Rose 1

Cordellia Rose

WR 323

Final Revision

Room for Improvement

Natural State of Terror

Present Tension

What am I forgetting? I know there’s something wrong in here, but I can’t figure it out.

I’ve unplugged the coffee pot. The stove and oven are off. I just double-checked for the fifth

time. I haven’t cooked in days, but still, what if somehow I bumped it and turned it on? There’s

a missing battery. Grendel was playing last night and smashed the remote control on the floor.

The battery compartment came open, and there’s a battery missing. I can’t find it. I checked

under the big chair, but it wasn’t there. What if it rolled under the stove? I know they must’ve

played with it. What if it rolled under the stove, I turn on the stove, and the whole place

explodes in flames?

Tomorrow could be the last day of my life. I could go somewhere and happen upon a big

gathering of people and a bomb could go off, killing me. I could die. A million things could

happen. What if I’m walking fast and daydreaming, and I slip and fall on a leaf? I try to walk

slowly, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t stop daydreaming. I could break my back and get stuck in

the ER. My cats need to bed fed twice a day. They don’t eat much in the morning. They’ll

starve to death if they don’t eat at night.

What would happen to my kitties? I’m such a recluse that no one would notice for days

if not weeks if I disappeared. People see me, but not enough to worry if I didn’t show up for

awhile. I can see my kitties meowing and slowly starving to death before someone notices. I
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don’t free feed them because the vet says it’s bad. Maybe I should. Maybe I should.

Tomorrow, everything could go wrong. I’ll leave the house, and the building will go up in

flames. I’ll walk by a group of people and a bomb will go off, and I’ll die. Tomorrow, it could

all end.

Seeds of fear:

I don’t know when it started. It seemed like it was always there. As far back as I can

remember I’ve lived a life of fear and fantasy. 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.
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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 me 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

I never felt comfortable around 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, two angry people in love. two 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, and be a shoulder for the woman to cry on when things weren’t
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going well. With a brain as tumultuous as hers, that was pretty often. She was like a screaming

child, and my biological sister had to always comfort her.

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. 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 while with black

and white strips that spins and spins until you just see a white blur. Maybe she’d got 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,
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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. 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.

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 eyes…….but still she was just there to say hi. Today, for no apparent

reason, everything is 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 in the air……only to stop, have a calm, puzzled look come over her face
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and quietly ask “Why did you put your hands up? I wasn’t going to hit you.” 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. No matter where I went,

even in college, there was a constant threat, “Everything you have, I can take away. Don’t think

I won’t do it. I’ll go down there.”

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 it was all about me. 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
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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 neighborly feuding led to a law

suit and a $17,000 judgment against them. I believe I was eleven. Tapes of the man screaming

were played in court, and we children were gently ushered out of the room. Who did they think

they were protecting? I was there. Later, the woman would forgive the villainous neighbor who

sued them as she was dying.

Three “Me”s

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 eleven back then. Now I’m

thirty. 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. 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

conversation with someone about something like a daydreaming disorder, and they announce

triumphantly at the end that you should try anti-depressants.

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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 the one never could’ve existed

without the other…….me and my fear. It’s like there are three “Me”s, the one who lives in the

daydream world, the terrified, horrified me, and the other………..who’s completely bare and

exposed without either. 2,499 words