Isolated in Fear II: Eliminating the Mental Roadblocks

by: André Goodman

The Shadow Beneath The Tree

MayBe i’M iLL? At the very least, there is a case to be made for the mental disfunction to iLLogically explain my unique perspective. As a young black kid in the City Heights Projects, I often stare out of my bedroom window to steal a glimpse of the future that awaits me. The birthplace of my delusion is rooted underneath the tree out front. 

Absentee fathers are dodging their domestic duties, as they fraternize with heads of households indulging in the happy hour. It is easy to discern the hard-working gentlemen from those down on their luck. Hustlers find a lot of business beneath the tree, and when their dealings are done,  the homeless convert the space into nightly shelter. As I scan for models of behavior to mimic, the disorderly conduct taints my outlook on life since figures of greatness are merely a mirage. My trauma runs deep. 

I sleepwalk with an onslaught of gunfire aimed in my direction. The repressed memories lack warning, so I’m compelled to operate in panic mode, although my apathetic nature appears calm to most. I never stray too far from home, reducing the odds of any dangerous encounters present throughout the neighborhood. With no telephone of our own, and no reliable transportation, I’m essentially disconnected from the world, and isolated in my illusions. I’ve never been properly introduced to reality. In my favorite fantasy, I’m gifted with super-natural ability to soar beyond my current circumstances.

Last night, there was another frantic knock at our backdoor. As I ready myself for the source of the loud pounding, I revisit previous incidents. Maybe another fight has broken-out downstairs. The house party tends to get rowdy when happy-hour extends into the late evening. However, the loud music has already died down. Perhaps someone is attempting to break-in again, and once again I’ll discover the perpetrator in our hallway during my mid-night bathroom break. My cousins still haven’t forgiven me for neglecting my bladder that night. 

Nope, as I suspected, it’s the memory of another paralyzing nightmare, the 3rd one this week. I haven’t had a good night’s rest since birth. As the morning rises, I’m greeted with my mother’s nonchalant explanation that the devil has been taking rides on my back in the middle of my lucid dreams. I’ve developed a healthy habit of never asking her to elaborate. Instead, I feign disinterest to avoid increasing the burden she already bears. But What the does the Devil want with ME, and why is he high jacking my sleep? 

As demonic deliberations clamber for my attention, I’m veering in & out of the present-tense. I’m definitely not well. I’m desperate for guidance but I have nowhere to turn. The important male figures in my life have their own struggles. So, I focused my energy on becoming the role-model I needed in that moment, but my neurotic personality demands perfection. MayBe i'M ill?