The Reason I Hate Psychics
My Mom used to be a fan of psychics, I remember her dragging me along to a couple of readings where I invariably spend most of my time bored as hell waiting in an adjacent room. Sometimes, she would bring along my white and red Fisher Price tape recorder so she could painstakingly analyze every detail with one of her friends at a later date. She wasn’t what I would call a true believer, but she did enjoy her own little slice of the mystery.
I never partook in the fun, perhaps the uncertainty (of life) I faced as a kid wasn’t as frightening as the uncertainty of adulthood, but when I was sixteen my mother brought me to have my cards read. Now, the strange part was that the psychic in question also happened the be the janitor of the elementary school I went to from grade 5 to 6. He was a tall skinny man with long black hair, come to think of it he kind of looked like Alice Cooper, but the most striking feature of his whole persona was the van he drove to school. It was one of those vans, popular in the eighties, not meant for a family, but for fun times. Pitch black, it had one tear drop shaped window on the side near the rear and it also featured some kind of purple airbrushed design. Now, the reason it was so remarkable was the fact that he washed and buffed that piece of metal every single day during lunch hour. It shone like black ice.
It was a odd feeling to be standing in his house, years later, waiting to have my fortune told. I can’t tell you if any of the things he told me came true, because I can’t recall any of them, but what I do remember, vividly, is that he began his reading by looking into my past and told me I had been raped. You would think that a 16 year old girl would remember such an event and when I told him he was wrong, he plainly assured me that no matter what I had to say on the matter I had indeed been raped.
I don’t know why anyone in their right mind would ever say that to anyone, let alone a vulnerable teenager. He prayed on one of my weaknesses, which was my fear of sexual abuse. I’m just as skeptical as the next person, and no matter what you know to be true, when someone tells you with such assurance that you’ve been raped, the thought tends to linger in your mind. Maybe, I read too many cult/rape/incest books in the early 90’s, but the seeds of doubt and insecurity were already in my head, so after he told me this, I began to wonder if it could be true.
I told myself that what he saw in me (in my cards) was my deep seeded fear of sexual assault. I even told myself that perhaps what he classified as rape, I had classified as a drunken mistake, but none of these explanations where quite as reassuring as I would have liked them to be, so I started to wonder whether it was possible that I had in fact been raped, but that I just couldn’t remember.
Sounds crazy, eh? But that is exactly what happened and in the process I began to test my memory in an attempt to find any period of time that I simply couldn’t remember. Obviously, the further back I went the easier it was to mistrust my memory and I thought that it could have happened when I was so young that I simply blocked it out of my mind. My already fragile psyche started to crumble and no matter how many times I told myself that this was complete and utter bullshit, I couldn’t help but wonder. I questioned every relationship I had with an adult male when I was a kid. I looked at my relatives with suspicious eyes. I asked my mother if she ever left me alone with such and such person. It was a very unsettling experience, the after effects of which still live on in the periphery of my mind, in that place where all of my doubts and fears live.
Crossposted from Cuntlove.