I Am Alien

 

alien woman head

The first thing I remember, after they left me, was waking up in a box.  The sides of the box were clear, and I could see, through the half-dark, two white shapes gliding on padded feet to and fro, with stiff white headdresses. 

Scratchy wrappings smelling of something that made my eyes water bound me tight and I grew very afraid. Then I found that I could wriggle one hand free, and soothe myself by sucking the largest one of the digits.  This took away some of the fear.

After the half-light memories, I remember no more until much time had passed.

They had told me that I would not remember them, when they dropped my astral body into this receptacle, this mobile vessel that the natives here call “human.”  But I do have faint recollections of my real people, mostly in the form of feelings of kinship, and an understanding that surpasses words.

Although my memories of what happened after I left the box have been erased, I have seen a home movie of my first steps at the age of nine months post-emergence.  The movie shows a small native female running away down a sidewalk, falling, picking herself up, and running further away, until the large native identified as “my mother” runs and picks up the small one, carries it back to the starting point, and sets it down; whereupon the small female commences running away again.  The natives surrounding the movie camera are heard “laughing.”  The small female was me: trying, as soon as I attained locomotion, to run home.

Several years later they took me to a building full of native children, and a large female overseer gave each one a paper covered with shapes, and color sticks, and commanded all to fill the shapes with color.  I saw no point in this meaningless exercise and turned the paper over, so that I could draw a picture of my real parents.  The overseer objected strongly to this, and made me stand in a corner; this was a relief, as that way I did not have to participate in their ridiculous activities.  From then on I learned the ways of achieving the corner, and did spend most of my time there, dreaming of home.

At night I sat by my window for hours, pleading with my parents to come and get me, explaining to them that they had left me on the wrong planet for too long.  I heard them from afar:  Not yet, not yet.  Your job is not finished.  Not yet.

My native “parents” did not know what to do with me, since I refused to associate with the native children, whose language was simple and crude, whose games ridiculous, and who, at the age of six, could read nothing more complicated than “Dick and Jane.”  By that time I had read a good deal of my parents’ library:  Herman Hesse, Gunter Grass, Franz Kafka, which was my favorite, especially Metamorphosis.  This was by far the best thing about this world: books, because they took me away, for a time.

The animals were a relief from loneliness. They have great wisdom and do not require speech to explain their thoughts and wishes, which are many and subtle.  The natives have terrible misconceptions regarding the animals: they think that because the animals cannot speak as they do, that they must be an inferior race.  This is wrong.

In my readings I discovered that there are special doctors for people whose minds work differently from those of the rest of the natives.  In these times they are called “Psychiatrists,” but in earlier times they were called “Alienists,” because those who do not conform to the norms of this world are considered “strange,” or “alien.”  I also learned that beings originating from other planets, like myself, are called “Aliens” as well, because we are strangers in this world.

Upon a time, there were great houses called “Alien Asylums,” where Aliens were sent for safety.  I thought, perhaps, that in an Alien Asylum I might find some one like myself, from my own planet.  I wanted to learn all I could about these places, and to see if there was one nearby.  So I got out the great book called “Encyclopedia” and looked up “Alien Asylum,” and was shocked at what I found there.

The Aliens were tortured in a ghastly fashion, with straitjackets and cold sheet wrappings and electric shocks.  I decided that I would not go there; in fact I decided to try to mimic the natives so that they would not know that I am an Alien.

I did so by spending all of my time at my studies, or in reading famous books, or in working with the animals, so that they could see that I was a very good native.

Many years passed in this fashion, but then something—I do not know what–happened that damaged my gyroscope, and I found myself one moment flying toward the sky and my home planet, and the next moment crashing to the ground.  I was unable to right this malfunction, and soon it became known to the natives, who carried me against my will to an Alien Asylum.

Fortunately the Asylum was not like the ones in the Encyclopedia.

In fact, it reminded me markedly of my first days at school, where I was given the papers with shapes and the color sticks, and told to color inside the lines, if I wanted to get out.  I refused to participate in this absurd activity, and they gave a bad report of me to the Alienist.  He ordered them to make me swallow pills, many pills every day, that made me feel weak and dizzy.  But then I was no longer expected to color either inside or outside of lines.

When they released me from the Asylum, the Alienist sent me to be “Tested.”  A kind native woman asked me many questions and gave me puzzles to solve.  I solved many puzzles, until there were no more left.  Then she asked me to look at pictures of native faces, and tell her what the people in the pictures were feeling.  This I could not do, because I am not a native and I do not use their modes of communication.

After we finished all the tests, I returned to the Alienist for his report on their outcome.  He told me that I had Asperger Syndrome and Bipolar Disorder.  He explained to me what those things mean; but it was nothing that I did not already know.

I am Alien.

Alien spaceship

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36 Comments

  1. Creatively written, and haunting, in that it underlines the obvious. The funny thing is that we are all Aliens, in one way or another. Some of us have been tested and diagnosed, and some of us are just pretending to be native to avoid detection, and some of us are so dead inside that we couldn’t recognize ourselves if we were stuck in a room full of mirrors. Eventually, we will all go home again. No more tests, no more boxes.

    Reply
  2. it is crazy!

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  3. wow. blow me away. this piece is incredible. thanks for sharing.

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  4. Great read! Loved the alien references.

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    • Thank you! The truth is, it’s the truth. I used to sit by my bedroom window at night, begging my real parents to come and get me. It’s too long! You’ve left me on the wrong planet too long! And now it’s a lot longer……

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      • They say I am an alien, as I have O- blood. 👽👾

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        • Hah! Maybe that’s what it is. Me too. But that’s the universal donor, so I don’t get the connection. ‘Splain, please.

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          • Sure!
            This is the theory, I don’t believe nor disbelieve this for the moment, but is food for thought as the traits seem to match me quite well…
            RH positive folks can have their genetics traced back to rhesus monkeys. The negative factor (only 16% of the population) is unknown. It means that there is no protein in the blood relating to the Rhesus Monkey. So where are are origins? Are we alien?
            There are certain traits that RH negatives have:

            * Predominance of green or hazel eyes that change colour like a chameleon, but also blue eyes, piercing.
            * True red or reddish hair
            * Low pulse rate & low blood pressure
            * Keen sight or hearing
            * ESP, UFO connections, Abduction, Para-normal occurrences
            * Extra rib or vertebrae
            * Love of space and science
            * A sense of not belonging to the human race
            * Empathetic illnesses
            * Compassion for fate of mankind
            * A sense of a ‘mission’ in life
            * Unexplained body scars
            * Capability to disrupt electrical (I call this one my ‘magnetic personality’)
            http://imaginealiens.weebly.com/rh–blood-type.html

            So there may be more to your feelings than just a well written post!!

            Reply
  5. My Bible tells me we are to be “set apart,” “kept separate” because we are indeed “strangers in a strange land.” So I find what you wrote to be Truth — not just Biblically, but for those of us with special minds, special souls, special ways of looking at life.

    I remember quite well in either kindergarden or first grade being reprimanded for coloring outside the lines. I was reprimanded severely (and worse) at home for many things, sometimes just for breathing, and because I hate pain inflicted upon me by others I learned very quickly to be “a good girl.” I did my best to color inside the lines. Unfortunately, I wasn’t perfect and would go outside the lines, even after I colored the outline over with whatever color I chose at the time. I was so embarrassed, afraid and nervous nearly all the time.

    This kind of sums up my life — except for the manic times when I didn’t give a f*** and colored what I wanted, when I wanted and how I wanted. It was only after I crashed back down to earth from soaring into space for a while and greatly enjoying the freedom that I’d have to make amends, pick up the stupid crayon, go back to coloring in the lines while fear and the anger that lay underneath for not being allowed to be myself and for having my “NO!!” taken away from me accompanied my every step. Of course, being a good girl I had my happy face on for the world to see I was “normal.”

    Great post, as always, Laura!! Except for the stuff I couldn’t read about human trafficking, I think I’ve loved everything you’ve written — even if I might not have liked what you had to go through, even if I cried my way through it cause I had been there, done that.

    My love to you as always,
    Kathy

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    • Hi Kathy,

      I think there’s a lot to be understood in your excellent description of flying free on the wings of eagles, only to crash back to earth and once again be subject to the whims of “others” to whom your chief value is as an object to be controlled and used for their own twisted purposes. It’s no wonder that in the days of the psychoanalysts it was thought that we were splitting our personalities.

      G-d said to Abraham (sorry, Bible not in hand, no reference but in Genesis) that we would sojourn 400 years “in a strange land.” Robert O. Heinlein used that concept when he wrote “Stranger in a Strange Land,” which had a protagonist who was from another planet and was dropped off on Earth in order to bring liberation to the people who were locked into their own personal prisons. So from this I took it, when I read the book 10,000 times as a teenager, that being different was a good and worthy thing. Ah, youth.

      Unfortunately, this essay does not describe my reaction to Heinlein’s novel, but my actual experience of life since my birth.

      We are soon approaching the festival of Passover, which celebrates our liberation from that Strange Land of Egypt, where we worshipped idols and were duped into slavery. The spiritual work of preparation to leave our personal Egypt, which dwells within us and shackles us to wrong thinking (like “I am worthless, I am a slave to my habits and desires”) is to identify these things and do our part to liberate ourselves from our personal Pharaoh, our personal overseers who would keep us enslaved to thoughts that were beaten into us by our parents, teachers, society (“you must be thin and have peachy skin, and then you will be popular, be a cheerleader and marry the captain of the football team”).

      My prayer for you and for everyone is that this year, on the evening of the 14th of April which is the first Seder night of Passover, that we should get on our personal spaceship and ride it out of Egypt, and find our spiritual Home at last. Amen.

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        • By the way, have I told you lately what a great writer you are? No? Well, here it is: You are a f***ing good writer. Your comment above is not only magical in its flow and ideas, but it’s a pleasure to read. BTW, that’s what OUR Bible says too LOL! That must be why I’ve moved 10 times in the past 8 years. Wandering Jew, sojourner in a land not my own. Except that most of them took place in Jerusalem, so you’d think I could rest there….but no. Oh well, Ill rest when I’m dead LOL

          Reply
  6. It is so well written, seems like a professional write up. Great Laura. :-))

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  7. Very interesting. 🙂 The mind is a powerful place. Being -doubled poled, I too feel strange.

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  8. You are one heck of a writer Laura! By reading this, I feel what you feel…very very intense!!
    big big hugs sent to you this morning 🙂

    Reply
  9. teddymear

     /  April 5, 2014

    You are an incredible writer Laura!! You bring the reader into your mind. Not many people can do that and so candidly. Warm hugs ~Mear

    Reply
    • That’s such a wonderful compliment! I often wonder whether my henscratchings have any meaning for others at all. You’ve given me a dose of strength! Thank you xoxoxo

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  10. Terri

     /  April 5, 2014

    That was incredibly wonderful. You are a great writer.

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  11. I wonder if you really know how brilliant that piece of writing is. I was enthralled….and I don’t even know what to say it was so good.

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  12. Reblogged this on My Bright Shining Star and commented:
    Absolutely brilliant piece of writing. Keep with it….you’ll see.

    Reply
    • Um, well, I do really like the piece, but “brilliant” is…well…I guess the reader will have to make that judgement. Now if I could ever find a magazine that would welcome bizarre essays…….so far I’ve only been published online…….and that one is so gruesome I don’t know if I could even subject my blog readers to that level of horror. Oh well.
      Love,
      Laura

      Reply

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