It is said that names hold power, a belief that dates back to the beginnings of civilization, particularly in relation to deities. Many stories in ancient religious canon involve the idea that the true name of a being is intrinsically linked to that being’s identity. The first devotees of Abrahamic religions had such reverence for the true name of their deity that the many words used historically to refer to “God” are purposeful obfuscation of a title they considered too powerful and sacred to utter. This practice can be found in a number of religions.
True names are not simply identifying titles. They are more abstract in essence, and represent a vast panorama of conceptual identity. The traditional naming practices of the indigenous peoples of North America are more similar to this idea, although they are still limited in scope compared to true names. They often evoke a particular experience or sensation, but a true name captures a landscape, a lifetime, a soul.
With the advent of medieval times names in much of the world developed an eponymous trend. Children were christened after religious or otherwise significant figures, like saints and royalty. The ancients might have viewed this practice as a dilution of the power of names, but from a more pragmatic perspective it could be viewed as a protective factor. After all, if true name and identity are one and the same, our true names are innate, and the names granted by our parents are only arbitrary signifiers.
It stands to reason, then, that if we could delve into our identities far enough, we could discover our own true names. Perhaps, with sufficient skill, we could learn others’ true names. Maybe there is someone who already knows yours, for better or worse. If a true name actually holds the power the ancients attributed to it, then maybe it is for the best that it be obscured from those who might use it to do harm.
I think someone has discovered my true name, and I need help.
That wasn’t my initial suspicion, of course. My first thought was that I’d developed somehow a new and severe disorder, or something. A patch of rough luck, maybe, and an emotional slump that increased my vulnerability to negative life events. I’ve been medicated for severe depression since my early teenage years, and I’ve had my share of emotional ups and downs, as anyone who has experienced any mood disorder is likely to understand. I’ve also seen how utterly debilitating a mental affliction depression can be. My current cocktail of psychiatric medications has remained mostly the same for several years now with generally stabilizing effects up until a few weeks ago.
The night before my circumstances began crumbling I slept fitfully. That, in and of itself, is relatively ordinary. I’ve not slept well since I began experiencing depression, and I frequently experience sleep paralysis and other uncomfortable disturbances in the course of a night. What was unusual about that night, though, and every night since, was the dream I had. In it I heard a phrase, and then came an overwhelming rush of colour and sound and emotion, so powerful that it seemed I was hurtling through space and time. It seemed at once alien and intimate, an experience I cannot adequately explain in words. Somewhere amidst all that madness I recognized myself.
I woke up that Thursday morning feeling absolutely shattered. The alarm on my phone urged me to get out of bed and wash up for work, but a sense of dread soured my stomach, crushing my motivation. I reached for the nightstand to shut off the blaring alarm and forced myself up. Following routines is helpful when I’m having a bad day, because I can frame each task, however mundane, as a progress point. This mindset is helpful for many people, and I’ve found it particularly useful in managing the symptoms of depression, because when at your worst you simply want to hide from the world in bed, every task completed in spite of that feeling is an accomplishment.
I need to call the psychiatrist, I thought as I walked sleepily to the washroom.
Because over time the body develops a tolerance to psychoactives, medications typically lose some of their efficacy after extended use. Such a sheer drop-off is unusual, though, particularly in the absence of mitigating circumstances. After all, I’d felt fine yesterday and the day before. In fact, I’d for the most part felt fine for quite a while now. Up to that point, my career and my social life had been moving along satisfactorily. As far as my professional life, I won’t bore you with the details of my office job, but it pays decently and I’d been relatively content there. Outside of work I had what I consider a healthy social circle and a lovely girlfriend, Vanessa, who I’ve been dating for about half a year. I’d been thinking of asking her to move in with me, actually. Up to that point.
I was in a fugue state for the entirety of that day at the office. Those of you who have experienced it will already know what it’s like. For those of you who don’t, I can only describe it as the blunting of the senses. A fog sets over the vision, sounds become distant, as if muffled, and one is simultaneously anxious to some ambiguous, unidentifiable threat and numbed by overwhelming sadness. It’s like being half-present and it is certainly not conducive to productivity. After my third botched sales call of the day I was called into my supervisor’s office. He was a reasonable man, for the most part, and I’d never had an issue with him before.
“What’s going on with you today?” He asked, peering through his horn-rimmed glasses at me from across the desk.
“Just an off-day,” I replied. I was finding it difficult to meet his gaze.
“Feeling sick, are you?”
I shook my head. “Not quite, just tired I guess. I’ll be better tomorrow.”
I didn’t have a single successful call for the remainder of the day, and in fact each caller seemed in increasingly poor spirits. As 5:00 mercifully arrived I put on my jacket and tried to shake the last caller’s angry voice from my head as I headed to my car.
“You’re absolutely fucking useless!” Funny, that voice seemed to be in perfect harmony with my downtrodden inner narrator.
Vanessa came over for dinner that evening, and found me distant and distracted. She’d not seen me like this before; as I said, my medications had been doing the trick for the most part, and my worst days on that were nothing compared to this. Attempts at conversation sputtered out, and she left rather abruptly. I simply didn’t have the energy to ask her to stay the night.
Things deteriorated at an alarming rate from that point forward. As I grew progressively more distant from the world, my performance at work crumbled. Salesmanship requires a level of engagement with the client that in my opinion borders on the cloyingly upbeat, an affected tone which I found tiresome even on a good day. In my depressed state it was impossible to maintain the “smile” in my voice that my supervisor babbled on about at staff meetings. After a week with a pitiful dearth of closings my supervisor told me I was on thin ice. After another two weeks with similar numbers I was asked to pack my desk up and leave.
None of this was helped by the fact that literally everything in my life seemed determined to crush my spirits. Kids playing ball in the street shattered my front window while I was at work the very day I was fired. Things went missing just when I needed them. The power in my apartment building was shut off for two days after a storm, and every item of food in my refrigerator spoiled. My car battery died three mornings in a row, forcing me to ask a neighbor to jump it or take an Uber to work. Showing up late certainly didn’t help my case on the brink of employment. On the fourth day of this inconvenience, I took the car to the shop to have the battery replaced, only to be told that the entire engine was irreparably shot. I didn’t have the funds to repair it. These are all relatively minor mishaps, but experiencing them all at once, and in my low emotional state, I was finding it more and more difficult to stave off a sense of overpowering helplessness.
Without my job, I’ve had too much time to think. Despondency is an echo chamber, and every self-loathing thought is amplified by my self-imposed isolation. I hadn’t returned Vanessa’s calls in over a day at that point…I was too ashamed.
Every night I had the same troubled dreams, and I woke up each dark morning more exhausted than before, like I’d been running in my sleep.
You’re likely wondering at this point in my story how I came to believe that my true name had anything to do with my sudden misfortune, or why it was a thought in my mind at all. For the past month and a half I have had the exact same dream from the first night where things went to shit, but where it once seemed familiar (albeit weird) it has taken on an increasingly sinister tone. That, coupled with the misfortune plaguing me, makes me think that the two are related somehow.
Finding no reasonable psychological explanation (and believe me, I’ve looked) I’ve spent hours since that first dream researching the idea of hexes, voodoo, things I normally would dismiss as quackery. Despite being a product of my misery, poring over musty old books at the local library has been a welcome distraction. Nothing made sense in relation to my situation, until I stumbled upon a dusty old tome on ancient etymology.
That’s where I found the information that brings me to the harrowing suspicion that some malevolent person has found my true name. The dream, so unlike any dream I’ve ever had and yet so full of my essence; I think that’s my true name. I don’t know who has found it, and I don’t know why, but I am at my breaking point.
Two days ago I awoke from that sickeningly familiar dream to the sounds of screeching tires and screams. I rushed to my window, my heart already sinking like a stone. There, mangled upon the pavement, was Vanessa. With the strange clarity of trauma I noticed a shattered Tupperware of chicken noodle soup splattered across the sidewalk, mingling with the blood pooling slowly around her. This was my fault. She’d come to check on me and become a victim of my wretched existence. The vehicle that hit her was already speeding away.
Vanessa died on the way to the hospital. I can only hope she felt no pain. I can only hope the last sound she ever heard was not my ruined sobs.
I am on my last limb. I am a broken man, and yet the torture persists. The sleeping pills I’ve been stockpiling are beginning to look ever more alluring each night, but I resist the urge to give up. I’ve never placed much stock in superstition. I know, that might seem an out of place statement on this forum, but hopefully the fact that I’m seeking the aid of people who seem to know about that sort of thing demonstrates the desperate nature of my situation. I need advice. Please, someone, tell me how to find my tormentor. Tell me how to avenge Vanessa and reclaim my life.
Submitted January 12, 2018 at 09:16PM by Glems4Gloobies0 http://ift.tt/2qYBpT2 nosleep
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