An Understanding of Sorts

Chapter One

This is the story of something that happened to me that I’m only gradually understanding as my therapy sessions progress. All of the events to come in these chapters is so badly interwoven with other memories that even with all the sessions I may never be able to unwind it from my other sets of memories. I certainly can't seperate them out on my own now. The only way I know what is or isn't real is if others tell me in which category a memory goes.


My mother had recently died in a car accident and my father couldn’t bear to stay in the house they’d bought together. So, after the funeral services, my father moved us to his own childhood home in a wooded area of Wisconsin. My grandparents had moved into the city years earlier, not abandoning the tiny farm-like home but instead using it as a vacation house. All of our furniture was sold off; all we took was our clothes.
Now, don’t get the wrong impression; I loved living there. That house was amazing and I was never more peaceful than when I lived there. My free time was spent out in the yard where my father’s old play house was. At 4 years old I was under heavy surveillance by my father, but the playhouse was somewhere he didn’t watch me. He felt that since he had never had a negative experience in it that it was the safest place out of his visual range.
The play house was rigged with electricity and had been furnished with very scaled furniture. There was a small couch, chair, and T.V. in the living room, a small bed and side table in the bedroom, the kitchen had a tiny stove fashioned out of a microwave, a little sink that ran water from the well, and a table with two chairs. There was even a working toilet and sink in the bathroom. Everything was scaled down to the size of a ten year old, so it was almost perfect for a child my age.
The first time anything happened I was in the playhouse. It was early in the morning after breakfast and my father had gone into the study to so I was justified to be on my own. I was in the play living room watching a science DVD on the T.V., pretending that I was actually an adult like I saw in movies who live alone. I always pictured myself as a bachelor when I played in the house.
As I was absorbed in learning about dinosaurs I could feel the air beside me on the tiny couch becoming steadily colder. I assumed it was just a breeze, and I grabbed a blanket off the little bed in the bedroom and went back to watching my show. I was getting sleepy as I lay there, and began to feel like something were watching me. I couldn’t shake the feeling, but I didn’t feel like I really needed to either. Warmed by the blanket, lulled by the show, and comforted by the watchful feeling, it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep.
In my dream I was in a field that was actually close to my house in the waking world. It was golden lit with the sun only minutes from dipping beneath the rim of the world. It was oddly cold, but only when the breeze blew against my skin. Something touched my shoulder, feeling like an extended hand with fingers that were too long. The hand was so warm that I couldn’t help but want to be closer, maybe hug whoever it was for their warmth. I looked over my shoulder to see something that was toweringly tall, but only visible as a form that distorted the scene behind it like looking through a glass sculpture.
I knew I should be afraid the malice it was producing was only barely underwhelming, but at the same time it felt really inviting. Not like how a child molester with a free puppy is inviting, but more like how your bed is inviting after you’ve gone too long without sleep.
In the dream I reached up the opposite hand of the shoulder the thing was holding and tried to touch its body. The thing leaned down to me, its face coming close to mine. In a whisper I could hear it say the words, “Wake up.”
I stared up at the thing, confused, cocking my head to the side trying to figure out what it meant. I realized that I was asleep in the dream at that point, and the thing seemed to know that I’d noticed. It shook it’s head and the other hand came up to my other shoulder.
“You need to wake up from reality,” it whispered, sounding furious, but I knew the anger wasn’t towards me.
“How?” I asked, trying to touch the thing.
“Know what is real; know what is not.”

I woke up on my tiny couch with the strangest feeling I’d ever had as a child. I looked around the room suspiciously, unsure if I was in a real place or if I was imagining it. I felt the furniture with my hands, drank my soda to evaluate the taste, and pinched myself. Everything felt real. There was no way that I wasn’t awake.
The rest of the day I felt really weird. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still watching me, standing nearby and sometimes touching my shoulder.
My father asked me if I was okay when he noticed I was acting a little funny. I told him about the dream and the presence I was feeling. He hugged me, telling me that it may be the ghost of my mother trying to contact me. This stayed on my mind until he was tucking me into bed. Before turning off the light he put his hand on my shoulder as he leaned down and kissed my forehead. After he left I couldn’t sleep for the two notions that were suddenly forefront in my mind.
The first problem: I didn’t remember anything about my mother. I knew that she had died only a month ago, but I couldn’t remember anything about her. Trying as hard as I could, I couldn’t bring even her face to my mind. It was like she had never even existed! When I heard dad go to bed I got up and went to the living room where all of our family photos were hung on the wall.
My mother wasn’t in any of the pictures.
There was the spot where she was supposed to be but she wasn’t there. I could remember distinctly looking at these same pictures this morning where I was looking directly at her face. Now it was like she had been badly photoshopped out. Worse, the more I thought of her, the more hatred I felt for her.
I made my way back to bed with one other thing bothering me: the feeling of dad’s hand on my shoulder felt the same as that of the presence.