Paranoia

“Dismiss whatever insults your soul.” –Walt Whitman

With the way she had been biting the skin on her thumbs, you would’ve thought she was a starving child from Africa, and that was only the second day.  Two days without that comfort, that security blanket, and she had already torn her thumbs to shreds. I guess that’s what happens when one cuts him or herself off cold turkey -- they turn to another form of self-abuse.

Two days ago, she realized it had to be done.  She knew she had to cut the ties and quit on the spot. Yes, she suffered and felt lost and lonely, but at the time she knew that if she could get over the initial shock, the initial withdrawals, her body would slowly begin to become stronger and healthier – just as it had been before she started that shit.

Like any addiction, it started out as a slow process. In the beginning, it made her feel good. She craved that comfort and the high she felt. It was constantly on her mind and she felt a sense of warmth inside of her -- because of it. It gave her temporal happiness whenever she engulfed herself in it and that happiness carried over into her whole being. Her friends and family commented on the joy that radiated on her face, which only caused her to keep going. She thought it was love.

About a year into the relationship, she knew things weren’t right.  He began controlling her in ways unimaginable. It was slow, at first. He would make her call him when she went somewhere. Initially, she saw it as a caring gesture – he was concerned for her wellbeing and was interested in what she was up to. But, when he started getting upset if she went anywhere at all without telling him, she grew concerned.  If she didn’t pick up her phone, he would keep calling until she did, even if it was thirty to fifty times. When she finally would pick up, he would be fuming mad and grill her until she told him every little thing she had been doing.

At first, it was just verbal abuse. Sadly, she had no idea that it was even considered a form of abuse. She thought she loved him, and if this was how he was, that was alright with her. It wasn’t until thirty months into the relationship that the abuse became physical.  He began to hit her -- once a month, then a few times a month, then once a week, and then every day.  Love turned into fear.

One Monday evening, he had been screaming at her because John, her lab partner for Chem 300, called her and asked about the homework due the next day. Automatically, he had assumed she was cheating on him, and he began to beat her. She threatened to call the police. Instantaneously, he picked her up, threw her in the closet, and locked her in there for twelve hours. She broke out when he went to work at the local Hardee’s down the street.

That was the final straw. This boy had become her drug. Four years of addiction to a substance called control. She had lost her sense of being; she had lost her persona of happiness. Immediately, she told her family everything and filed a restraining order in hopes of never going back. What gave her the courage to do so, she never knew. It was an instantaneous burst of strength.

The first night alone was scary. She woke up around 3:00 a.m. drenched in sweat, as she had had a nightmare that he was coming after her. After tossing and turning the rest of the night, she groggily rolled out of bed at 8:00 a.m. , made a pot of coffee, and sat down in the sunroom at the back of the house that faced the woods. A million different thoughts swirled through her head as she sat staring out the window. What is he doing? Where is he? What if he calls me? Will I ever see him again? How do I move on with my life? Why do I feel so alone? Nervousness and paranoia set in, and she began biting her thumbs. A habit she had been trying to break ever since she was a young girl. She had stopped for a while when she first began dating him, but as things worsened, so did the habit. 

Unable to move for the rest of the day, she sat curled up in the old leather love seat that served as a meek form of protection and stared out the window, reassuring herself that things would get better and this was only a withdrawal stage. What she didn’t understand was why she didn’t feel a sense of liberation. She had had the strength to completely cut herself off from someone so controlling she hadn’t known how to survive without him. She had broken her addiction.

She spent the next day in a disconnected, placid state of mind, and still unable to move from the den. While deep in thought, something in the woods caught her attention. It was a dark figure walking stealthily through the trees. Her body began to shake and her mind raced. Images of those brutal nights – the screaming, fighting, pain, and loneliness – flashed through her mind, as if they were all conglomerated into one surreal memory.  She should’ve disregarded the movement and associated it to a hunter as it was the middle of October, which was prime deer hunting season in New Hampshire.  However, because of her lack of clear mental thought, she convinced herself it was him. Her heart began to race, she couldn’t catch her breath, and her whole body began to convulse.

No one was home to save her.

The figure crept closer and closer to her house. Paralyzed, she was unable to move, and was transfixed on the man approaching. Her mind went blank. She had time to run, to hide, to grab any form of a weapon, but instead, she stayed glued to her chair.

The man was twenty feet from the bay window of the den.

As the fear became stronger, her mind entered a state of dissociation. The room around her began to fade, so all she could focus on was the man approaching the house. Mounted on the wall to the right of the bay window was a clear glass case that held her father’s collection of hunting knives. In an instant a strange form of adrenaline released itself, and caused her to leap from the loveseat, run over to the wall, and break open the case. She grabbed the black Bantam Buck knife, and in a fit of screaming rage ran out the door of the den that led to the outside of the house towards the man.

“Jennie! Jennie!,” screamed the man as she came running towards him, holding the knife out in front of her. Her eyes were black and her face as pale as a ghost. “What are you doing!?”

As she approached, the man began to back up. The closer she got, the faster he backed up. Not knowing what was behind him, he tripped over a rock, fell backwards, and lost what little time he had to escape.

Like a predator hunting her game, Jennie pounced on the man, and stabbed him two times in the stomach and one time in the heart.  She watched as he clung to what little life he had left inside him. Relief and a sense of freedom filled Jennie’s body. She had done away with what had held her captive for so long. Her vision cleared, and her heart rate steadied.

“Jennie,” said the man, “I love you.” And he took his last breath.
                                                            ***
Jennie now spends her days at the McLean Hospital for the insane, staring out the window in a disillusioned state, gnawing at her thumbs.

It was her father who she had mistakenly killed in this warped sense of mind.

Her drug is still out there, and God only knows who is addicted now.