“The monster under the bed doesn’t exist,” reassured my mom as I crawled into her bed in the middle of the night and she sent me back to my own room. I trusted her but I knew she was lying. It was there, waiting to grab my fingers or toes if they slipped over the edge of the bed during the night.
“The goblin in the woods is all in your imagination,” stated my grandmother as she pushed me back outside to play. She didn’t believe me but I knew the creature was out there; I’d seen it. It had more scraggly facial hair than my cousin Stevie. It glared at me with its red eyes as it clutched at the branch of a spruce tree with claw-like hands. It hissed, baring yellowed fangs and tossed pine cones at my head. It was looking for a chance to hurt me; I knew it.
“There is nothing in the basement,” laughed my father as he opened the door and urged me downstairs to retrieve his tape measure. He was wrong. There was a shadow living under the stairs. I felt its urge to grab my ankle and trip me every time I ventured down into the darkness.
All three repeated the same phrase whenever I expressed a fear of something beyond their ken: “It’s a figment of your imagination; you’ll out grow it.”
But I didn’t.
I see shadows where there is nothing to create them; I hear voices when there is no one near. I remember living in the past and being people other than myself. I’ve danced with faeries and left offerings for hobgoblins. I can change the weather and help heal the sick. I’ve seen inter-dimensional travelers and talked to demons. I’ve met ancient Goddesses and heard God’s call.
“And you’ve felt this way since childhood?” asked my psychiatrist as he scribbled on his prescription pad. “Try this,” he said as he handed me the slip of paper. “It’ll help you sleep and stabilize your emotions. Eventually those thoughts will go away and you’ll be a normal, rational person.” I took it from him with a tentative hand.
“Oh, and don’t forget to schedule your next appointments with my assistant on the way out. I want to see you twice a week. We need to monitor your situation closely.”
He didn’t look up from the notebook where he was writing furiously when I left the room, the prescription for Zyprexa clutched in my hand. I tossed it in the wastepaper basket as I smiled at the assistant. I walked out the door without speaking to her, deciding in that instant to walk my own path.
Why would I want to live a rational life? There are exciting things out there beyond the ordinary; I can experience it, as long as I believe.
Well, that’s always the question… is the person crazy, or does he/she know something we don’t? I’m always willing to believe…
I wish everyone did; I stopped arguing with people about my worldview a long time ago. It’s pointless to attempt to convince someone with a closed mind that there is more out there than they’ve experienced. One believes or one doesn’t.
The need to convince others is evidence of one’s own lack of conviction.
Excellent Vandy! Plays right in to my beliefe “why be normal”!
Thanks, Tanya. I thought you’d like this.
I’ve never been “normal” why would I want to start now? LOL!
When the rational is made synonymous with disbelief, something’s in danger of being gobbled in the dark. Perhaps the victim is just a life worth living. Cheers, Vandamir!
Thanks, John, and I agree (especially since I’ve seen some of those things in the dark). I have been accused of being mentally ill before and there is a tendency in our society to feed people whose thoughts and ideas don’t conform to accepted beliefs drugs to make them conform. I decided to post this story this week after an odd experience on twitter with a woman who didn’t follow me or bother to get to know me before judging me as scary and equating mysticism and magick with demons and ghosts.
Wish I could convince some friends of this, sadly rational equates with accepted in this world.
I’ve stopped trying to convince other people of my worldview – they either accept me for who and what I am or they don’t. I don’t argue with them anymore; it’s not worth the energy. I grew up in a household where the paranormal was “normal” and feel badly for those who either can’t remember those experiences or have never had them.
For the most part I blend into society now but for years I wore my differences like a cloak (literally, actually, since I spent 4 years in college dressing like a refuge from the middle ages), asserting my individuality and my differences in the clothing I wore and the colors I dyed my haor. I’ve out grown the need to do that so blatantly though sometimes it’s nice to pull it out, dust if off and freak out the mundanes.
Good story Vandamir, and wouldn’t it be a much nicer world if people were just accepted for what they were, and not judged by others who would wish to change them. A massive amount of this world’s artistic talent comes from people who ‘see’ things different from what would be construed as ‘the norm’
Sounds like her life is a lot more fun without the mind-numbing drugs and psychiatrist visits. She made the right choice.