Paranoia

What I fear most in this world is for others to find out that the scared little girl I once was, still resides inside me. Whenever I’m confronted with an uncomfortable situation, she pulls at my skin. It clings to my bones so tightly that I feel if I move too suddenly, my bones will tear right through my flesh, exposing the skeletal structures to the outside world. When the little girl inside me senses danger, it escalates to clawing and scratching. Attempts to escape this body she’s bound to. When my breathing becomes shallow, it’s because she’s balling her fists, squeezing my lungs between her hands. She does this when she wants me to enter a state of unconsciousness. So that she may avoid witnessing whatever may happen through the eyes we share.  

Maladaptive daydreaming is a condition defined by excessive and immersive daydreaming. It usually involves vivid and elaborate fantasies that interfere with a person’s daily life and functioning. What I experience can only be described as maladaptive nightmares, although the time of day rarely contributes to their occurrence. My mind and body are hijacked through this psychological possession frequently. I could be sitting in a drive-thru when all the possibilities, however unlikely, flash before me. Some nights I lay in bed with visuals of a giant prying my ribs apart, as if he’s about to consume the flesh off of the bone. A sensation fueled by my anxious state and more specifically activated by nociceptors; sensory receptors that respond to stimuli, acting as predictors of harm. Somewhere between my spine and brain these messengers of pain get confused, mistaking a light brush of fabric against my skin with crushing weight. I can’t even allow the sheets to touch my body without it triggering an overwhelming sense of discomfort.  

Late July I bought a new fridge. In the confirmation text for the order, there’s a request to disconnect and empty the old appliance for removal and installation process. I’m provided with a tracking link that opens up to a page. It shows that my fridge is on board for delivery with an estimate time of arrival. I can feel my anxiety perking up, and with it my paranoia seeps in. My head begins to fill with images of the delivery man entering my home and assaulting me. Scenarios of being overpowered and all the ways in which I could be violated emerge. My mind races to think of ways I can protect myself. I left my pepper spray in a hidden compartment of my last car when I handed the keys over to a dealership – one avenue that’s now void. Knives seem like an overboard “just in case” measure. Extreme and irrational, I know but it’s the way I’ve been programmed. Growing up, whenever I was noticeably agitated, my mother would tell me to “think of the worst thing that could happen.” So, that’s exactly what I started doing. This in combination with all my traumatic encounters, gave birth to my hypervigilant nature.  

Mice and other rodents are naturally cautious and typically look for exits upon entering a new environment. A primal skill that is critical in their survival. In past events of threat, I wish I had been similarly equipped. In contrast to a small critter with an escape plan, I was more like a dear in a headlight. I froze until it was too late to act, even complying to prevent the potential of extensive harm. My over trusting nature outweighed my discernment, and for that, a price was paid.  

I’m hoping the presence of my dog’s will act as a deterrent for any overstay of welcome. They have a combined weight of less than 10kg’s, but given their breed, they have a reputation of being noisy and aggressive.  

My current state of appearance should also impede any thoughts shrouded in perversion. My body does not adapt well to Australian winters. The cold air strips my pores of natural oils, stimulating my body to produce more, causing an effect of overcompensation. My hair becomes oily, whilst my skin blooms with acne. I’m prone to cracked lips and it doesn’t matter how cold it is as night, if I’m stressed, I sweat in my sleep. The result is a whole-body stench caused by an increase in the release of two hormones; adrenaline and cortisol. I avoid showering and reluctantly allow my lips to dry out, remaining clothed in an oversized hoodie and sweat pants that hide my figure. Attempts to make myself as physically unappealing as possible to the delivery driver.  

I look back on the era in which I bear the likeness of an alien. Even then I was hit on by delivery drivers. I had shaved my eyebrows off to create a larger canvas to drop eyeshadow on to. A futile act considering my hooded eyelids. The man responsible for dropping food to my doorstep went the extra mile. He held my food hostage until after he shoot his shot. He happened to be of the same country of origin as the cuisine. For him this was his opportunity to drop a cheesy line in which he asked if I am interested in members of his race. I didn’t answer. I maintained a neutral face, holding my hand out for him to pass me the food. An uncomfortable interaction, but I’ve endured worse.  

A year or so later I was assaulted by a delivery driver. After handing my food over to me, he groped me. He reached his hand out, pushing the back of it against one of my breasts. A motion in which lifted the fat clump on my chest up. He pulled his hand back to watch my breast descend to its natural position. I stood there in a state of shock, unable to move. He tried to kiss me and push his body onto mine. I closed the door on him with food in hand and immediately submitted a complaint through the app of the company he worked for. There was almost an immediate response, and I was reached out to via a phone call. To provide reassurance, the man on the phone told me that the delivery driver would never be paired with my orders again. Within this conversation there was no mention of a potential termination or suspension upon finalising an internal investigation. 

At the time of this incident, I had recently broken up with my boyfriend who was living with me. He wasn’t present but once he found out, his response was simply “what the hell.” A man who claimed to love me, a man who wanted to marry me, a man who made intentions clear that he wanted to work things out was also a man who never asked if I was okay. After this I started fantasising about a procedure that would eliminate this kind of contact from men. I thought that if I was flat-chested, I’d never be groped again. A complete mastectomy seemed like a reasonable answer. I didn’t pursue this option, and I’m glad I didn’t, but sometimes I do wonder what my life would look like had I.  

When the sun has set and I have a side quest to complete that involves me leaving the house to venture to a destination that may only occupy a few people, I withhold toileting. Storing fluid in my body to physically repel a threat is a tactic I learnt reading texts, but have yet to implement. Urine may be sterile, but I have faith in its potential to neutralise a sexually aggressive situation. 

In the tracking link for the delivery of my new fridge, there’s an icon. A picture of the man assigned to my order. It’s more of an image one could expect to see from a middle-aged man on a dating app, over a representation for professional purposes. Captured with pouting lips and eyebrows perched high in a way that someone attempting the Blue Steel look from Zoolander would mimic. My characterisations of strangers may seem unfair, but if that’s what keeps me safe from being subjected to further harm, I’m okay with that.  

My phone rings and I pick it up to hear a man’s voice on the end of the line. The individual informs me that they’re the driver and he’s currently ten minutes away from my home. Something about his voice immediately quells all my worries. I revisit the tracking link to re-read the information provided and that’s when I realise I skimmed over wording that initially sent me spiralling. The service I had paid for did not involve strangers coming into my house to remove my old appliance for the installation of its replacement. That service was premium delivery. Standard delivery entailed dropping it at the door and obtaining my signature and that’s exactly what happened. 

It’s now been roughly a month and a half since the delivery of my fridge and today a man entered my home to replace my dishwasher. I didn’t have the same fear and my mind left me untortured by imagery, but I did cry on two separate occasions after he left. I mourned for the sense of safety that’s been stripped from me, and I will continue to mourn until the day I am no more.