Seeds of Fear

[Cordellia Amethyste Rose]

Seeds of fear:

I don’t know when it started. It seemed like it was always there. By day, I lived in a far-off land of princesses, clouds, and magical potions that could do the most amazing things. I remember lying on my bed, extending out my hand like if I reached out just gently enough while picturing it it would become real. I would manifest the magical potion of my daydreams that, when taken, would whisk me away. I was maybe 5 years old. I think I feigned grabbing it and drinking it hundreds of times. As long as I was in a quiet place away from everyone, everything would be fine. What I didn’t know is that this magical safe place of mine was the beginning of a condition called Maladaptive Daydreaming. For a few seconds I was safe. I didn’t know that my daydream world would become an addiction that would take over my life and impede my ability to fully grasp the real world. I didn’t know I’d forge bonds so pure and strong that I’d feel guilty for ever trying to leave them. I just knew that I needed this place. It was a special place just for me. The rest of my life was just too unbearable. Those daydreams were frequent and short-lived. I’d have to escape a few seconds at a time, when people would hopefully forget where I was or be too busy to come look for me. The rest of my life was dark and scary.

Darkness and fear. I lived in a small town in Southern Oregon. We were poor, dirt
poor, about as far below middle class as you could get without actually being homeless. We had a roof over our head and food….but for a child with extreme sensitivities it was a nightmare. I don’t know why I felt so uncomfortable. Maybe it was because of the bright daydream world, but everything on the outside seemed so dark. There were shadows everywhere. Shrubs, dirty porches, corners behind which any evil person could be lurking. There was a door that locked but I was sure could be kicked open if someone tried hard enough. We had a shed that doubled
as a dog house. Apparently some evil man was found hiding their once from the police. Don’t worry. We’re safe. She was always there to protect us. She slept with an ax below her bed for
protection. It was just the 3 of us, her, the big woman who I was obligated to call Mom, though it never felt right, and the other girl, the big sister who never felt right to me either. The three of us hid from the world in our tiny mobile home. Despite the number of times I would picture it and hear it, no bad man would ever break in. No one would ever kidnap me on my way to or from home. No, no bad man would appear out of nowhere. Instead, he would walk boldly in and claim ownership of our lives. She would love him, and they would join forces, 2 angry people in love. 2 angry people who needed to get out all their rage…….and a girl who would lie around doing nothing all day. The fear never went away.

Soon we moved in with the big mean man, and they got married. They were happy, two people screaming at each other and at me. They’d scream at anyone. It didn’t matter. It was helpful to have a kid who was depressed and would lie around doing nothing all the time. They couldn’t yell at the “good” kid. My biological sister would do anything to please them. She’d do the chores, take care of me (which I hated and resented), and be a shoulder for the woman to cry
on when things weren’t going well. With a brain as tumultuous as hers, that was pretty often. She was like a screaming toddler, and my biological sister had to always comfort her. What a nice, happy pair they made.

Calm and Controlled

Boom……….boom…………..BOOM…..BOOM….BOOM, footsteps on the stairs outside my door. My room was above the workshop, separate from the house. She was home, and you never knew what kind of mood she’d be in. She’d come in, look around slowly, and then make her way over to my bed. I’d sit trembling all over and trying not to show it. You’d never know what would set her off. She hated how I reacted. If I reacted in fear she’d look at me like I
was crazy and ask how I’d be afraid of her. If I reacted politely, that would irritate her too. It was just her mood. It didn’t matter what I did. I think she enjoyed this intense moment while
I sat in fear waiting for her reaction. All the control she had lacked as a child, she found in me. All she had to do was show up, and I was scared stiff. Would she be happy or would she be ready to scream?

At some point, when you get so worked up the rage just blends, like a wheel with black and white strips that spins and spins until you just see a white blur. Maybe she’d gotten the mail and found something bad about me. Maybe she just got to thinking about something that enraged her and she kept thinking and thinking and somehow something she thought about reminded her of me and all the bad things I do, all the bad, horrible, nasty inactivity of a kid who can’t stop daydreaming and never gets anything done. Whatever it was, she would make her way up slowly and decide to let loose. It’s hard to describe the calm, controlled rage where the air feels so thick you can almost see it. You could almost feel it, like ripples through water. As if the stomping weren’t bad enough. She walked like a giant bear on the loud wooden floors. I was paralyzed, frozen, shaking uncontrollably. Then she’d cross the room, look around slowly, and then look up at me. What happened then doesn’t really matter. On paper it doesn’t sound like
much. She’d just tear everything off the walls and shelves and throw it all in the middle of the floor, smashing whatever she could. It’s amazing how many things she could smash without even trying. Boom! Everything that could possibly represent “clutter”. Every picture or poster I had dared to put up. I was scared to put anything up. I was scared to have anything. By the time she was done and happy, the shelves would be empty. There’d be nothing of me on them. Any little
trinket I had dared to treasure for a moment would be broken and/or lost. I didn’t like clutter, but I couldn’t organize. I was too dazed and scared. I couldn’t even remember what day it was half the time. I tried, but it never happened. Her rampages would often start with this “cleaning” ritual where she’d smash everything while running around my room screaming. Naturally, I’d be sobbing within seconds. I was always on the verge of losing it. Then she’d bend over my sobbing, shaking, panicking form and scream as loud as possible for me to clean it up. Everything would be in a huge, tangled mess. I could never get it done. I’d be there all night sobbing.

I could never keep any kind of order. It didn’t matter. There was no rhyme or reason to her rage. It could be messy, and she’d be fine. One time she got extremely angry and started a big fight that ended Thanksgiving because she found a single stray sock under my bed. It was too far for me to reach, so I’d left it. Oops.

It was the sound and the feeling, the constant threats that she would take away everything I ever had or would have. It was the mind games. Half the time she’d look up at me, eyes
suddenly wide-open with child-like innocence and ask me what was wrong? Everything’s ok. I just came up here to check on you…..albeit slowly and deliberately, pausing to examine every inch of the room with her stern gaze…….but still she was just there to say hi. Today, for no apparent reason, everything would be fine. My favorite part was when she’d look at me like I was completely nuts and imply as much all because I was shaking in fear. She’d run around
chasing me, flailing her arms while screaming about whatever it was she was screaming about and then come right up to me with her arms high in the air……only to stop, have a calm, puzzled look come over her face and quietly ask “Why did you put your hands up? I wasn’t going to hit you.” Hit me? What an absurd idea. Why would she do that? Then she’d get all sad and hurt randomly. How could I act this way?

She was a little violent but not too bad. When I was tiny, she’d drag me around by my hair during her rages. She learned that was bad, stopped that one activity, and would forever call herself reformed. She’d always learn to curb one tiny thing or other and use that as a weapon whenever someone would bring up her rages. How could we always bring up the past when she stopped pulling our hair when we were little? Clearly this was evidence that she had worked
tirelessly and was not the crazy person we villainously made her out to be. It never occurred to her that when someone talks to you like they’re always on the verge of losing it, it doesn’t really matter what they do. You always sense the worst about to happen. Plus it doesn’t help that the thing they yell the most is that they’re about to take away everything you’ve ever had or ever will have. Small detail.

The man and woman would fight. They were the grumpiest, angriest people I would ever meet in my life. He would come home grumpy, and she’d want to bombard him with everything that had happened and that she wanted. He’d yell back at her, and she’d get mad. Then they’d both fly into a rage and start screaming before he even got in the door. Then somehow the words “that kid” would come out and all hell would break loose. From then on, it was all about me, regardless of whether I had actually done anything wrong. I’d be in my room, hiding away, daydreaming, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. I wouldn’t do anything, but then that would be an issue. It’s hard to get things done when you have an addiction to daydreaming and are severely depressed. Those two things don’t really inspire productivity.

It’s hard to describe just how loud the screaming was. Growing up I’d watch every after school or evening special about fighting, abuse, and bullying. Never, to this day, have I heard of screaming as loud or as verbally violent. “We have naturally loud voices. It’s not our fault.” I can’t tell you how many times I heard that. They didn’t actually think it was considered yelling unless it was their loudest possible volume. It didn’t matter that the police were often called. The police were wrong. It didn’t matter that their fighting led to escalating arguments with every neighbor we ever had. The neighbors were wrong. Then all the feuding led to a law suit and a
$17,000 judgment against them. I believe I was 11. Tapes of the man screaming were played in court, and we children were gently ushered out of the room. I don’t remember exactly how much of it I heard, but like I said……nothing I ever heard was as loud or as violent as what we heard on a regular basis. Later, the woman would brag to me that she had forgiven the villainous neighbor who sued them, as the poor old woman was dying. Their generosity was unending.

Anyway, this isn’t really about them. It doesn’t matter. Regardless of what made the fear or fed it, it was always there. I was afraid of everything, all the time. There was never a moment in my life where I wasn’t paralyzed by the horrible fear that my world would come crashing down. I was 11 back then. Now I’m 30. The fear becomes part of your soul. It’s to the point where I’m tired of analyzing where it may or may not have come from. It’s felt good to blame them. I needed it. I needed to hear every single person over the years who told me it was
their fault and they were wrong. They were SO wrong. They were horrible, terrible lunatics who had nothing but anger to the core of their very souls. I’ve recounted the stories so much they’ve gotten boring. I’ve hardly told you anything. I’m tired of playing head case for every budding amateur therapist who has a breakthrough every time they tell me all that’s “wrong” with me and how it’s all a result of my childhood. It’s as old as the whole “depression” talk, where you try to have an intelligent discussion with someone about something new, like a daydreaming disorder, and they announce triumphantly at the end that you should try anti-depressants. Genius! What a novel idea. I’m cured!

At this stage in the game, it’s all adjectives and descriptions. It’s not wrong or right. There’s no magical diagnosis that makes something go away. There’s no “tough love” talk that makes you realize you’re a grown-up and therefore over it. It’s just how you are and how to live with it. It feels like the old question of which came first, the chicken or the egg. It’s not like that at all, but the two things coexist so much that it feels like neither could’ve existed without the
other…….me and my fear. Which came first, the chicken, or someone screaming “OH MY GOD! THERE’S A CHICKEN OUTSIDE MY DOOR THAT’S ABOUT TO BREAK IN AND PECK ME TO DEATH!” I’m so glad I have a night light. 2,381 words.

[The1andonlyAbber]

Wow. You must be a very strong person to have gotten through that. :-O