Realistic Dolls...They're All Chucky to Me

I almost couldn't even post a picture on this blog post because I'm that terrified of realistic dolls. I most DEFINITELY could not post a picture of the worst doll of all time...Chucky from Child's Play.  Hooooo. Leeeeee. Shiiiiit. That was most definitely the start of my doll fears.

When we moved to Indiana and I was in elementary school horror movies were just becoming THE THING to do at slumber parties. I hated horror movies. But I wanted to fit in so I would enthusiastically join in with movies that would give me nightmares for months. The worst movie I ever say was Child's Play. That scared me and scarred me for life. After watching that movie, all of my realistic looking dolls had to go.

Especially Pamela.

Pamela was a talking doll much like Chucky. I got her for my birthday from my Grandma Gatlin. She was very expensive at the time, and as a child who grew up in a thrift store hippie family, was totally out of character for me to own something so extravagant. So when I became terrified of her I also had a tremendous amount of guilt. How could I get rid of a doll that I had wanted SO bad and was SO not worthy of having? I was in a pickle. At first I just tried hiding her in my closet at night time, because that's obviously when dolls come alive and kill you. But then I realized if Pamela was coming to life then she would be able to open my closet door and murder me anyway. So then Pamela had to go farther away.

Our house in Indiana had a storage attic. You couldn't walk around up there or anything, but it did have a little attic ladder that pulled down so you could climb up there and store things.

One day when I was home alone I climbed up there and stuffed Pamela in a box. I scurried down and put the ladder and hatch back up. I felt immensely better and not as guilty as I would have felt if I would have given her away.

Over the next few days I started worrying that putting her in the attic would make her really mad and therefore more murderous. I would lay in bed listening for the sounds of a doll walking around in the attic planning my murder. I was worried she would figure out how to open the attic ladder and come through the garage and THEN kill me. But the attic door was really heavy and strong. It was hard for me to pull it down and I was much bigger than Pamela.

At one point the ladder broke and we had to use a regular ladder to access the attic. I was so freaking happy. I figured if she somehow could open the heavy ass door she might be injured from the 15 foot fall onto the concrete floor of the garage and definitely not be able to come and kill me. I could mostly stop worrying about her. Mostly. Weeks and months would go by and I wouldn't think about her. But every once in a while I'd panic and think "What if she's REALLY PISSED NOW? She's been up there for years stewing in her anger. She is totally going to develop superhuman rage and find a way to come murder me."

Years ago I finally got the courage to get rid of her. Donated her to Goodwill so she can terrorize someone else. When I still lived in Indiana I would occasionally worry that she would find me and kill me. Now that I live in California I know I'm too far away and she'd never find me. Obviously.

But realistic dolls still scare me. There are none in my house. They few collectible ones I have are packed away in a special box in my garage labeled "Dolls" and if I never look at them then they won't know I put them there and they won't develop murderous plots to kill me. Obviously.

Sharp Memories

LOL. I was looking for a picture about how scary knives are in the kitchen...but I was being very careful not to google search any terms that would bring up graphic pictures that would scare the bejesus out of me. This was one of the first ones that popped up and it's actually perfect. Whew.

Knives terrify me. Not just big, scary, hunting knives. But even little weenie kitchen knives. I don't know where my knife obsession started. I think I've been scared of knives as long as I can remember.

My family tells stories. We are a family of story tellers. Sometimes I remember the story vividly because I was there, but sometimes I remember the story vividly because I've heard it so many times that it feels like I was there. Sometimes I can't remember if I was there or not, but I've heard the story so many times it doesn't really matter.

My Grandma Gatlin was a complicated lady. But one thing for sure was that she was a clumsy, blundering oaf with a wicked sense of humor (when she wasn't being flat out wicked). Some of my favorite ridiculous stories are of her in her essence, just being her. One of those stories involves knives. I wasn't there; I think it happened before I was born. But as the story goes, she got a new set of knives. She was excited and bragging about them (as she was wont to do). She held up the box to show them off and she happened to be holding the box upside down and the knives came tumbling out and into her feet. Ouch. But also? Sorta hilarious. Maybe that's where my fear of knives started, but I'm not sure.

I remember being younger and trying to help cook. The knives always scared me. I'd have visions of me slicing off my fingers on accident. I still have visions of doing that. I am a lot like my Grandma Gatlin (hopefully nicer). I could never be one of those chefs that chop things a thousand miles a minute. I shudder just thinking about it.

When I see those minimalist knife strips in people's kitchens I purposely go NOWHERE near them. I'm always afraid they'll fall off and slice my feet off. Dear god I would never have one of those in my kitchen. Nightmare.

My first partner was an alcoholic. I've dated several alcoholics. Alcoholism runs through my mom's family like blood runs through everyone else's. It was my first serious adult relationship. It was also my first out lesbian relationship. She was and is a good person; we are still in contact. She was also a crazy alcoholic. I was with her for three years but had been breaking up with her continually for the last two. I'd break up with her and kick her out. She'd beg for me to take her back. She'd wear me down because I was too busy, too crazy, too emotionally underdeveloped to keep saying no. Things continued to get worse and worse. I continued to get meaner and meaner. I didn't know how else to convince her to stay away. We would scream horrible things at each other when she was drunk and me at her while she was hungover. She was habitually losing or quitting her job and I was the one who managed our finances.




One night she had plans with her asshole friends. I hated her friends and they hated me. Our relationship was truly dysfunctional. I gave her $20 for the night and a new pack of cigarettes (she was also a smoker). I was studying for finals (I was in my MPH program at the time). She came home that night drunk and belligerent. She came into the office where I was studying and demanded I give her money so she could go buy more cigarettes. I said no way. How she had smoked 20 cigarettes and spent $20 in 4 hours was not my business. She'd have to wait until tomorrow. She was pissed. She kept trying to argue with me. I told her to shut up and leave me alone because I was busy. This went on for several minutes. I was getting more and more angry that she would not shut up and just go pass out in bed. She came over to where I was sitting and drunkenly tried to grab my book that I was studying from. She missed and clumsily punched me in the jaw. It didn't really hurt, but in my anger and frustration and years of being worn down, I snapped. I jumped up and pinned her against the wall and told her she better never lay a hand on me. She lost it. She was kicking me in the shins and shrieking. I let her go. She walked into the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone and turned and hurled it at me in the doorway. The dogs scattered. I told her to calm the fuck down. She was absolutely hysterical at this point. Screaming and crying and threatening. She walked over to the sink and leaned against it. Then she started grabbing knives from the knife block and hurling them at me like she was a ninja or something. Luckily she was so very very drunk. I strode across the room dodging her knives and grabbed her by the waistband of her jeans and dragged her to the front door. I opened it, threw her on the porch, closed and locked the door. She stood outside screaming that she was going to call the police and press charges.

I called first.

They came and found her hiding in the bushes at the neighbors house with a steak knife. They arrested her and took her to jail. This was not the first time I had called the cops or the first time she had been taken away. But it was the first time they took her to jail. Previously they had taken her to the local public hospital and locked her in the psych ward until she sobered up. And because she didn't have insurance they would let her out the next day and tell her to follow up with a therapist for treatment. She never did. And we'd start the cycle back over. But this time she went to jail. I didn't actually want her to go to jail. I wanted her to move out and stay out. I wanted her to go to rehab. But mostly I just wanted her out of my life. I bailed her out the next day on the promise that we were absolutely and positively done this time. I had a temporary restraining order against her mandated by the judge until her hearing. A month later, she was still out of my life and walked into court and I dropped all charges. The DA's office tried to bully me into not dropping them. But I knew jail wasn't going to do her any good. She needed rehab and it wasn't going to happen there. She went to rehab many times after that, and then was arrested many years later and spent some time in jail. She got sober for good then. Maybe I should have pressed charges and she would have gotten sober earlier. Or maybe she wasn't ready and it wouldn't have mattered. She's sober now. And her life is good. She's good person.

The knife block stayed. Her dogs stayed. I had 4 dogs and me in the house. I was spiraling down into the worst period of my OCD in my life. I started worrying that I might lose my mind. I might lose my mind and have a psychotic break with reality and might stab all the dogs to death. Every time I walked by the knife block I worried I was nanoseconds away from losing my grip and I would slaughter all my dogs. I had vivid visions of the blood bath. It was terrifying. This was before I knew anything about violent, harming obsessions and scary intrusive thoughts. I just thought I was fucking nuts and a latent homicidal maniac. I loved my dogs more than anything in the whole world. I would never kill them. But I was worried I would. I was so worried that I ending up hiding the knife block in a far back cabinet. I knew they were there, but if I didn't see them every time I walked by the kitchen it felt better. I convinced myself that if I went nuts I probably wouldn't remember where the knives were. When my roommate moved in I got rid of the knife block and got a different one. I was more convinced that I wouldn't go on a murderous snap now that I had a roommate. Why? I don't know. I suppose I thought he'd notice if I started acting like a psycho losing grip on reality. I stopped thinking about killing my dogs. My brain moved on to different obsessions.


But I'm still scared of knives.

The Flower Bomb

When my girlfriend and I were first dating, she wasn't quite aware of the depths of my OCD and neuroses. It's not something you really want to lay on someone right away or they'll just be overwhelmed by the depths of your cray and won't give you a chance to discover some of the beautiful things just behind the obsessions and compulsions.

One day I came home from work and found flowers on my door. Awww, sweet. Except I have OCD. So sweet was also mixed with terror. See, in my rational brain I knew they were probably from Andrea. But in my OCD depths of anxiety I thought...

There's no note on them. Maybe they aren't from her. Maybe they're from a murderer and they're going to kill me. 

OMFG. Why are they WRAPPED AROUND THE DOOR HANDLE?!?! Clearly, I will have to take them off the door handle to get inside. That's probably the aforementioned murderer's plan! There's probably a BOMB in them. OMG. I'm going to die from a flower bomb. This murderer is very tricky. Good thing I'm smart and saw quickly through their plan.

And then I had to get a grip.

Well, sort of.

I said to myself, "Self, these are probably not a flower bomb. They could be, and if you blow up when you open the door a) that will suck and b) at least your fears will have been right for once. So, let's do this. 1...2...3..."

Turns out, they weren't a flower bomb. Just regular flowers.

After I let out a huge sigh of relief and went inside I texted Andrea to ask if the flowers were from her (still not entirely sure since there was no note) and to thank her if they were.

After a short discussion about the flowers and how she didn't have paper or a pen in her car when she dropped them off, hence no note, but that she adored me and wanted me know...I said, "Wanna hear a funny story?"

She didn't think the story was so funny.

She was like "WHY IN THE HELL WOULD YOU THINK IT WAS A FLOWER BOMB?!?! WHY CAN'T I DO NORMAL ROMANTIC THINGS  FOR YOU WITHOUT WORRYING ABOUT YOU TOTALLY SPAZZING OUT?!?!"

Ok, maybe it wasn't in all caps, but it felt like it. The old feelings of shame and embarrassment crept in and once again I was feeling crappy about being a wacko with an OCD brain.

So then I had to tell her about the little girl who got her hand blown off at Kmart by a pipe bomb that someone had planted as a "joke." This happened in Indianapolis the year after we moved there from Santa Cruz. The move from SC to Indiana was quite traumatic for me (which I didn't realize until recently after yearssss of therapy -- but more on that later in another post). For a kid with undiagnosed, untreated OCD, shit like this stays seared in our brains FOREVER. So 16 years later my brain instantly goes to "What if these flowers are a bomb that are going to blow me up?"

This was Andrea's first BIG introduction to coping with a partner who has OCD. She knew it affected me before this, but after years of living with OCD I had gotten pretty good at hiding or not sharing most of the ways in which it affected me. However, with this new relationship, unlike those in the past, I decided she needed to know the "real" me before we got too serious. Because shit was only gonna get weirder from here. When I am not in close proximity with people copious hours a day, my OCD can go mostly unnoticed. People think I'm quirky, but rarely do they guess at the storm brewing in my head. But once I spend hours and days with you, it becomes a lot harder to hide and the OCD comes seeping out the cracks in my facade.

The flower bomb incident was a good introduction to my OCD. We had a long talk about it. Andrea had time to reflect and process it and decided that although my OCD may sometimes tarnish "romantic moments," in the end, my quirkiness is something that adds MORE to me than it takes away. She has learned most of my triggers and avoids them when and if she can (not always possible), and is infinitely patient when new ones emerge from the depths. I wish I could list all the ways in which OCD affects my life so there would be no more surprises, but there is SO MUCH that I often forget small but important events until something happens to rush them to the forefront. Or sometimes something new crops up that uncovers some trauma I've forgotten. Life isn't always smooth and easy for me, and that means it's not always smooth and easy for my partner. But Andrea continues to tell me that I am worth it and that OCD makes our life exciting and that she's dedicated to sticking by me through it all. I can only hope that she always feels that way. But then again, that's mostly just my OCD brain that worries and doubts her. And she understands that and hopes that one day I won't have as many worries, but is prepared for a lifetime of worries that may or may not be rational. Thank god for her. At least one of us has our shit together.

And she now knows to put a note on any surprises she leaves me. And that she probably shouldn't attach anything that could be a bomb (which is pretty much anything) directly to a door handle.

And now we can laugh about that one time she tried to kill me with a flower bomb.

365: Miss Organization

A good friend wrote me an email today and called me "Ms. Organization" which I thought was funny and I was sitting here amongst my notes related to the bear incident I thought about how I best manage stress, particularly related to things I have little control over, and it really is about me being methodical and organizing the shit out of anything I CAN control that makes me feel better. My sliding glass door measurements might not stop a bear from coming in but dammit they make me feel a little braver!

Mountain Lion House

We finally made it! We got settled into our little canyon home this past week. It was a little rough getting out here, but totally worth it. We love our new place! 

Well except for the mountain lions (and bears a little bit too). And really, it's only me who's scared about the wildlife. Ange and the dogs are being all bad ass about it. I'm pretty chill during the day, but once the sun starts to drop I turn into a big chicken. 

I can't help it. I can be told all sorts of reassuring things, but I can't get over my fear of mountain lions attacking me or Ange or the dogs. I'm working on it, I really am! Hopefully with time it will get better. 

In the meantime I've devised a system that helps me to feel safer. Ange thinks it is ridiculous, but she isn't the one who is scared so poop on her. 

How to feel empowered and safe from mountain lion and bear attacks, also known as "The System"

1. Windows and doors must be opened to mountain lion proof sizes. Approximately 12 inches. We leave the windows and doors open in the evening. There are screens in them. When we go to sleep we leave only windows open. They can't be open wide enough that a mountain lion could tear through the screen and come in. And duh, I know they aren't stopped by screens, hence the 12 inch window. They aren't going to tear through a screen, slide the window up and then come attack us. They don't have compound thoughts. If they can't bust through they get confused and leave.

2. All perimeter lights must be turned on at dusk.

3. All doors must be locked at night while sleeping. (This also keeps away bears).

4. When proceeding to bed, there must be a path of lights from wherever I am until I get into the bedroom. E.g. if I need to go to the back of the house, then I turn on lights from the bedroom to the destination, and then as I come back I turn each one off as I go.

5. No trash outdoors. Especially composting. Attracts wildlife.

6. When taking the dogs outside anytime from dusk to dawn you must make a lot of noise. Talking loudly usually suffices, though I like to throw in some mountain lion humor to take the edge off, e.g. "Oh mountain lions! Get the hell out of here, dogs are coming out to pee!" 

We try our best to take the dogs out right before the sun goes down for a nice long potty & play break. That way, we only have to let them out for a quick potty break right before bed, therefore reducing the amount of time spent in prime mountain lion hunting time. 

Careful! Mountain lion is watching you!

Lions and Tigers and...Monsters? Oh My!

The other night we got into a discussion about scary movies and how none of us were all that fond of them but some of the gentleman were declaring that even though they did not prefer them there was still nothing to be scared about because they were just movies. Yeah...right. Some of us, with very over-active imaginations can get past that fact and become terrified with even a mention of a scary boogey man type movie. Making this conversation even worse is the fact that I have to walk to my room in the guest house across a very dark, albeit very short, walk across the lawn separating the two houses. My 12 year old bff O was very much in agreement with me as he has to walk even farther to get to his living accommodations in the main house (Mama's house). M looked at us and said "You are scared even though you live in a walled compound that is guarded by gatemen AND military police?" Uh, clearly he did not realize that scary monsters do not care about gates, gatemen or police with big guns. Luckily O was still on my side. But to add to the terror he also said that the dogs that they release every night at midnight are also very mean. If you run from them apparently they will chase you, bite you and kill you. Or something very scary. Grrrrreat. One more thing to be terrified of when walking home. Oh, and you think I'm being dramatic I'm sure...take a look:

My walk during the day:

My walk at night:

Update: I wrote this last week but with internet issues I couldn't upload the pictures until now. Over the weekend a repair man came and fixed many of the lights around the compound. So now my walk is much brighter and not as scary. But as we know...most monsters don't really care about light anyway.