If you’ve been reading the past few months, you have already surmised that I’m somewhat of a little bitch. Here’s more ammunition for you.
I am so fucking scared of GHOSTS. I can’t explain it.
For a while my friend Allison insisted on watching Ghost Hunters or some other apparition-themed show while I was around. When I watch these shows, I’m the loser that silently flips his shit.
Once it became apparent to my torturer what the T.A.P.S. crew was doing to me, Allison would purposefully want to watch this stuff. Like clock-work, what would follow a polite suggestion to change the station would be a stifling menagerie of whining, bitching and moaning.
Eventually she would oblige and change the channel to something more appropriate for people of my psychological ilk–Country Music Television or Oxygen.
As a child, I was always petrified of getting fucking owned by a ghost. My mother didn’t help.
[Crash Course in Being a Brown Child]
Like most Latino children, my parents constantly threatened me with the prospect of being left at the evil and diabolical hands of El Cucuy (Coo-coo-ee). No one really knows what the Cucuy looks like. He could be a kitten with razor-wire whiskers or even a run-of-the-mill demon whose racism inspires him to target Latino/a babies. When I would refuse to fall asleep, mom would sit at the end of the hallway and make meowing noises, in an attempt to simulate the creeping sounds of the Cucuy. I would just lay in bed and say to myself, “Well, this is stupid. That’s obviously my mom… but what if it isn’t?! Oh, fuck. Close your eyes. Close your eyes…” Bam. Sleep. The Cucuy works, y’all. But, I can’t help but think that my mother’s insistence on having fun at my expense might not have ruined a few things for me (Scary movies, laughter, love, empathy, being alive).
I hate scary movies. I don’t hate horror movies. Most of those are shit, and don’t really frighten me. But, when a great horror film works its magic on me, I’m a hot fucking mess. I lose it. Of course, your idea of a great horror movie might be different than mine. I thought The Ring was pretty ridic. So was The Exorcist. But, I was also scared shitless by the last 20 minutes or so of Rings.
What bothers me is how easily I rationalize the existence of ghosts. I have nearly entirely destroyed the prospect of actual celestial beings that pull on the strings/make the watch/what-have-you that people worship existing. However, even when I tell myself the existence of God (a god) is an uncertainty at best, I continue to believe in the existence of ghosts.
Perhaps, I need something in my life that I know I can’t prove. I know that I will probably never see a ghost, feel one or even be able to prove they exist. So, why am I so convinced that they exist? There is no reason to believe one way or another, because there’s really no consequence. Maybe I envy their state. Neither here nor there. Whatever the case is, I insist on being scared.