There was a phase, thankfully brief, where my parents became quite manic in trying to answer the ultimate question. The house was filled with books on gifted children, from verifiable prodigies like Bobby Fischer12, Blaise Pascal,13 and Maria Agnesi,14 to the entirely paranormal – ghost possession by historical figures unwilling to cross the River Styx. They got into psychophony,15 retrocognition,16 transference,17 claircognizance,18 and of course, remote viewing.19
For an entire year, every horizontal surface of our downstairs was covered in crystals. The local news even did a story once. There I was, blithely regaling the weatherman with a credible, and detailed, description of grasshopper sex gear as he grinned nervously into the camera. The whirlwind of brief regional fame disappeared as quickly as it had arrived, and by fourth grade I was a local oddity that most people noted and then promptly forgot. The novelty wore off. One minute, you’re blowing your teachers’ minds, and the next they’re sending you to the principal’s office for offering to explain how liver flukes spread via sheep shit. It wasn’t like I could help it. Holding in what my brain was spewing was a form of torture. My mind was a kettle under pressure and my mouth the spout.
Ultimately, my parents kept their sanity, resolving to accept the way I was. It wasn’t like I had a disease or anything, just an interesting glitch in my wiring. A mutation maybe. It was a party-trick. Like being double-jointed or popping out an eyeball. They moved on.
I couldn’t.
You can ignore another person if you want. Put on headphones, tell them to buzz off if they won’t take the hint.
Brains are different.20 You’re a captive audience to an unfiltered version of yourself. The “me” that occupies my cranium is a know-it-all jabberer. I’m trapped with someone who won’t shut up. Like that guy in line at the coffee shop who wants to discuss his passion for latte foam art. Now imagine he’s in your head, but instead of heart-doodles in bubbled milk, it’s precision timepieces and the toothed vagina of the cabbage white butterfly.21
Sleep is my only respite, and even then the thoughts creep in.
I lit some of the candles, illuminating four different versions of white Jesus, then hopped on the internet to begin the evening’s search. As I did every night.
Knowing what I know has never been a gift. And I was singularly driven by an obsession to find the cause. My life was a mad search for answers that occupied my time and attention, to the exclusion of nearly everything else. If a patient wakes up from surgery with a bit of gauze sewn into their arm, it sucks but at least they know how it got there. My condition had no explanation. It was too specific to be the result of chance or coincidence. It felt… purposeful – or planted. Like it was inserted into my head. It wasn’t mine. And if the knowledge wasn’t mine, was I even myself? Was I an experiment? Someone’s project or toy? And to what end? I didn’t know. That is why I searched so vigilantly.