Sounds Like Crazy

by Mahaffey, Shana

  “Ah, you mean Robbie? He is Walter’s personal assistant. PA. He’s going to make ten thousand dollars if you deliver. Nicely done, by the way. Robbie deserves it. Even I’ll admit PA’s get paid shit.”

  Well, that was the first time Betty Jane had actually done anything nice for anyone. On second thought, he got the money only if I could manage this.What a bitch. Even if I had no interest in it, she knew I wouldn’t say no if doing so meant disappointing someone else.

  “This voice-over thing isn’t for us,” said Ruffles inside my head. Betty Jane rolled her eyes. I lit another cigarette and inhaled. I wanted Mike to leave and I wanted him to stay.

  “You’re going to have to give that up.” He pointed at my cigarette. “My voice-over artists don’t smoke. It’s a strict rule.”

  “This?” I held up the cigarette. “Not even an issue. I barely smoke.” Betty Jane smiled triumphantly as Ruffles’s visage changed from cherubic pink to hospital gray.

  After Mike left, I waited a few minutes and lit another cigarette.

  “There has to be a catch,” said Ruffles. “This kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life.”

  “There is a catch,” I said, “and her name is Betty Jane.”

  { 3 }

  I heard about dissociative identity disorder during my last term at New York University when I attended a guest lecture by Dr. Milton Lawler.These talks offered me the opportunity to fill my time and earn extra credit for attending. I always showed up to get the credit, but I stayed only if the topic held my interest.

  I glanced at the flyer on the lap of the person sitting next to me. “DID and MPD by Dr. Milton Lawler.” A lecture of acronyms. I expected to depart in less than ten minutes.

  After he was introduced, Dr. Lawler surveyed the crowd through his rimless spectacles; then he said,“What is dissociation?” Separate from a group, I thought to myself. Like anyone familiar with Latin, I could dissect the word and get a basic answer. Maybe I’d go in five minutes.

  A hand in the front shot up. I’d read somewhere that people who sat in the front always got high marks. I never sat in the front and I had a four-point GPA. Go figure.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Lawler, pointing at the questioner.

  “Dissociation is a mental process that produces a lack of connection in a person’s thoughts, memories, feelings, actions, or sense of identity.”

  Know-it-all.

  “A textbook answer,” said Dr. Lawler.

  “He agrees,” said Ruffles inside my head.

  “And dissociative identity disorder, DID?” said Dr. Lawler.

  “Multiple personality disorder, MPD,” said the know-it-all. “That’s what it used to be called.”

  I caught my breath. I knew what multiple personality disorder was. Sarah had given me a copy of Sybil when she discovered my secret. I’d read the book and was relieved to report to Sarah that I wasn’t Sybil. There were parts of the book that resonated, though, and because of that, I decided to stay.

  I watched Dr. Lawler speak. He certainly looked like the textbook picture of a psychoanalyst, with his burgundy corduroy pants, brown tweed jacket with a sweater vest underneath, and oxblood leather walking shoes.

  As I assessed his attire, Dr. Lawler’s discussion of DID and MPD nipped at my thoughts like a stalker horse. The proverbial critical-stage attack came when he said something about co-consciousness and a level of shared awareness, of existence and behavior, among the personalities. I began to listen to what he was saying.

  “In DID, levels of co-consciousness vary from person to person. Some people are completely unaware of what the other personalities are doing and/or thinking, while others are completely aware. Regardless of the level of consciousness, the system of dissociation is in place to cover up specific trauma and nothing more,” said Dr. Lawler.

  I felt like I did as a small child when I sat in the middle of a conversation between my mother and one of her sisters. I knew they were talking about something of interest; and I knew if I made one peep or moved one inch, I’d be unceremoniously tossed from the room. But if I remained statuelike, they’d forget about me and talk in hushed tones about things I didn’t understand while I strained to hear every word.

  The person sitting next to me raised his hand. This surprised me. People in the back rows didn’t ask questions. “Are you saying that people can dissociate, or switch personalities, without losing their sense of time and place?” said my neighbor.

  “If they are co-conscious, the dissociation serves to shield the person from painful events in the past without compromising awareness of what is occurring in the present. Therefore, the understanding of time and place remains coherent, but the trauma remains hidden.”

  “In a co-conscious setup, where do the personalities go when they are not in control?”

  “It all depends on the complexity of the co-conscious system,” said Dr. Lawler.“For example, in some cases, the personalities remain in the host body awareness, ready to step in at any time. In other cases, the personalities can be independent and leave for periods of time. However, even in these cases, they hover somewhere around the awareness and can return if the situation requires.”

  “Sounds crowded.”

  “It certainly can be if the number of personalities is large. In fact, the larger the number, the more difficult the condition is to manage and the more it impacts daily life for a variety of reasons. One being the anxiety and stress this condition places on the individual, and the other, more critical one being that the personalities represent a specific aspect of the self and do not necessarily have the same moral compass as an integrated person. These are some of the many reasons why the treatment goal is always integration.”

  Inside my head, the Committee sat together on the couch, listening with interest. Usually only Ruffles attended lectures with me.

  “Can someone with DID lead a normal life?” asked my neighbor.

  “Absolutely. In fact, there are many people with dissociative disorders holding highly responsible jobs, contributing to society in a variety of professions—the arts, and public service, and so forth—appearing to function normally to coworkers, neighbors, and others with whom they interact daily.”

  I felt like I did when a random memory of one of those conversations between my mother and my aunts happened across my adult mind. The confusion finally disappeared and I understood everything.

  “Human beings are very complicated. The person next to you is weirder than you can possibly imagine,” Dr. Lawler said with a mischievous smile.The person sitting next to me laughed along with the rest of the class. I laughed too, but not for the same reason. The guy who asked the question had no idea whom he was sitting next to.

  While things were wrapping up, I read Dr. Lawler’s bio on the handout. He was a doctor of psychology with postdoc analytic training instead of the formal medical training most psychoanalysts had. He said one of the keys to his work was that he did not categorize his patients; rather, he treated the uniqueness of the individual.

  A few days later, I told Sarah about the lecture, and then I forgot about Dr. Lawler. After I finished university and had been working as a waitress for three years, Sarah offered me a choice: Enter into treatment with Dr. Lawler, or find a way to finance my life in New York City without help from her, my mother, or the emergency credit card. I didn’t really want to see a shrink, but Betty Jane refused to give up the financial aid, so I agreed. That was five years ago. Since that time, I’ve often wondered if Sarah would have held fast to her terms if she’d known it was Betty Jane who made the choice to enter treatment. Betty Jane reasoned that dealing with a quack was much easier than going without.

  For five years, Dr. Lawler—or Milton, as I called him—had met with me every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon at four o’clock for fifty minutes. I’d found that Thursdays were usually the better day to spring the tricky stuff on Milton. Lucky for me, I’d lost my job on a Wednesday.

  I shifted in my chair as I strai
ned to hear the soft shutting of the other door. Milton’s office was set up so that the just-treated were ushered out a different exit, through a hallway, and released a couple of doors down from the office entrance.This maintained anonymity.

  I had arrived earlier than usual because somehow I thought waiting in Milton’s waiting room would quell the anxiety I felt over how he would respond to the news that I’d lost my job and was considering voice-over training. Waiting only made it worse.

  I heard the departure door whine through the wall and said a silent thanks to the maintenance people in this old building who never got around to fixing the squeak. Milton probably told them not to because that creaking complaint meant you were next.

  “Holly. Come in,” said Milton.

  I jumped up and brushed past him, in a rush to get into his office. Then I froze in the middle of the room. My throat opened but no air seemed to get past. “I’m in big trouble,” I said.

  I heard the door close. I shifted my eyes from the pink armchair to the green sofa. I couldn’t decide which I wanted today. New Agers say that pink is love and green is healing. I wondered what color is lobotomy. Milton settled into his chair. It faced both choices. I remained fixed in front of him. I pressed my hand against my chest in an effort to slow my breathing.

  “Try the couch,” said Milton. How can he always be so calm in a crisis?

  I sat down and said,“I got fired and I have a chance to audition as a voice-over talent for an animated show on television.”

  “Interesting,” said Milton, seemingly unfazed. “How did this happen?”

  I wanted to throw a pillow at him.

  “Betty Jane made friends with someone who works for a producer and the friend taped her talking; then the producer came in and wanted to hear this great Southern voice I do. I didn’t know he wanted to hear it, but Betty Jane knew, and he heard it.” My tone climbed several octaves, but Milton’s face remained unchanged. “Betty Jane did a hostile takeover even though you’ve told her over and over not to. She started speaking and the producer said they’d pay for classes and give me an audition in a month or two. I don’t know when, but soon.” My voice trailed there at the end.The changes in Milton’s face told me that he’d connected all the dots and knew there were plenty missing.

  Milton made a steeple with his fingers. I hated it when he did this because it reminded me of a church, and he knew how I felt about church and anything religious; and he knew I thought this pointed gesture was meant to mock me. But now wasn’t the time to bring that up. Milton continued to stare at me.

  “I guess you want to know how the first guy heard Betty Jane’s voice.”

  Milton raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  Inside my head, Betty Jane sat ramrod straight on the couch, fiddling with her sunflower pin. She never took that damn thing off. She even pinned it to her nighttime negligee so I’d see it when she slept. I expected the nail file to be out at any moment. When Betty Jane wanted to pretend she wasn’t paying attention, she attended to her manicure.We all knew she was listening, and she knew we knew, but the game went on anyway.As soon as this conversation got interesting, she’d start filing her nails while that sunflower jeered at me.

  “Well, I let her speak from time to time in the diner,” I lied sheepishly. Milton’s eyebrows shot up a bit farther. Nice arch, I thought.

  “Pay attention!” snapped Ruffles inside my head.

  Oh. I closed my eyes. Ruffles sat on her pillow shoveling in chips at an accelerated pace, which meant she was still mad. Last night I had told her not to blame me for this mess with Walter, Mike, and their TV show. She was just as culpable, because she had spoken in the diner too.

  I opened my eyes again. Milton’s face remained unchanged. “Okay, well, Betty Jane and sometimes Ruffles . . .” I saw Ruffles narrow her eyes because I’d just thrown her under the bus. Although, if that were truly the case, given her massiveness, the bus would fold up like an accordion on impact if she were lying in front of it. So, technically, I didn’t throw her under the bus.

  “Goddamn it, Holly,” said Ruffles.

  See what I mean? Never allowed a private thought.

  “Betty Jane started taking over to get better tips.We did get better tips, and, well, I tried to fight it, but I couldn’t.Then Ruffles offered to pitch in and it kind of became a competition of who could get the most tips. It helped when I was really behind and I needed to make people laugh or smooth things over.They’re both really good at that. And then this guy came in and Betty Jane flirted with him. . . .” My voice trailed off. Betty Jane might be good at making people think what she wanted them to, but I wasn’t.

  “You were too lazy to work and I saw an opportunity,” said Betty Jane. She smiled at me and I swear I saw that sunflower shake and cackle. But she was half-right.

  “Holly, how can I trust you when you’ve been keeping things from me?” said Milton.

  “A few minor things,” I said. His face remained impassive. “She wouldn’t let me tell you.” I left out the part where I never tried.

  “Holly—”

  “Okay, but now I’m in a real mess,” I said.

  “Let me think a moment,” Milton snapped.

  For a normal person, snapping conveyed irritation. For Milton, it meant the whistle on the kettle was about to blow. I’d seen him this angry only once, when I brought coffee to a session and then accidentally kicked it over on his pink Oriental rug. Apparently, it was a family heirloom. I thought it was just old. Since then no liquid of any form made it out of the waiting room.

  I sat on the couch breathing hard. I wanted Milton to be on my side and help me. I hated it when he was mad at me. It made me feel stretched across a middle that was more like a chasm.

  “You have a real dilemma here,” said Milton. That brought me back.

  “Never one to miss the obvious, are you?” I said. Tears threatened.

  “So, what do you propose to do?”

  “Well, if I knew, would I be here?” I crossed my arms and sat back.

  “Holly, you have placed yourself in a serious predicament,” said Milton. His voice at least sounded kind.

  “I didn’t. Betty Jane did. Now you have to fix it.” The tears broke through. I pulled a tissue from the box on the end table and blew my nose.

  “Let’s start with the most important question,” said Milton. “Do you want to do this?”

  “No!” I said.

  “No?” said Milton.

  See what I mean? Never one to miss the obvious.

  “Well, I did think about it, but only because I got a call from an agent yesterday. Turns out the director made an appointment for me.We’re supposed to meet tomorrow.”

  “Holly!” said Ruffles. For the first time I felt a spark of anger toward her. So what if I lied about the call? So what if there was no meeting? I was tired of being so incapacitated. I wanted a better life. Why didn’t she? “Not like this, Holly,” said Ruffles. And with that, the spark went out and I felt deflated again.

  “Well, it sounds like you’re committed,” said Milton.

  “Not really. I can cancel. I mean, to even try to do this, I’d have to give Betty Jane control.” I didn’t have to tell Milton how frightening that thought was. I shrugged my shoulders. “It’s not really something I can do. Right?” I whispered.

  “Well, if it is something you want to do, then let’s talk about how you can.”

  My jaw dropped and hung in an astonished gape.The entire Committee froze inside my head as if put on pause. Milton had just taken an unexpected turn off the road of no way, crossed maybe, and veered onto the road of let’s see if we can make this happen.

  I inhaled and the Committee sat down. “Uh, okay. But, I mean, how? It is not like the Committee speaks on demand.You know that. They won’t even talk to you. Well, all right, some of them will, but she doesn’t talk to you unless she wants to. I’ve never been able to make her do anything I want. And neither have you.” I was referring to the time
when Milton, through me, had subtly suggested that Betty Jane ease off just a bit. In response, she eased off and out completely. At first we were all relieved. Her departure felt like having the bullying boss go on vacation. After a couple of days, though, everything went wrong. It reminded me of the summer I graduated from high school—a time of my life I didn’t want to relive. Ever. When Betty Jane returned declaring she’d been on a shopping trip, we welcomed her back with open arms. Admittedly, the hugs, kisses, and presents she brought for us made the open-arms part a lot easier. She had something for everyone but Milton. Obviously, the delivery of any gift to Milton would have been a challenge, but that didn’t make Betty Jane’s slight any less calculated or intentional. They hadn’t spoken since that time, though. So, technically, Milton never had to deal with her return.

  “Holly, one hurdle at a time,” said Milton. Inside my head I saw Ruffles’s chip-filled hand hanging midway to her mouth, and I knew she and I had the same thought—Milton actually meant it when he said, “Let’s talk about how you can do this.”

  Milton and I both stared at his finger church. Finally he said, “I have an idea.”

  “Uh ...” Unable to speak, I finished my thought with a nod.

  “To be a voice-over artist, you need to be able to speak in the Committee’s voices on demand, correct?” said Milton.

  “Yes.”

  “Betty Jane controls the Committee, correct?”

  “Yes,” I said,“she’s the chairman. Or chairwoman, as she likes to call herself.”

  “Then I want to speak with her,” said Milton.

  “I do not speak to him,” said Betty Jane inside my head.

  “She won’t talk to you,” I said.

  “Then there is nothing more to discuss.” Milton sat back in his chair. “I recommend you cancel the meeting.”

  “Okay,” I said, relieved and awash with guilt over my earlier anger at Ruffles.

  “Now, wait just a moment.We are all being too hasty here,” drawled Betty Jane inside my head. “‘Forgive and forget’ is my motto. I have always been happy to speak to Milton. The need just has not arisen until now.”