"You ever pull into this driveway and feel a sensation of complete evil?" I asked my mom as we dropped my brother off at my dad's house this evening after dinner.
"Only when I see Barb here," she replies heartily, referring to the Evil Stepmom.
"That's not what I mean," I say, feeling sort of shaky. "I mean... this sounds stupid... It feels like there's something there... Like, something really evil... Like when we built that house, we built it in the wrong place..."
"I used to kind of feel that way, but I haven't in a long time..."
"...Like, there's something really, really ancient... Like, REALLY... old... Unrestful... Old, ancient... Like trees, and forests... And they're unhappy... And walking... Just walking... And are unpleased..."
"Like we built the house on an Indian burial ground..."
"Yeah... Like that..."
"Not really anymore... But I was a lot more at peace after I moved out of that place..."
"Well, I suspect someday you'll know what it means..."
"How would I ever know?"
"Well, like, when I was going through some of my worst depression and all, I always knew that October 19th was a bad day... Something bad had happened on October 19th... And two years ago, on October 19th, my brother died."
"No, it isn't like that... It just feels unrestful... Out of sync. Discordant. Like there's been a disruption there..."
"Yeah... I used to feel things like that a lot... I used to have a lot of... what's the word... almost... clairvoyant? Is that what you'd say? When you feel things and... like telepathy and stuff?"
"Yeah, clairvoyant." "Clair." Light. "Voyant." Sight. Seeing with light. Psychic vision or clarity.
"But I learned to tune most of that out..."
"I know... But sometimes... Especially at this time of the year..."
"Yeah. October."
"Autumn... The leaves start falling..."
"It's always October..."
"Not always..."
"Not always?"
"No... I mean... You know that feeling you get sometimes, when the darkness is coming earlier and earlier... And you just burst out crying because it's dark and it's winter coming, and... no reason, really..."
"Yeah... You do that too?"
"This year, I've managed to avoid it... Sort of... Mostly... I fight it... I've fought it... I'm hoping this year will be different... It's not just the nights getting longer... There are other things too..."
"Like what?"
"Well, I mean, there's a FEELING... It's a feeling of things dying... A sadness... And a complete aloneness..."
"Yeah..."
"...And I don't really think it's anything especially psychic, exactly... I mean, I think it has more to do with physical phenomena that is almost imperceivable... And when enough elements are present that are sort of... significant of... death, and unhappiness, and autumn-stuff, that's when you get that awful feeling of total sadness and you like, burst out crying and whatever..."
She nodded. "Like what things?"
"Like... this sounds dumb... I mean, I think the weather plays a big part: when it's gloomy and shitty outside... But also, other things... Like... smells. The smell of baked chicken on a shitty day always seems to knock me down..."
"For me it's when the first goldenrods come out," said my mom, and I nod. "I guess maybe it's a touch of Seasonal Affective Disorder..."
(I am not a big believer in Seasonal Affective Disorder... I am not, in fact, a big believer in many disorders at all, and I haven't been in a long time. "Disorder" means that the emotions being experienced are not natural and implies that they are in need of order, of re-organization... And while sometimes that might be true, I still resent the word "disorder," which further implies -- I think -- that one cannot reorganize and change his emotions by his own means; a "disorder" always seems to mean you need therapy or drugs or bright lights shining on you, or a good hard talking to, or at very least, some old fashioned meditation... I'm of the belief that if you're fucked up, and your life doesn't feel right in some way, you write down twelve good things about the world every night and leave it by your bedside until things DO feel right. And you wait for it to pass. This too, shall pass... Bad things, unpleasant feelings, always pass; everybody has them, so they're not abnormal; take responsibility for what's going on inside your body and your mind, and you will not have a disorder. With a few exceptions, I suppose, but not many. "Disorder" qualifies and quantifies emotions that do not need analysis, but simply a change; "disorder" defines your emotions and lumps them together with a zillion other people who also have similar troubles. And maybe I don't always LIKE my feelings, but they're mine, and they're mine alone, and I don't like other people claiming they know exactly what I'm going through because they're similarly diagnosed...)
("A person should not believe in an -ism; he should believe in himself..." --Ferris Bueller)
(But my mom's a human services professional, and it's impossible to argue with somebody who will be making a living convincing 16-year-olds to take their Ritalin... So I said: ) "I guess..."
"Have you been okay this year?"
"Better... Better than some other years... I've been fighting off bad feelings and depression and all of that, because I know it's fall and it's kind of time for me to feel that... I think it's also helping that my biological clock is set now so that I sleep during the day and am awake during the nights... Except..."
"What?"
"Well, I know stuff is still bothering me... I mean, I've been really good about some stuff... I haven't burst out crying for no reason in a long time, and I haven't snapped at anybody for no reason in a long time, and I really am feeling okay, mostly... Except I know stuff is bothering me because my dreams are horrible lately..."
"Like what?"
"Well, like I told you this morning, about how I dreamed I was retarded and couldn't communicate with anyone... There was another one I had, with a graveyard, and another one where my face started changing into this really nasty hard flesh stuff, and all my senses got buried underneath this flesh... It was kind of like slowly dying... Like I was slowly dying and less and less capable of expressing myself..."
"Helena, we need to talk sometime about this..."
The mood had just become impossibly serious. That always seems to happen when someone says, "we need to talk."
"Um... why?"
"Because I used to have a lot of dreams like that, and--"
"Dreams like you were smothering? Or dying or whatever?"
"Yes... And it got so bad that I couldn't sleep." (Helena recalls waking up crying, pacing around the house, writing an entry, and going back to sleep. Helena does not say any of this to her mother.)
"Uh-huh..."
"I'd dream a lot about death, things just like that... And that was one of the main reasons I went into therapy to begin with. A lot of times, I think recurring horrible dreams are an indication of something wrong with the chemicals in your brain..."
(Helena thinks about reasons for bad dreams... Too much coffee before bed... Fevers... Eating too much Chinese food with MSG in it... Those are pretty much the only reasons Helena has ever had bad dreams. Helena realizes that these are all forms of fucking up the chemicals in your body. She does not mention this to her mom.)
"And I'm been thinking," my mom continues, "that it might not be such a bad idea for you to see somebody... Probably go on some form of mild anti-depressant..."
"Hm..."
She was driving me to my own apartment, and by that point, we were parked in front of my house.
"You gonna be okay? I know we just started talking about this... If you need to talk or anything, you know where I am..."
"Yeah, of course!" I replied. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about it..."
I went inside and I realized that no, I wasn't fine at all. I've been sort of sad, sort of melancholy, sort of at the edge of tears for a month or two... Feeling like I'm dying a little bit with the leaves... Realizing that spring is another seven months away, the way Binghamton climate works. No, I haven't been okay. And I've been TRYING to be okay: go to work, come home, type, read, shower, go to Norman's house, read some more, go to sleep. But I have been sort of escapist lately.
I don't need therapy and I don't need drugs, and I do not have a fucking disorder.
Yeah, it would be really easy to go into a shrink's office and say, "look, I have bad dreams; I drink too much coffee because it's the only way to perk me up sometimes; I'm constantly feeling sick; I think about death more than I maybe should although I'm not suicidal; I have been suicidal in the past; I don't eat right; I don't have any energy; I sleep 10 to 12 hours a night... etc, etc...", get myself a diagnosis, get myself some pills, and go on with my life with a title of mental illness.
But fuck that shit. I won't do it. I'd rather die than be one of the multitudes who is "messed up" and makes everybody else miserable because of it. I'd rather slit my wrists right now than let myself become a disorder just because my feelings happen to suck sometimes.
A person should not believe in a disorder. He should believe in himself.
I called Aaron. I got drunk with Aaron. I passed out on Norman's couch later that evening. No dreams.
So fucking there.
~Helena*