FREEDOM FROM
CONSCIENCE
Melanie's Journey
Michael Cross
Black Rose Writing
www.blackrosewriting.com
© 2010 by Michael Cross
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.
The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.
First printing
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-935605-87-4
PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING
www.blackrosewriting.com
Printed in the United States of America
Freedom From Conscience—Melanie's Journey is printed in Times New Roman
Cover art by Emma Wahlstrom Photography
With great appreciation to Christina, Sara, Nick,
and Emma Wahlstrom Photography
Chapter 1
This day…not so unusual really, I mean just another day at the university. I guess the only difference is that it is the first day of a term that I can call myself a graduate student—somewhat an honor I suppose, having devoted my entire undergraduate existence to maintain perfect grades. Of course it came at a heavy price—perhaps too heavy...having maintained an isolated existence as well as rarely spending time in the only element that seems to make me complete—being lost in nature. Yet I survived—I always survive—and perhaps that is my ultimate punishment.
Of course, mine was only a three year ordeal thanks to my concentration on studies. Some might say I should have tried to live a little. Live? Would that have entailed giving myself over to the hedonistic rituals so many of the other students wasted their time on? Maybe I could have found fun in partying. Yeah, right, attending sorority bashes with spoiled frat boys living on daddy’s pay check and numbing their sense of life, treating college as an extended vacation. However, as much as some might call this a tradition (I wonder, are all traditions good?), I made studying my form of escapism. I was not going to act like some caricature from a bad college comedy—where is the self-respect in that?
There I go again, making generalizations about other people—like being an observer assigned by major newspaper taking notes on the life of young people in college today. Or perhaps even more bizarre, an alien looking at the habits of these creatures the same way that a behavioral scientist might observe rats in an experimenter’s lab—trying to study their darting around to determine what “decisions” they make in situation “A” as opposed to situation “B”. Now that is kind of scary though...putting myself in a position that separates me from everyone else. Then again, what did I have in common with my fellow students? Who is to say they were my equals anyway?
I have always looked a most people as entities that I just could not connect with, except in some rare occasions—and all that exercise in emotion brought me was painful memories. After that, my shell became even tougher than before. If I were to tell someone that, I suppose they would say, “Oh Melanie, I can really empathize with you.” Strange, what does that word, “empathy” mean? I never really was able to understand the concept, and maybe that is why I view the masses that walk by on the street as objects—but is that wrong? Perhaps it is not unlike the way a really good psychologist, my field of study, should view other people, as merely objects, at best enhancing her experiences in this strange environment we call the world. Yet still, the memories of when I took a chance on love still cause me to cry when I am alone, late at night in bed, where nobody can know I can be weak as well.
Intellectualizing behavior and emotions is my best defense against exploring my own inner demons. I always received high praise for my writings and observations of human psychology in my classes—I wonder though, did the professors only see the strong insights of a young student? Or did any of them wonder, even unconsciously, merely the ranting of a psychopath bordering perhaps on a schizophrenic diagnosis—or at least possessing a schizo-typical way of viewing the world? Did even one see beyond the “imagination” or “unique way of telling a story...” and actually recognize something more complex, more out of the norm—and might I dare say a disturbed way of viewing events and people? Did the ones who wrote glowing letters of recommendation, which insured my acceptance into the psychology masters program, realize that maybe the one they were praising, the one who, behind the innocent green eyes, who appeared so analytical, and at the same time conveying a safe and even passive appearance, might actually be just the opposite?
The persona of innocence might actually hide something so sinister, so evil, that chills would have run down their spines and frozen them like a deer in the headlights. Did these learned men, all possessing advanced credentials, actually realize who they were dealing with, but choose to dismiss any such thoughts as absurd? Or did one, just one, sign a letter with a discerning grin thinking, “I know who you really are Melanie, you can’t hide your true self from me...it’s just...just that I admire you for being who you are, and not filing yourself into some deep abyss of the sub-conscious; or hiding away in a dark apartment, not wanting to deal with life.”
Who knows? Maybe that’s the view professor Herndon had—if anyone it would have been him. He was so analytical, and really quite deep, in an Asperger sort of way. Yet maybe in that hard drive called his brain there was the insight that appearances just do not convey the whole story. Yeah, if anyone could tell it would have to be him—but he would never ask, it would be too daring and personal for someone who spent his time putting facts together to illustrate human behavior from case studies and journal articles. Would he, could he, admit his suspicions to a living, breathing student in his class—even though he was my academic advisor? I think not. Could anyone invade my mind and give me any insights? Some had tried. Maybe Miss Green back in high school. She was somewhat bright, in her own particular way, and really nice to me. I think we connected well together, and it was hard to keep a secret from her. She was a very intuitive and perceptive woman. Odd, I still wake up hearing her muffled screams in the middle of the night—I mean, none of the others touched me in such a personal way as she did.
Stories…yeah, stories. I am fascinated with stories. I may have a hard time connecting to people but I realize that when one looks out at a crowd, like those on campus between classes, that each person has a story to tell. Every one of them has a history of experiences. And each has a different way of looking at the world based on those experiences, as well as whatever they were born with and whoever raised them. An interesting thing about psychology is that you discover just how unique we all really are, even though you are trying to find the answers that should fit everyone.
Yes, so different—blame genetics, metaphysics, environmental influences, whatever, we are all a story in the making. Just look around you...the girl sitting next to you on the bus, what’s her story? How did she grow up? Were her parents happy or always fighting? Does she have brothers, sisters? Did she have a favorite pet like a cat, dog or even a rabbit? Was her worst fear in high school getting a date for the homecoming dance, or was it that she might get beat up by a youth gang on the way to school? Was she the teacher’s pet or someone who spent lots of time in trouble? What’s her future...marriage and family or loneliness and a bunch of cats?
Now multiply that girl times all the people you encounter and wow! No wonder some people find it necessary to shut off and just look at people the same way a lion would look at a herd of antelope. Well, maybe not ever
yone looks at crowds and puts themselves into the category of a lion—that might be a little weird, don’t you think? I mean, that’s not the way people are supposed to look at one another, is it? And the person looking at others that way must be a bit strange, and certainly arrogant, in seeing people as a herd and not as individuals. Yet I usually see people that way, unless I am trying to analyze someone who catches my eye.
Oh sure, we have our striving for an ultimate goal, well, most of us do I suppose...I hope. We all look to others to give us comfort, a sense of belonging, as we try to get some affection in life and, in return, give to others in order to build up a democratic society—at least that’s our illusion. And psychologists, as I expect to become, should be the experts at finding all the answers that apply to everyone, yet they seem to merely come up with more questions. Modern society has replaced the clergy, who used to try to rid us of demons sent by Satan, with psychologists who attempt to rid us of demons placed there by stressed out parents, or bad experiences on the playground, that get imprinted on our minds and still vex us with everything from depression to phobias. Strange how society seems more depressed than ever. Even my studies have done nothing to make me cheerful—yet maybe what I have done in life will forever make happiness impossible.
Oh well, maybe that’s why I am here, to become one of these modern exorcists of the mind. Yet one wonders how many of my fellow students who will sit with me in classes and seminars this year, have their own favorite demons that they are unwilling to admit even exist? Perhaps they do know they exist, but are far too pleasurable to try to throw away. How many of these aspiring psychologists could be a case study for someone’s thesis on anxiety or even psychosis? Or maybe some of us have histories that are far more colorful than anything you would read in a journal. Should that scare someone as they sit on the proverbial therapist’s couch, my couch, and share what they think is so unusual about themselves? They will not even know that in comparison to their shrink, their worries, or their behaviors, are trivial, to say the least.
Strange though, the early fall day, the last bits of summer, and the anxiety of entering a new level in my education certainly brings back memories of when I had similar feelings a few years back...what seems like an eternity but was only four years in the past. Yes it’s strange how the feel of the seasons can suddenly bring back memories, special emotional memories—the kind that go beyond a chain of events and actually bring back the feelings one experienced years before. Perhaps one can remember their first kiss, or the first, and maybe only time, they felt a connection that bordered on love for another person. And even with the added weight of experiences, experiences that change who, and even what we are, and certainly how we view the world, one can recall vividly what they did at a given moment years back. And to think it’s often sparked by the familiarity of something as trivial as a particular autumn smell or the sight of leaves changing color.
And then the questions arise—who would I be if some things in my past had never been experienced? The “what ifs” can sometimes drive one mad—I try my hardest to ignore them for that very reason. Still the questions of how life can be changed by one thing or another—and how much would the change have been if...? If I had maybe been encouraged by my mother to go into sports or even cheerleading would I have wound up like the Barbie-doll sorority girls wandering around the campus? What if I had been born to parents totally different, would I have been different or would my very soul insure that the person here today would be exactly the same...except perhaps a different name or even a different face?
And what makes us different ultimately? Are we all born the same and shaped by our environment in the same manner as rats, which seems to be what the behaviorists believe? Or are we born with a set personality that just gets refined by the environment? Or is individuality merely an illusion and all we are is a set of genes seeking to perpetuate themselves past this period of existence? Maybe the basis of the thesis I will have to create at the end of my program should ponder these questions. I feel frustrated at not having the answers to any of those questions though.
And then what of me: Melanie Johnson? What if the experiences that began four years ago on a day not unlike this had not occurred? What if my mother had not moved to Portland and moved to a neighborhood with the school I would start my senior year in? What if I had never met the teachers and new friends that gave me an outlook on life totally different than anyone on this campus probably has? Would I be here today pondering these deep questions? One can agonize over the events of the past until they drift into an insane asylum. I mean, maybe, ultimately, life is like some sort of script that is set, predetermined if you will, and we are actors that must perform the play as some higher power has arranged for us.
My mind is always full of questions. It would be so wonderful to have someone I could share my deepest and most primitive thoughts with, but who would that be? Maybe I could write a tremendous thesis and use myself as the case study? That would be a strange sort of self-analysis indeed. Yet it is not something that I’d like to share since to do so would mean the end of my path towards a career in psychology...heck, it would mean the possible end of my life, and certainly my freedom, if the events I have taken part in were ever to come to light.
Chapter 2
It is strange how we all have stories that are unique to us, that only we can truly understand ourselves, but can at least attempt to tell others…so as to pass on our life experiences. Most people have fairly standard, conventional events in their lives; you know... the kinds of things you can share with friends and family around the dinner table. The average person enjoys the re-telling of these run-of-the-mill tales. Mine? Oh I guess my story is a bit more unusual. It is certainly a bit more exciting, and absolutely not something for dinner table conversation—at least not the events of my senior year in high school. Maybe just writing them down for my own eyes can bring me some comfort, and perhaps lay the memories to rest.
In the summer after my junior year my mother informed me that we were moving from my hometown, Eugene, to Portland, Oregon. Having never been blessed with brothers and sisters, and my father having left my mother when I was only five, my mother and I originally had one of those close relationships that almost seemed like two sisters rather than a normal mother and daughter thing. However, when she met Gerald everything seemed to change. After having sworn off relationships after my father’s departure, she had concentrated on work and me. Yet when she met Gerald she became obsessed, and I wound up being left alone on most weekends while she traveled to Portland to be with him. I felt totally passed to the side and yes, abandoned. After three years together they announced they were getting married—and about the same time my mom was offered a job transfer to Portland. Soon we all packed up and left behind everything I knew.
I cannot say I was unhappy about leaving many things behind. I did enjoy the rather bizarre energy that seemed to surround this part of Oregon—a strange mix of old hippies, retro-hippies, transplanted yuppies from California and hard-core rednecks. One might think that would lead to some sort of antagonisms, but it seemed to work out pretty well. Although tolerance was not the word of the day in school any more than it was any place else in this country.
Yeah, there were days devoted to diversity, respect and coming together, but you still had all the typical social groups and pecking orders. And if a kid does not fit the mold then he or she is either ostracized or introduced to physical violence—of course with little apparent concern from teachers and administrators—at least from what I experienced.
Sure, there were occasionally those who tried to do something about it, but it sure seemed that those in charge of the system must have been taken from the same “jock” crowds that were at the high end of this artificial pecking order. It seemed the typical teacher was some guy still living out his high school sports days, but doing so through attending competitions and getting all giddy when the new generation of jocks came along. The worse were the ones t
he male students would always refer to as “coach” regardless of if it was on the field or in the middle of a math lesson.
Some poor outsider kid will not get a lot of sympathy there. If a boy, or girl, winds up on the receiving end of some bully’s aggressions, and he or she decides to re-live the experience and goes to the principle’s office to complain, what happens then? Often they talk to some administrator paid to pretend he really cares, when in reality he probably comes from the same generic background as all the rest of the teachers who don’t really care. The difference is he went to school a couple of summers for an administrative license. So very impressive—trained to pretend to be all sympathetic and understanding when a few decades earlier he'd probably have been shoving the poor kid into a locker. Of course, nothing ever happens—but an administrator’s job is to smooth things over—he is, after all a king over a little empire, just trying to do good public relations.
I felt totally out of place in this artificial world. I was too “smart” for the giggly girls, but too pretty for the chess club set. Not to brag but the one thing my father had given me was his side of the family’s genes—I was slender and had light auburn hair which I preferred to cut to shoulder length. I was blessed with large green eyes that were slightly epicanthic in shape, high cheekbones and a somewhat narrow chin.–- which some people, including my grandparents the only time they visited, claimed made me look like a Russian model...although my ancestors were Swedish and Irish. I was also medium height and, I suppose, considering the rude comments from male classmates in middle school, had good female proportions.
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