History #2

I promised and here it is. Once again I want to start this with a disclaimer. This is not what I believe anymore. This isn't me. He's not real and the following word usage reflects only my feelings of what was happening at the time. Enjoy it. I know I never did.


Ages 12-13


He started appearing again in seventh grade. By then, I had learned my lesson about telling people. I would be sitting in my classroom or in the court yard or in the cafeteria and he would be there. Next to the trash can. Behind the pillar. Lurking in the background and watching. Always watching.

So I pretended I didn’t see. It was hard sometimes. Not just because he got close. Not just because I would be sitting in my classroom and he would be standing next to the teacher, his head cocked to the side and his featureless face fixated on me.

It’s that my friends would walk next to him and they wouldn’t even know. They would be standing mere inches from him and talking and talking. All the while they couldn’t see. Sometimes he would ignore them. Sometimes his attention would shift. But sometimes, sometimes. . .

His pale moon colored face would look longingly on them and he would reach out his arms. Trying to pretend like I saw nothing was torture, because I could see they were in danger. I didn’t know what would happen if he touched them, only I knew that I had to stop it. So I would make up excuses. I jumped on them, pretending to play. I threw up when there was no food in my stomach. I would lead them away.

And that's when neighborhood kids started dying.

A little boy was murdered, strung up in a tree. A little girl was found in a pond. Face slashed. Mass in the pool likes grapes through a strainer.

They started to die, so many all at once. The papers called it a serial killer. They warned you to keep your doors locked and your windows shut. They thought it would help.

That’s when I started waking up to him standing at the foot of my bed. The first time it happened I screamed. My parents came running in and I made up an excuse about a bad dream. But through it all he was still there. He just stood and waited. Soon he was always there. Always in my room. Always at the foot of my bed. Just like when I was young.

I think my parents started to understand something was wrong with me. I tried to hide the glances I was casting on seemingly empty windows, doorframes. He wasn’t real. I wanted to pretend he wasn’t real, but they could tell. They started asking me if I’d had delusions again, and I always said no.

But then the murders got worse. More of them. More violent deaths. Drowned in a bath tub of pig’s blood. Tied up and thrown off a cliff. I couldn’t ignore it. Somehow I knew that it was to get my attention. He just stood and stared. And I couldn’t take it.

One night my parents went out of town without me. I tried to stay at a friend’s house. I tried to go with them. I even tried to stay with my grandparents, but since I couldn’t tell them what was wrong, they didn’t listen. So it was just me in the house, alone with the creature.

I locked the door to the upstairs hallway. I barricaded myself in the living room and turned on all the lights I could. Only then I could hear him. He was moving around the upstairs with long, slow, deliberate steps. That night I tried to watch a movie. I put on Singing in the Rain and turned the volume up full blast, but it never overpowered the sound.

He was in one room upstairs, then the other. Then I heard him come down the stairs. Even though I didn’t look, I knew that he entered the living room. He stood, in the corner, and waited. He waited and waited and waited. I flipped through the channels. I sat. I paced. I knew I couldn’t run.

Then I switched to a news report. A little girl had died in the woods. It was the same place I had destroyed my stuffed bunny years earlier. When I tried to change the channel the TV stuck there. I couldn’t turn it off, I couldn’t switch it away. Then this horrible noise started to come from the creature.

It was a low moan. Too low. Death call of a feral cat. It got louder and louder. By now I was crying. I clutched my hands over my ears and rocked back and forth. I was just trying desperately to go to sleep or black out or anything that would deliver me, but he wouldn’t stop.

It just kept getting louder and nothing I did helped. Finally, I just stood up and turned to him.

“Stop it! Stop it! I know you’re there! I know you’re the one killing the children! Just stop it! Just stop it!” I screamed. The moaning stopped and the creature turned his head to the other side. I fell on my knees, completely defeated. “You’re real, oh god, you’re so real. What do you want from me?” Its featureless face was fixed on me. “Please, I’ll do anything you want. Just stop killing them!”

The tall dark creature shifted its head again, and then he started to walk towards me. The last thing I remember seeing is the image of his pale face, burned against my retinas. When they found me, they said I was running through the house, smashing things with a baseball bat. I don’t remember any of it.

The scariest part is that the murders stopped after that. It was as though he’d been trying to prove some point to me, though I don’t know what. This really made it hard to get help later. This made it really hard for me to believe I was sick and that I needed help. Because if I had been wrong, why did the murders stop?

I know now that it was just a coincidence. It was delusion brought about by stress and lack of sleep and any number of things in my brain chemistry. But at the time it felt like he had won some major victory over me. It was the first time I had finally looked him in the eyes and admitted that he was real.

But of course he’s not. I don’t have to worry about any of that anymore.

Way Away From Here

What's the semantic opposite of homesickness? Cabin fever seems the obvious choice, but it's not house-specific enough. Homewellness, maybe. At any rate, I've got it.

It's not that I don't love my family. It's just that sometimes I want to kill them all. All of them together. Even Zooey lately, because they're starting in the talk that makes me want to throw up. What Are You Going To Do With Your Life? My crazy has been controlled so the grace period is over, not that it hasn't happened before.

After each freakout it's happened. Grade school, middle school and high school. I haven't told you about the other ones yet. Soon. But really soon this time. Very soon.

Any time I flip the widget everyone treats me like I'm made out of folded paper. For a few weeks. Then it all comes rushing back. Collapsing dam drowning the townspeople of my self esteem. (Love affair with metaphors much? I think so.) First it's all, "We're sorry about the job fair!" and "Just take your time!" Now it's all, "Do you ever think about going back to college?"

Sure, but I also think about stuff my nostrils full of burning embers. I'm twisted like that. Why will no one believe me when I say that I'm not ready, don't want to go, in no good state for college? Only dad listens, but his voice is drowned out. It's always been that way.

Back before I was even doing crazy things and claiming to see someone following me, he listened to me. He's real quiet, my dad. The polar opposite of my mom and Zooey. I'd say I'm more like him, but he's got this quiet strength. Too stable for me to be like him. When he gets angry it's like God getting angry. The only time I've ever seen him raise his voice was that day he punched out my ex who was stalking me. But that's a story for another time.

My dad likes to read. He likes to sit and read and not be bothered by anyone or anything. He's non-confrontational, which is a problem because confrontation keeps finding us. He saw Zooey's eating disorder happen. He saw my breakdown coming. He couldn't do anything about it because he never wants to upset anyone. Sometimes you have to make people hurt to heal a deeper wound. That's what I learned with my mom.

But now I'm old enough and I've been through this enough that I know that I can't listen to what other people say. Yeah, I should get a Real Job and join the Real World with my Real Money and Real Responsibility, but now's not the time. Isn't it enough that I have an apartment and a job? Does anyone even remember how hard that road was for me?

I shouldn't complain so much, I know, but if not here, where? I ask you that.

When I grow up (for real this time) I'm going to move to some little island in the Caribbean. I'll rent bikes to tourists and spend the rest of my days lounging on the beach and reading. I don't even care if there's not a TV, I'll settle for reading my beloved Nicholas Sparks.

And I'll never talk to anyone in my family ever again. And it will be a beautiful, beautiful thing.

Better, Better

Breathe in, breathe out, Madison. One freakout does not negate a year of putting your life together.

That's what my therapist said anyway, after I told her about the disastrous job fair. Falling after you ride a bike doesn't mean you never learned to ride in the first place, right? Skinned knee, meet band-aid. All better.

Had a few nightmares this week. Don't remember any of them really. Just woke up sweating and worried that a pile of clothes was a person reaching out to me. Shook off the dream. Stood up. Picked up the clothes. (They shouldn't have been on the floor anyway.) Went back to sleep.

Finished the fish this week. Gonna go fire it when I've got time. Work has been taking it out of me. Linda's been cool. She invited me to sneak a smoke in the back of the building (which she is usually super anal about). But I don't know. Jobs you don't care about, they wear at your edges. Pieces in the kiln too long start to crack.

Smoked with Linda. Don't even really smoke, but it was nice to be offered. She talked about her new bf. (Called it!) Name is Derrek. He's head lifeguard at the public pool. Teaches little kids how to swim. Has dreadlocks, apparently. Sounds like a loser to me.

No, not because of the dreadlocks. Dreadlocks are "kickin" as Zooey would say. A loser because he's thirty-five and his mom still pays for his phone bill. I know, those in glass houses. But my glass house is there because of psychosis so I feel like I can throw all the damn stones I want. Especially at someone who refers to his dangly bits as his "little duderino." Are you Sean Penn from Fast Times at Ridgemont High????

Thought I saw my ex the other day. Just a moment. Just in a crowd. Have I mentioned him? Probably not. Among the things I try not to think about, he takes a trophy.

Bad news, that guy. Played on my psychosis. Controlling. Jealous. Thought it was what I wanted. Didn't help. But of all of the bad things that have happened to me he's one I can not think about. Because that wasn't my fault. He's not my fault.

Enough is my fault. Can't think about it. Too sad.

Come to think of it, my ex had dreadlocks for a big chunk of time. Maybe that's why I hate Derrek so much. Stupid really. My ex, an engineering major with dreadlocks. Incorrect. Especially on his thin weedy hair.

I think I might post something else about my past soon. Need to get it out. Hurts too much. It all came back at that job fair. Twisted limbs. Faceless man. Waiting for me. Always waiting.

Wish he wasn't the only one. I deserve someone better.

Spoke Too Soon

Stupid, so stupid. God, I don't know why I ever thought I could be happy. I don't know what ever made me think, even for a second, that I was in control.

It all starts with my mom, like it often does. I've talked about her before if you want the full story, but it's not really all that complicated.

She pushes. She nudges. She insists. She wants me to succeed so badly. For the last week she's been bugging me about this job fair that a local university is hosting. Didn't want to go. What could I possibly get from it, a job in sales? The thought of me trying to sell something would be funny if it weren't so pathetic.

And the problem isn't just the embarrassment of being surrounded by people years younger and profoundly more qualified. It's not just thought of me holding my flimsy resume with my lack of college degree and conspicuous gap in employment. Even without all those things, there's a big problem.

Business suits. Everywhere, all crammed into one building. I'm deathly afraid of people in business suits. It's like sending someone who's afraid of snakes to a herpatology convention.

But she was insistent. "You never know until you try, Madison," and "You complain about your job all the time," and "There might be something you never even thought about." So I went. I did go.

I put on some big girl clothes. Long blouse, pencil skirt, modest heels. Even put on jewelry. (A necklace AND earrings, when was the last time I did that?) Put my resume in a nice binder and even laminated it. Wrote a cover letter, attached it. Showed up at the Holiday Inn, heart in my throat. Told myself I'd be fine. Told myself I was strong.

And then I walked into the convention room. There were three-piece suits everywhere. Black ties, white shirts, pressed pants. Terror can make you completely numb. I just stood there blocking the doorway, unable to move.

Everywhere I looked I saw the creature. He was pressing a sticky-backed nametag to his lapel which said his name was "Marv." He was sneaking a look down the shirt of a woman with frizzled red hair as he handed her his resume. He was ladling punch out of a crystal bowl by the stairs and trying to talk about the Red Sox to an uninterested conversation partner.

Manning the booths, running to catch an elevator, complaining about the weather, laughing at a racist joke. Then just standing in the corner watching, watching. Everywhere. I saw him absolutely everywhere.

Tall men in black suits surrounded me. It was like being back in the forest and hearing those limbs crunch through the brush with nowhere to run. I started to have a full blown panic attack.

People finally started to notice that I was freaking out. Someone touched my arm, asking me if I was okay, and that brought me back to reality. I spun around and ran back through the door, pushing people out of my way as I did. When I got into the lobby I shoved myself into the ladies room, locked the stall door, and called my mother crying.

Fortunately, she answered right away and she managed to call me down. She apologized immediately, she didn't know how bad my phobia of business suits was. But it was still embarrassing.

After all this time of convincing myself that thing wasn't real, all it took was one job fair to destroy my psyche. I feel so weak. I know it's not my fault. We've been over in therapy that I can't help what I see and what I fear, but it doesn't make me feel better.

Those diamond earrings will have to wait. I don't deserve them yet.

My Life's Calling-FOUND!

And the surprising answer to the question of life is . . . crafting.

Hello lonely blog, it's been a while. My last post was, well, not emo but certainly not positive. Being positive is hard. Takes mores muscles to frown than smile but it takes fewer brain cells to whine. Purely scientific. Look it up.

Things are better. Much better. Still not sure about life. College seems impossibly far away, but I've been looking into trade schools. Don't know what for. Something with few people. I like people I just don't like hanging out with them. Make me feel strange.

No man in my life. Still. (Don't worry singletons, this ball of crazy is still completely available.) But the only man I need is Ryan Gosling. Went to see Driver because he was in it. Really violent. Really scary. Not my thing, but I watched loyally. Saw Crazy, Stupid, Love at the cheap theaters a little while ago. Buying that when it comes out. For sure.

But though I have no love and no future, I have a hobby. Many hobbies now. Crafting. As in more than one craft at a time.

You see, I was standing in the middle of Wall Mart (as sometimes happens to lonely single people) and I was looking at fabrics and beads and paint trying to decide what I should try. Then it dawned on me. I can try all of them. There is no limit except my imagination. (Well and my paycheck.)

Four projects at once. Rank and file.

1. Quilt of Old T-Shirts- I know I'm fifty.
2. Self Portrait- Got some nice paints. Using a piece of cardboard (canvas is expensive, I sprung for color instead.) Coming along well.
3. Sculpture of a Fish- Little bit a clay, lotta bit of love. (Nearby place will fire it when I'm done.)
4. Beading- Not just a little. Serious BEAD-ness. (Get it!)

Number four is my favorite. So far I made a bracelet with little turquoise stones and silvery divider thingys and a necklace of amber. Looks funky in a good way.

Beading is different. The others occupy my hands. Busy hands=blank mind=no bad thoughts. But beading is for me. For me personally. I make the jewelry. I wear it. Got my eye on this set of diamonds at the back of the store. I want to make them into earrings with a little bit of silver wiring, but they're pricey.

In high school we read a story from the renaissance or the middle ages or something. It talked about a woman who had these beautiful diamonds on her neck. Our teacher told us that back then women didn't have money to buy their own diamonds. When they wore diamonds it was like wearing a dog collar. It was saying, "I am owned. My man owns me." That and he has enough money to buy me diamonds.

But these diamonds will be different. No one needs to buy me diamonds, I buy my own and I will wear them out in public and proudly proclaim my ownernship. No man on the other end. No ex-bofriend, no fear, no creature.

Right now I feel like I'm living, not just squatting, in my own skin. For once I will be the watcher and not the watched.

Everything is Too Still

Sorry I haven't been on lately. I've been boring. Bored and boring. Too boring for even me.

Every day is work. Sleep and work and sleep. Tried to cook some chicken yesterday. Madison's foray into big-girl food. Burned everything. Even the carrots I tried to steam. Pathetic.

Linda and I have been getting along for what it's worth. Not worth much. She talks about cats a lot. Too much. I wish we buried them like the ancient Egyptians. I'd bury her with them. She'd probably love it.

Only thing that breaks up my day is coffee. Task. Coffee. Reward and punishment.

Put the stinking, rotting donated clothes in the laundry. Cup number one. Shelve a bunch of decaying romance novels with pages that stick together. Cup number two. Deal with woman trying to haggle her way down from five dollars on some piece of crap that was probably dragged out of a filthy corner of someone's garage. Cups number three and four. I get two cups for that. Madison's reward for good word. The meek will inherit caffeine.

Probably not supposed to take so many breaks. Don't care. Linda hasn't been on me. Think she's got a boyfriend. Must be nice to have a boyfriend. I can hardly remember what it's like. What I do remember wasn't good. Lots of yelling. Lots of looking in the mirror and wondering if I was too fat for love. No good. Love is for pretty people with no problems.

Went to dinner with Sam again a couple of weeks ago. That was fun. Went to see Green Lantern at the dollar theater with Zooey. Not my type of movie, but Zooey is fun so it was too.

Hazy. Everything feels so hazy. Maybe it's the heat. Time passes slowly. Clocks like a Dali panting. No room to grow when space-time melts.

I need a hobby. I'd garden but I kill everything I touch. Maybe needlepoint. Maybe woodworking. Maybe acupuncture for all I care at this point.

Need a friend. Need a love. More than that, need a goal. My former, "Don't Fuck Up Your Life" is too easily met. Which is nice but boring. So tired of being bored.

Thinking of watching Titanic. Thinking of taking a walk. I'll probably just sit here and have cups six and seven. Maybe even eight.

Sometimes I think the mundane is worse then the painful. Not always. Mostly when I'm not in pain. I forget what it feels like. The itch seems worse than the broken bone once the arm has been set.

Being resolutely average just seems harder to shake. Like smoke from the cigarette you sneak in the bathroom. It clings to the skin longer.

History #1

Here is goes. All or nothing now. When you read this, keep on thing in mind. This is who I was. This is who I used to be. Not anymore. It's been years since I've even seen her in the mirror. More importantly, it's been years since I've seen him.

Ages 5-8

It's always hard to answer the question, "When did you first start seeing it?" Can't say. Don't know. I started to think that he was always there, and that changes the question. Not "when?" because it was always. Instead, it's "When were you old enough to know that there was something wrong?"

But that's not true. Can't think like that. Won't.

The I really remember seeing him was during daycare. Mom was working part time, dad was working full-time. She was a nurse back then. Really liked it, but was always tired.

The daycare was pretty nice. This little, brick building. Lots of toys, playground out back. I was on the monkey bars. My favorite, when I was little. Used to be able to do flips off of them.

Before I saw it, I felt it. I was cold, even though it was one of those warm days in fall that clings to the ghost of summer. But not just cold. Not like swimming in a freezing pond or being dunked in snow. Cold like being buried under permafrost while your head fills with white static.

I turned my head and saw someone watching me from the bushes. Thought it was a man, though not like any man I'd ever seen. Long arms. Long legs. No face. Not just nondescript but without features. Not even wrinkles on his forehead. Like he'd been sanded smooth.

The daycare attendant called us in and when I looked back he was gone. Definitely he. Male energy, even without a face.

I started school and I saw him more and more. I'd see him standing on the sidewalk and at the end of the aisle at the grocery store. I'd even see him staring at me out of windows . . . when my classroom was on the second floor.

Maybe I mentioned him to my parents, can't remember, but that was still the age of imaginary friends. How could they know? But even without asking them, I started to fear him. I started to dread going anywhere. Backed out of playdates. Pretended me and my friends had a fight. Never wanted to go to the park that was only a few blocks from our house. Pretended I was allergic to grass for a while.

Through it all, the only real friend I had was Buggy. A brown stuffed bunny with two yellow, plastic eyes. Got the name because I thought "bunny" was pronounced "buggy." Dragged him around so much he started to get threadbare. Fur full of dirt. Mom must have washed that thing more often than me.

Soon, I refused to leave the house unless I was forced to. Not that I didn't see him at home, but he never came inside the house. Always outside the sliding glass door. Never moving, but always staring. Staring though he didn't have any eyes.

Things got worse and worse for me. I had nightmares where the river behind the park swelled and swept away the town. Started to wet the bed every night. Had accidents even during the day. Parents didn't know what was wrong. Took me to the school therapist. She said I had control issues. Might have been right though not for the reason she thought.

At home, I started to have more problems. Refused to eat. Never wanted to sleep. Didn't want my parents out of the room. Freaked out if I lost Buggy, even for for a second. My poor sister got jealous because I got all the attention. She was only five at the time, didn't understand much. And my parents, oh god, my parents. They were so scared. Couldn't figure out what was going on.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. That's why, the summer after  I turned eight, I decided to run away from home. Packed up this little, red suitcase my grandmother had given me for my birthday one year. The contents are almost funny now. Little girl, little thoughts. I brought a fuzzy green blanket my aunt had knitted for me, an extra sweater (black with kittens on the front), a length of rope and a pocket knife both given to me by my uncle (who said that there was no situation where rope and a pocket knife didn't come in handy) a wooden hand mirror with lilies around the edge, a pear, a hunk of cheese, and, of course, my faithful Buggy.

In the middle of the day, when my parents had company over, I moved. I snuck downstairs, went through the garage, grabbed a flashlight, and headed off down the street. At the time I headed for the forest behind the park. It was the only place I knew to run.

I didn't know. I was so young, how could I?

As I walked down the street my suitcase clunked. The hand mirror against the knife against blanket against the cheese and the pear against the rope and the kitten sweater and all of it against Buggy. Stowed away. My stuffed moral support. The sun was just starting to set and my parents must not have noticed I was gone since no one came tearing after me.

The hand mirror may seem like an odd choice, but it was a system I'd devised. Using it to sweep corners, to look into rooms before I entered. If I walked into a room and then left, he might show up in the window of the next room. But if I never entered it, he wouldn't follow me.

It wasn't long before I got to the woods. Walked in for about three minutes. Figured it would be enough. Found a good sturdy tree with a lot of low branches and sat at its base. It was starting to get cold, even though it was summer, so I put on the sweater and draped the blanket across the branch that was above me. Then I took out Buggy, the pocket knife, and the mirror, and tied the suitcase to the branch with the rope.

I sat there, clutching Buggy under one arm and holding the knife with the other. Left the flashlight balanced on my lap. Took out the pear and cheese when I got hungry. Waited. Waited and waited and waited. Don't know what I thought I could do.

Before long it was so dark I could see anything. Held the flashlight steady and tried to keep alert, but I was getting tired. My eyes drooped and I hadn't seen the creature at all night. So I clutched Buggy tight to my chest, closed my eyes, and fell asleep.

Woke up later. Suddenly. Frightened. Could hear the sound of breaking twigs. Sound of someone crunching through the brush. For a second, thought it was my parents, but the steps were slow and paced. Too slow for a normal person.

I reached for my flashlight, but it didn't turn on. Blinking in the dark, I stood up, clutching Buggy and the knife, waiting for my eyes to adjust. When they did, all I could see was trees. The steps got faster and closer.

"Hello?" I said. No one answered.

It got closer and closer. Couldn't run. Nowhere to run. Trees all around. Just clutched my knife, holding it out at arms length. Soon it felt like the thing was almost on top of me. I retreated behind the blanket, not daring to look.

"I have a knife!" I yelled, thinking it would scare someone off. The footsteps stopped for a moment and there was a huge intake of breath. Too big to be human. Like a moose. Like a grizzly. But breath mixed with static. Breath that made my mind go fuzzy.

It was in front of me. I couldn't look. Forgot my knife, forgot everything. Curled up, hands over my head. Too scared to speak. Silence. Silence.

For a second, nothing happened. I opened my eyes and saw the shadow of something tall cast across my little tent. Then something grabbed the blanket, pulling it away from me. I screamed, clutching Buggy ever tighter.

And then . . . nothing. Darkness.

Remember yelling. Remember screaming and screaming until I couldn't stop. Remember something big, staring down on top of me. Must have been the tops of trees, but it looked like a tangled, black mass of limbs.

A big pale face, drifting right in front of me.

Then I was standing. I was standing a few feet away from the tree, still holding the knife. There were people around me with flashlights and I didn't remember where they came from. My mom was kneeling in front of me, shaking me, asking me if I recognized her.

I instinctively clutched at Buggy, trying to pull him closer, but he wasn't there. For the first time, I looked down at my hands and saw that they were full of blood. 

Buggy, where was Buggy?

I looked back and where the tree was and saw something that would haunt me for years to come. Buggy was strung up in the top branches of the tree. One of his ears torn off, his fur streaked with blood. Both of his eyes cut out and in their place someone had smeared two red X's.

It was first time I came face to face with the destructive power that was linked to the creature. Buggy was the first casualty of my madness. The first to fall pray to this terrible thing inside of me.

And, god help me, he was not the last.