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?”
A pause.
“Please?” She tests, “I handed my notice in at Jean&Co.”