An old flatmate named paranoia

The one thing I really wanted to leave behind when I left home was my paranoia. My paranoia that someone is going to walk in on me, my paranoia that one of my parents is going to come home. This sounds as if they regularly beat me up or something, but that´s not the case. It isn´t the point, either. It´s just that for a few, glorious days I felt unobserved.

Then I learned that my father still has one of the keys and intends to keep it, and I cannot force him to give it to me because technically the place is his.

I´m in a worse position than before. While I was still living at home, at least I could lock the door to my room. Now I have no protection other than my father´s assurance that of course he will respect my privacy. In other words: My paranoia belatedly moved in with me again.

I´m listening again.

I´m feeling uncomfortable turning up the music again.

I´m feeling uncomfortable having sex. I suddenly look over my shoulder to see if someone´s standing in the door, and there are images in my head of my father coming in and me throwing at him whatever I have not out of fear but out of pure homicidal anger. Way to get over your hang-ups, leave alone enjoy yourself.

What I feel more than anything else, astonishingly, is shame. Shame that I let this happen to me. That I didn´t make sure I would have all the keys before I put so much energy and also emotion into this place. Well, I even did, I asked if I would get all the keys, and I got some reassuring babbling and I will never be able to prove, not even to myself, that I was told I would get all the keys. I should have set up a contract, really. I feel like an idiot.

I used to have these voices in my head (they´re still lingering in the background, but I´ve quieted them a bit) who could listen to all my thoughts and comment on them, and they forced me to debate with them, or they promised to grant me my wishes, but I knew they would twist it around in a way that I wouldn´t like, so I had to be ultra-precise with everything I thought and wanted, and in the end I started to think: “No, don´t give me anything, I don´t want anything!”, just to be on the safe side. If some fairy came to me and said she´s going to grant me three wishes, I´d probably decline. While all this sounds pretty spooky, the point is that these voices describe very well the communication between me and my parents.

I probably won´t get rid of these voices now. They´ve moved in with me, now that I know what I do and created here could be seen through my parents´ eyes any time. My parents have followed me into this place. I probably won´t get rid of my checking behaviors, either. All too often when I was alone at home I walked through all the rooms to make sure I was really alone, and then I looked behind the doors to make sure they really weren´t standing there. They´ll move to another city, so technically I´ll be safe once they´re gone, but will I believe it? Won´t I be trying to check whether they´re really there all the time? Will I ever feel safe in here?

Moving was the compact experience of my parents´ craziness. Given their propensity towards ignoring agreements I´m not surprised anymore at my information hoarding. I keep each shred of paper, I write down what I do every day, I believe every detail might be important.

It hurts me that this place has been ruined for me, because I was starting to love it. I felt like I had a little garded which I could tend. The seeds are planted, everything is waiting for me, but I already know I will have to abandon it soon. I actually feel guilty. I shouldn´t have planted those seeds here. I should have known better.

Writing about this doesn´t help. It´s not an internal conflict. How´s writing going to solve it? An ax would. At least temporarily. I guess jail sucks, too. Zero privacy, and people poke around in your inner life and dissect your motives. I can have the same thing now, but with better food.

I believe I´m making progress, though. My first impulse is no longer suicide, but homicide. Pardon the embitterment.

 

 

 

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One Response to “An old flatmate named paranoia”

  1. Wow. Your writing is very inspiring. You have a command of voice that speaks clearly to your audience. I can feel the paranoia through that technique. Please visit my blog and follow it if you like it! Thanks!

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