The thin line between fear and crazy, delusional paranoia

Yeah, I may have crossed that line recently. 

I pride myself on being a confident, independent woman.  I don’t expect doors to be held open for me, I prefer to carry my own bags and never, ever call me “Sweetie.”  I’ll admit, I engage in traditional gender roles in some ways but I also work to embrace people as people, not as stereotyped sexes and I hope for the same in response. 

Granted, this was all before I went crazy.  Big crazy.  Crazy with a capital K.

BH has been gallivanting around researching his dissertation in sunny, warm, tropical Central America for the past several weeks while I slave away continue with my chosen profession which does not allow for routine travel to warmer climes.  I love being home alone.  No really, I do.  If BH has an engagement for the evening that doesn’t include me, I relish in the opportunity to watch trashy television, eat pizza and drink beer.  And even if he’s gone for a couple of days, I can celebrate leaving my make-up bag on the bathroom counter, strewing my clothes across the floor, and not having to share the computer. 

But more than a day or two and the voices in my head start to get a little louder.

Moving to our new home two years ago presented more bumps in the night which would cause my heart to race and my breath to catch.  Someone recently commented, “Well, yeah, in your neighborhood I’d be afraid too.”  I don’t think it’s the neighborhood.  In fact, I feel safer where we live now than in our prior location, a much trendier, but more crime-ridden, part of town.

I think the difference is that there are now three floors for rapists and murders to hide on, including a dark basement with shadowy corners and a narrow staircase, a perfect set-up for tripping and falling as I race up it in high heels while trying to escape the psychopath I stumble upon while investigating some mysterious sound.  I should probably carry a flashlight as well, which I can drop, meaning that I’ll be surrounded by inky darkness since the power seems to have gone out as well.  Do you think I’ve been influenced by the media?  I don’t.

My paranoia started small.  I moved my cell phone into the bedroom at night and locked the door to the room, thinking that any intruder would have to at least pick the lock to get in, and in the meantime I could dial 911.  Then I started propping a chair against the door, reasoning that the ne’er do well might be able to soundlessly pick the lock and thus I wouldn’t be able to call 911 before they’d be in the room.  This way they’d have to pick the lock and somehow push the chair out of the way and surely by then I’d have enough time to alert the authorities.

But somehow that just didn’t cut it and I decided to start sleeping in the office, since that has an exit to the deck, leaving me with an easy escape route.  This door was also locked but instead of propping up a chair, I started barricading the door with a bookshelf. 

Yeah, that’s probably when I crossed over to crazy.  

Then the kicker came.  I wandered into the bedroom, trying to find the origin of a mysterious sound (but first I kicked off my heels and made sure the power was on–I may be shaped by the media but I also learn from it).  Lo and behold, I found a radio on.  A radio that wasn’t on the day before.  A radio that requires one to push a lever to the right in order to turn it on.  A radio that’s hardly ever used in our household. I did what any self-respecting, independent, confident woman would do. 

I called a man. 

And the very nice man was at my doorstep in ten minutes flat, complete with softball bat in hand.  A thorough inspection of the house revealed no intruders but also no explanation for why the radio was on. 

The very nice man left his softball bat with me, making sure I knew to “choke up a bit” if I was attempting to club someone but felt like I wasn’t getting enough force.  And the softball bat hasn’t left my side since.  At least not when I’m at home.My nightly ritual goes as follows: 

1. Stand at the top of the basement stairs and listen for indications of anyone hiding out in those shadowy corners
2. Inspect the entire upstairs including all closets and under all beds
3. Lock office door
4. Barricade office door
5. Check door to deck
6. Barricade door to deck (in case someone comes in that way.  If two people attacked at once, one from the hallway to the rest of the house and one from the deck, I’d just be screwed)
7. Assure that cell phone is within reach
8. Lie down next to old Big Bat, which I’ve carried around throughout the evening, meaning that Big Bat was lugged to the basement along with a load of laundry, watched me make dinner and then kept me company on the couch while we watched the Oscars

I woke up at 2:00 AM the other night and had to pee like a mo-fo.  I considered my options:   A) Unbarricade door to rest of house and go pee with Big Bat tagging along.  Clearly the most dangerous, as any threats are most likely to come through the house.  B)  Unbarricade the door to the deck and pee off the deck.  Probably the most embarrassing option, as I’ll either be caught in the act by an insomnic neighbor or I’ll develop ass frost-bite.  3)  Pee in the trashcan.  Not an attractive option, because between the door barricading and the peeing in non-traditional receptacles I’m headed way too close to the path of Howard Hughes, as depicted in The Aviator.  4)  Hold it.

I held it.

But between you and me, if BH wasn’t coming home tonight, I’d probably bring an empty bucket in the room with me tonight and set it up next to the bed.