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.