"I'm Not Crazy"

XXXI.

What if I was not a liar?

In that world, maybe reality was actually the more damning possibility. Maybe I didn't lie, but I instead persevered. Maybe in place of lying, what I did was actually surviving. What if my brain really did make up an alternate reality in order to protect me? What if the manipulation was actually just coping? What if I was not crazy?

I was eleven years old. I was eleven, and I was scared because somebody was hurting me. I was just a child. I was innocent. I didn't have any power. I didn't have adults who were going to protect me. I still slept with stuffed animals and nightlights, and I required porch lights to be turned on because I believed in monsters outside my window. I played with baby dolls. I was behind in school. I couldn't read books without pictures yet. I could not write in cursive. I was still apprehensive about foods I did not recognize.

I sometimes needed help tying my shoes, and so I can deduce that it was not probable for me to possess the cognitive ability to manipulate someone else.

If I operated under the reality of those conditions, what would I say? What would I do? What would I demand for myself? If I knew that the eleven year old who was being hurt could not truly commit a crime, then what happened instead?

How likely was it that Bird was correct? Had the 11 year old stood up and simply slain a monster? Was my therapist right? Was I a victim of a heinous string of repeated crimes, instead of one of the perpetrators?

If I believed any of them, what would I do next? What would someone that believed that do? How would I proceed in trying to get what I deserved?

A week passed. I went through the motions and I got settled in for my newest term of school. My professor Dr. Renault welcomed me back to her class. She said she was glad to see that I was feeling better. In the same breath, Dr. H had heralded me as his most favorite ever new hire. Apparently I learned quickly. I used those things to remind myself that stability existed. I was in those positions because I had put myself there. I'd worked for things. I was an adult living in a reality of my own crafting.

And so it was time for a confrontation that was becoming long overdue. People who persevered and were not crazy liars sometimes deserved to confront their aggressors. I'd put it off.

The walk to the apartment in Inglewood shared by Bryn, Basil and Riley was familiar. I hummed on my way there to stay centered. It was an even tuneless hum that created a buzzing in my chest. I could feel it when I placed my palm over my sternum. I counted the cracks in the sidewalk and contemplated the infrastructure of Inglewood in comparison to more affluent neighborhoods in LA.

Their porch was the same as I remembered it. The flowered wreath on the door had been refreshed with early spring flowers instead of the Yule time themed ones that Basil had put up around the holidays. The other plants looked freshly clipped and tended. Someone had seemingly swept. The windows looked as though they'd been shined.

I told myself not to hesitate and then knocked.

Bryn was the one to answer. I hadn't known who to expect, but it hadn't been her. She typically worked all day and all night. Her schedule was unpredictable and she put in a lot of hours because she was passionate. I never really saw her unless she had the days scheduled off. I definitely hadn't seen her since she'd driven me home on Christmas.

She was in her scrubs, which was typical. I couldn't tell if she was about to leave or just returning from the hospital. I could tell that she looked confused, with knit eyebrows and quizzical eyes. I could understand that. Even if Riley hadn't been forthcoming, Basil had obviously known of an altercation between the two of us. Bryn would be privy to it too, even without details. Riley came from a household that tried to listen to him and his qualms even when he was attempting to keep things closed. I'd seen it plenty.