As a kid, I was terrified to come home to an empty house after school. Every day I worried there would be a robber there, who would appear and kill me if I set foot in the kitchen or back hall. I was too scared to use the bathroom and ended up with a bladder infection at one point. We moved into a new house when I was around 12, but I think the fear had mostly cleared up by then anyway, to be replaced with depression and migraines. Yay adolescence. That depressive episode lasted nearly three years. I started having occasional brief fantasies of people (myself, family, friends, strangers) dying in horrible ways- like a little movie playing in front of my open eyes. Not fun. I asked one friend about it, and her response ensured I never asked anyone again. Those lasted until I was about 20. Depressive episodes continued. I’ve moved into a new phase now, it seems like. I keep thinking people are taking my things. I know they aren’t. I know I’m failing to put them away properly, or losing them, or something. But my first, initial thought on finding them missing is “…who took it?” It’s scary, and I want desperately to learn to stop thinking this way. Mental illness (legit court-ordered-loonybin crazy) runs in my mom’s family, and I’m worried that my dad’s totally sane family won’t be enough to override that legacy. I’d rather die than put any potential kids through what my mom’s going through with my grandmother.
