Fear

I have known truly gripping fear most of my life. The first was when I was 11, and black smoke started pouring into the living room when I opened the door to the hallway. Being 11 and home alone, I thought it was all my fault. It was later confirmed to be an uncapped wire smoldering in the attic, but that was after the firemen had come and the house was a total loss. I let myself off the hook when a fireman said that the fire had started over my sister’s room. It was lucky that the fire started during the day, because if she’d been sleeping, she would have been killed. Unfortunately, my sister also heard the fireman say this, and I’m not sure she’s slept soundly since.

(Who needs sleep?)
Well you’re never gonna get it
(Who needs sleep?)
Tell me what’s that for
(Who needs sleep?)
Be happy with what you’re gettin’
There’s a guy whose been awake since the second world war…

The problem with being the oldest is that I didn’t realize I needed coping mechanisms for PTSD worse than she did. I was in sixth grade. She was only in first. The horror of my house burning down has stayed with me at every event involving fire in my life.

When I was a youth director, I took the kids on a retreat to Camp Westwind. I was in my college years (“you look so twenties God lesbian” -Chason), so 11 didn’t seem very far back then. The campfire smoke reminded me of burning upholstery, and I panicked inside my skin. And in fact, that was the problem. I’ve been panicking inside my skin for so long that I am only now beginning to break apart.

That’s because trauma builds in the body. I did not realize just how much I was carrying when my apartment was broken into. I cannot sleep with all the lights off anymore. I leave them on in every room of the house except for where I’m sleeping. I have lights that don’t cost much to run, and there aren’t many of them, anyway. My entire apartment needs more lamps, because the complex (in their infinite wisdom) has taken out all of the overhead lighting and you must provide your own. It is cheaper, but at what cost? There is no way to turn the lights on and off easily.

In the middle of one night
Miss Clavel turned on her light
and said, “Something is not right!”

I was sitting in the dark, writing Facebook messages

I ran after the thief carrying my TV because I had no idea what would happen if I caught him… I was just unafraid and working on instinct. When you have lived with trauma since you were 11, you ignore it. I don’t look over my shoulder anymore; it’s absolutely pointless. Either my house will get broken into again or it won’t. Either I’ll get hit by a stray bullet or I won’t. Worrying solves nothing. However, I did manage to tell Bryn about this before I started writing. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have started writing about fear in the first place. I had to identify the source of why I’m so afraid to leave my house, so afraid to relax here…. so motivated to find a housemate even though I don’t want one and wish I had the meanest dog on the planet when it comes to preserving my well-being. And by “meanest dog,” I mean that I want the sweetest, most caring dog on the planet until you cross them…. and to have markings that make him look like I rescued him from the Capital Wasteland. Dogmeat has been my constant companion in Fallout 3, and I am stymied as to why I didn’t think I deserved it in real life.

I was glued to the Internet because I was dealing with a situation there. I couldn’t do anything until I heard actual noise, because the Internet at the time was scarier than real life. It’s not anymore. It never will be again. That’s because I’m not supposed to have a moratorium on what I can write and what I can’t. It’s not like I’ve been friends with anyone who didn’t know I was a blogger since 2001. I’ve been through multiple hospitalizations to prove that I’m not an authority on anything, especially fitting into the constant workings of my city. There’s no sleep for the unprepared, and I am not a prepared sort of bitch (that was an Aaron Paul genderless “bitch,” by the way). I am faced with fear and uncertainty about my future in all areas except for the possible rescue of SSI and SSDI.

I know for certain that I will always be a writer, but whether I’m successful at it isn’t up to me. It’s up to the people who read. It’s getting my work in front of the right hands. It’s about constantly woodshedding so that I see my own manipulations for what they are. Autism has led me to explain and intellectualize emotional situations, when I should just tell you I’m afraid and I don’t know what to do. I am checked in every direction except one, but the safe square moves turn by turn. I will never reach mate, and I will never fall, either. That being said…

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man crumble.