Building a Mystery

(Play song by Sarah McLachlan)

I always figured my wife was crazy. As a young man, I was cautioned about the wiles of a woman, their tendencies to gossip and play tricks. When she and I first started dating she’d over analyze some small, seemingly unimportant thing, like something I said in passing. She searches for meaning in the slightest shift of my eyes, the subconscious expressions of my face, the barely audible changes in my tone of voice. One look of mine can somehow be interpreted in a variety of ways.

We joke that I'm a simple creature. I enjoy eating and playing computer games, sex, offensive jokes and sleep. If it poses no immediate threat, than I don't worry about it. So, when she makes claims (generally inaccurate) about what I'm thinking or hiding from her, I wonder if she's crazy. Maybe she can't help but think about everything, but she creates such convoluted fiction based on her notions of psychological connections. Her presumptions lead into a spiral of doubt, to misinterpretation, anxiety, and unnecessary problems. It certainly kept our relationship interesting. I just let her be her analytical self; try to reassure her that I really was just thinking of ice cream just then and that there isn't anything wrong and yes I'm okay. We were such different people, but I loved her.

She'd tried to explain her childhood to me many times. She lived in an unstable environment where homeless friends, recovering addicts, abused women and broken families shared a house with her; a place where desperate relatives and friends of friends were welcome. Her parents were too kind. She spoke of living in seedy neighborhoods where meth houses and registered sex offenders haunted every corner, where her parents refused to let her walk home alone, where those same parents made it a nightmare to live. Trapped inside with their incessant arguing. She mostly spoke of her childhood sweetheart and his family and how much harder they had it in comparison to her life. She affirms that she loves her family but I knew she was bitter about upbringing. I just let her talk. It helped her I think, to just talk.

At some point among her stories she mentioned she had an imaginary friend named Darian. I knew it wasn't uncommon to have a vivid imagination when you're young, so I gave little thought to this. As a child, she used him as a way to hide from the chaos; a means of comfort and guidance. Darian moonlighted as a number of fantastical characters in her role-playing games. She relied on her imagination for escape and processing, so I accepted the idea of her imaginary friend. I figured with such a harsh past he was necessary to her survival.

But as our years together grew, she blossoming into womanhood, I became confused with her notion of 'imaginary'. I'd catch her sobbing in conversations with the wall, or huddled against a mass of blankets and pillows meant to resemble a person. I soon realized this friend was still around. Darian became more than her childhood coping mechanism, he evolved into the ex-boyfriend that seemed to compete with me. She would use him as a way to encourage some sort of foreplay, a way to lure me into jealousy. She enjoyed me defending our relationship and being possessive of her once in a while. I considered perhaps Darian was her aphrodisiac, her device to induce a desired response from me. A multipurpose imaginary friend, how clever.

Some mysteries about this friend concerned me. She'd wake up so many mornings and complain of itching on her wrist or around her neck. Whenever I checked, I'd find two small puncture holes in her skin. She would shrug it off by saying “I guess Darian was hungry” as though he had visited her in the night and fed off her. It was common knowledge to me then that young girls often fantasized about dangerous guys, and I was well aware of the popularity of vampire romance novels. The first few times I thought for sure they were just bug bites and that her vivid imagination associated them to her involved fantasy. She probably didn’t really believe her claims. Despite my supposed conviction, I found myself searching the darkness of our room at night, believing I might catch him in the act.

Because she's mentioned a genetic vulnerability to mental disorders and a history of self-inflicted wounds, I was concerned about these reoccurring bites. I've seen films about psychological disorders, but those were crafted to be dramatically horrific. Should I be wary of this presence? Does she actually believe he exists and affects her waking life? Are these symptoms of some condition I should mention to a professional? Do traumatized children typically carry their imaginary friends into adulthood? Does she know she sometimes sounds crazy?

-James “Sandman”

Author‘s Comment: I promise this is not just another vampire novel. But even if it was, ever wondered why so many woman are infatuated with them? I personally am not a Twilight fan, but whenever some guy ridicules its popularity, my response is “I will pay you to go see it in theatre, any female targeted vampire movie for that matter. Watch the reactions of the women in the audience, ask them afterward why they liked it, what was so sexy about this seemingly average actor/character. What is it about vampires and animorphs that excites some women? Consider it an assignment to improve your own barren sex life.” However, I agree there are better quality stories in the genre girrrls. Again, this is not the focus of this blog, I am not that lame.