Pencils, Dust, and Imperfection

"Billie?"

I saw splotches of colors in my eyelids. Rainbowed, plaid, and designed. Some bold and vibrant, others bland and wary. The colors made me tired; I just wanted to sleep.

"Billie?"

I opened my eyes. My legs swung as I sat on the cot, waiting on the doctor. In the distance, I heard a man puking and the painful tone of a flat line. In that moment, I knew I belonged here. I knew it would all end for Christian and I here.

"Billie Joe?"

I'm going to die here.

"Hey?" Adrienne questioned. "It's going to be OK. Everything's going to be alright," she comforted.

"Why?" I asked. "Why do you think that?"

She looked at me sadly. "I don't want you to worry."

I smiled wryly. "Too late," I muttered to her.

She smiled back as she took my hand in hers. "I just want you to get better...I should have known you weren't feeling well...I feel terrible for not bringing you here sooner."

"It's not your fault," I tried. "I should have came her sooner on my own, or told you earlier."

"You were scared," Adrienne reassured.

I just blinked. I was in a hospital room without any recollection of how I got there. Confessing to Adie that I had a problem was the last thing that I remember, but in all of the confusion, I felt a feeling of comfort because I new Gloria had been in control and not Christian; Adrienne wouldn't have been holding my hand and looking at me with empathy if Christian had taken over.

I realized then how strange I sounded and how corrupted I had become. I felt comfortable when the sweeter part of my subconscious popped her head in instead of Christian coming in and fucking everything up. In a consistent and sensible point of view, though, they were both fucking everything up. Maybe I've actually and finally lost my mind.

You're just realizing that now?

"I haven't been able to realize much because of you and her," I snapped at Christian.

It's not my fault!
At least I'm not trying to kill you!

"What?" Adrienne asked. I wondered what she was talking about, but I then ruminated that I chastised Christian aloud. I didn't have the chance to explain myself because the doctor walked into the exam room, an expressionless face resting on his chin.

After all of the pleasantries, he asked me what symptoms I had and, basically, what the hell I thought was wrong with me. The fact that my wife was there was making me neurotic and at ease. I knew I was going to have to pour everything out like a flood; confess everything that I've been going through for the past few months, and just the idea made me nauseous.

"I hear voices...in my head." I informed very uneasily, like I was pulling teeth. "There's like...there's two voices, a girl and a guy. And...I think...maybe it would be more accurate to call them personalities."

"Why do you think that?" he inquired.

I sighed, my mind speeding a mile a minute, but Adrienne gave my hand a squeeze, as if she were pushing me forward. "Because they're so distinct...and they...control me in a way." I tried.

"Control you?" the doctor asked.

I nodded. "I have these, like...blackouts. Like...I once woke up on my patio and didn't remember how I got there. I was with my wife a couple of times when...it was really me. I just don't remember things."

"What times?" Adrienne questioned softly, but with notable urgency.

I just looked at her sadly. "When your mom passed away...in the bathroom...and at the funeral."

Adrienne's eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to make sense of everything. "When...that happened...it wasn't you?"

I knew that she was talking about Christian lighting her mom on fire, so I shook my head no.

"That wasn't me," I told her. "I mean it was...but...it wasn't."

"Why didn't you tell me, Billie?" she asked.

"I didn't know how to," I tried. "And after...that happened, I couldn't get in touch with you. Not for a few weeks until you called me."

Adrienne looked at me funny. "You called me. Then you came home and we had a fight. That's when you told me something was wrong."

I looked at her, confused. "We had a fight?"

She nodded. "I threw you out...you went to the hotel. That when I called you, and you..."

"What?" I questioned, not remembering any of this.

Her eyes narrowed. "You don't remember the girl you told me you...we had another fight...you don't remember?"

I shook my head and the doctor asked, "So, blackouts and auditory hallucinations. Any other symptoms, Mr. Armstrong?"

I rattled off all of the symptoms I had, realizing how long the list must have been: headaches, panic attacks, blackouts, auditory hallucinations, forgetfulness, unexplainable phobias, depression, lack of personal connections and lack of a distinction of reality.

"What are your phobias?" the doctor asked.

I thought for a minute, but could only think of three. "Pencils, dust, and imperfection." I informed.

"And do you have reasons why those things scare you?"

I shrugged a little. "Not really. I mean, I just sort of realized my fear of imperfection. I'm really critical and fastidious. Like, I'm in a band, and if the song isn't absolutely perfect, then I'll hate it. I can't stand it if I make a mistake. But I've been afraid of pencils and dust for a while, and I have no idea why."

The doctor nodded a little as he scribbled notes down. Adrienne rubbed my arm lovingly, for fingers gracing across a tattooed photo strip of her that was imprinted on my arm. I watched her face, waiting for her to look up at me, and when she did, I wanted to mutter, 'I'm sorry', but I whispered, "I love you." instead.

She smiled sadly, a glimmer of a tear in her eye. She was going to say something, but the doctor asked, "Do you know someone by the name of Christian?"

Here!

"Why?" I asked, becoming scared.

"I have a psychiatric report from a therapist, in Minnesota, Dr. Simmons. It was in your file--a Christian Armstrong. He has your address on here. He's your age..."

"What did you do?" I asked aloud.

You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.
They should put you in an asylum, Armstrong.

Stop it, Christian.

"Billie?" Adrienne questioned.

I swallowed hard. "He's one of my personalities," I informed. "I don't really know how the names came about, but the guy is Christian and the girl is Gloria."

I didn't need to look to my left to know that Adrienne was staring at me with a complete sense of trepidation in her eyes. She knew none of this, and I was throwing it all out at her without warning. It was almost like she had no idea what her husband had become or who I was anymore.

"I'm sorry to say, but you seem to be a classic example of a person with Dissociative Identity Disorder, Billie Joe," the doctor informed.

"What's that?" Adrienne questioned eagerly.

"It's better known as Multiple Personality Disorder," he told us. "We'll have to do some blood tests and deeply review your patient history to be able to know. MPD symptoms of sleep deprivation, medication, intoxicants, and a traumatic brain injury. Have you done or had any of those, Billie?" he asked.

"No, not really," I said. "I haven't been able to sleep very well, though, but I don't think it's that bad."

He nodded as he pulled out a prescription pad. "I'll write you a prescription for a sleeping medication," he said before asking, "Can you not sleep because of the voices? Are they that severe?"

"Sometimes," I said malcontentedly.

He left a while later and I just sighed. I looked at my wife, no sure what emotion was playing in stereo on my face. I couldn't distinguish her's either, but I'm not sure it mattered.

I figured questions would be asked and things would be said, but we left the hospital in complete and total silence. It was a good silence, though; not awkward or uncomfortable. After all of this crap that happened, we were in a weird peace, and I knew in that moment that our marriage was in a complex process of healing.