. "It sounds so easy," she said. "But, Doctor, you and I know that easy is just what it is not."

  "Nobody ever said it was easy," the doctor replied. "But I can assure you that getting well will be infinitely more difficult if you don't get to know--and accept--these others."

  "Philadelphia proved to me that I'll never get well," Sybil answered darkly. She rose from her chair and went to look out the window, abstracted.

  "Sybil," the doctor called, "resistance is doing you no good."

  "That nasty word again," Sybil replied as she turned to face the doctor.

  "All patients put up resistance," the doctor assured her.

  "But," Sybil replied, with a twisted curve of her lip, "I'm not just a patient. I'm patients." The stress on the s carried a terrifying overtone. "At least that's what you tell me. And I'm supposed to listen and face the fact that I'm a freak."

  "Sybil, Sybil," the doctor urged, "you're distorting the truth. The others are part of you. We all have different parts of our personalities. The abnormality lies not in the division, but in the dissociation, the amnesia, and the terrible traumas that gave rise to the others."

  "A euphemism," Sybil answered sadly. "By others you mean other people. I don't want to meet them. Why should I?"

  "I've already told you why," the doctor asserted.

  "I'll tell you again. Because listening will really do some good. It is a crucial step in getting well."

  Sybil was silent, and the doctor realized that it was going to be even harder than she had anticipated. "It's going to have to take place eventually," the doctor urged. "Why not now? After all, you gave me permission to do the taping. It's not just for me."

  "I'm afraid," Sybil said. A chill ran through her body.

  "Listening will lessen the fear."

  "But will my listening stop the blackouts?" Sybil asked desperately.

  "Ultimately, yes," the doctor replied decisively. "The better you get to know the other selves, the closer we will come to making you one."

  Sybil slumped into a chair and looked at the doctor warily. The irises of her eyes were even more dilated than before. She clutched the chair and, fully aware of the possible consequences, murmured, "All right."

  The doctor rose from the chair at the head of the couch, reached into a desk drawer, and, with a tape in one hand and the other hand on the recorder, looked directly at Sybil. "Shall I start the tape?" the doctor asked. There was momentary silence. Then Sybil nodded.

  The doctor's hands were on the recorder. The wheels turned. Sybil, who was now huddled in a corner of the couch, thought: The wheels that turn against me.

  The voice on tape was saying, "I heard the crash of glass in the chemistry lab. It reminded me of Lulu and the pickle dish. I jist had to run to the door with Sybil ..."

  "My mother's voice," Sybil screamed. "How did you get my mother's voice?" Sybil rushed to the window. For a moment the doctor thought Sybil had become Peggy Lou, but as the voice on the tape was saying, "I rushed to the door with Sybil, walked with her to the elevator," Sybil, in a voice clearly hers and without the physical changes accompanying Peggy Lou's presence, repeated, "It's my mother's voice. Turn it off, I can't stand it. You'll drive me crazy. I'm not ready."

  The doctor snapped off the recorder. Sybil turned from the window, seated herself on the chair, and stared into space.

  "It's not your mother's voice," the doctor said quietly. "It's the voice of Peggy Lou. Shall I play more to reassure you?" And even though Sybil did not reply, the doctor once again set the tape in motion.

  Peggy Lou's voice was saying, "I could feel Sybil clutching our zipper folder. She was mad because the elevator didn't come. I took over. I was the one who stepped into the elevator. Yes, I was!"

  "What does this mean?" Sybil asked frantically. "Turn that thing off." The doctor did as she had been instructed. "Our zipper folder," Sybil murmured as she began to pace the room. "She thinks she has joint possession with me. Oh, Dr. Wilbur, Dr. Wilbur, what shall I do?"

  "Let's just listen," the doctor urged as the wheels again began to move, now assuming the frightening motion of revelation as Peggy Lou's words flooded the room.

  "I left the lab," Peggy Lou was saying, "because I didn't want to be scolded for breaking the glass. I hadn't broken it. No I hadn't. But I didn't break it when Lulu said I did neither. That time I was punished. Yes, I was. It wasn't fair."

  "Turn it off, turn that thing off," Sybil pleaded. Then in the silence that followed, Sybil, who was overwhelmed by feelings of uncanniness, began to reminisce softly. "I haven't thought of that pickle dish in years and years. But I remember now. Mother did punish me even though Lulu broke it. But how does this Peggy Lou know about it?"

  "Peggy Lou is part of y
ou. She defended you against the anger you felt at being unjustly punished," the doctor replied.

  "I don't want her to defend me. I don't want to have anything to do with her," Sybil replied bitterly.

  "Sybil," the doctor cautioned, "you're setting up all sorts of resistances that will do you no good."

  "That nasty word again." Sybil made an effort to smile, but the attempt froze.

  "It's because of the pickle dish," Dr. Wilbur explained, "that Peggy Lou goes around breaking glass."

  "Well, I wish she'd stop," Sybil replied with irritation. "I have to pay for the glass Peggy Lou breaks. I can't afford Peggy Lou."

  "As we remove the trauma connected with the pickle dish," the doctor insisted, "Peggy Lou will stop. When you are able to get angry in your own right, Peggy Lou will become one with you. Ready for more?" The doctor turned on the recorder. Peggy Lou's voice resumed.

  "The chemistry lab smelled funny. It made me think of the old drugstore in Willow Corners, where I live. That's where Sybil's mother found us just after we came home from the farm. I was awful mad. I jist had to get away."

  "Stop it. Please, please." The entreaty was frantic.

  The doctor did as she was bidden, and in the silence that ensued Sybil murmured, "The old drugstore. I remember it. Old Dr. Taylor. Music. Wonderful music." Momentarily lost in recollection, Sybil grew calmer.

  Seizing the moment of calm, the doctor explained, "You see, Peggy Lou shares your memories. She also has memories about which you know nothing, for which you are amnesic. When all of these memories return, we shall have made progress toward making you one."

  The doctor turned on the recorder, and Peggy Lou resumed, "When I was in the subway and on the train to Philadelphia, I kept thinkin' that Sybil wouldn't do the things I wanted her to do. I wanted money for art supplies. She said we needed it for laboratory fees. I like the chemistry all right, but it makes me mad because Sybil works so hard on the formulas. She wouldn't have to work so hard if I helped with the multiplication. I learned it in school, but she didn't. I could help her if I felt like it. But I don't. I want to do the things I enjoy. That's what I thought on the way to Philadelphia. We hadn't been any place in quite a while. And I'm mad about that. Real mad. You see, I love to travel, but that Sybil will never go anyplace. So I went to Philadelphia to get even."