operascrypta

Real Numbers

When I think about my childhood, I'm haunted by emptiness. My family never showed much interest in my thoughts, feelings, or dreams. At family gatherings, I would try to talk and instantly be talked over; nobody asked me what I thought about anything, and eventually, I stopped trying to interact with them. I was an inconvenient obligation—an itchy, hand-knitted sweater with uneven sleeves and a misshapen Christmas elf on the front, worn only when the spinster great aunt visits.

In the summer of 1994, I was thirteen years old, and my parents had what would be their last alcohol-fueled argument. This behavior had become routine since arriving at The Farm in 1988. There was shouting, guns were pulled, people were pushed down stairs. My mother decided she would go to my grandparents' house on the coast. My father told me to "go with her." I remember thinking: nobody wants me. I would later learn my parents' behavior was typical of people who refuse to address their problems. It had nothing to do with my value as a person.

My sister, who was at a sailing camp for the summer, was spared the immediate drunken drama. The cruelty of the timing was a different kind of violence. She went from the magic of the water and fun with friends to the news that her home no longer existed.

Because of the abrupt and chaotic way in which we left, I found myself living with my grandparents without my dogs, my friends, or my books. Most of my possessions were left behind, never to be seen again. I wasn't sure what was going to happen, but I knew my life was changing radically, and I felt more alone than ever.

I often suffer from insomnia; back then was no different. My grandparents had a garage den with a television. My electric companion would sit there glowing in the darkness, showing me images of other people and places—providing a measure of comfort no human in my life would. Eating dry cereal, watching TV, distracting myself from the chaos—that's how I passed the time on those sleepless nights.

One night, probably close to midnight, I was watching one of those late-night talk shows. There was a new movie out about a hitman who sort of adopts this young girl after her family is murdered by corrupt cops. The actress who played the girl was on the show. She was telling the host about how her dog had recently had its anal glands removed. The host was visibly shocked by such a young woman speaking so candidly. In that silent, converted garage, I laughed hysterically. Oh, neat, I thought. She’s smart.

I was a nerd in an era that hadn't yet made it cool—preoccupied with science and technology in a way that rendered me an outcast among my peers. But here was a girl who looked about my age and seemed smart. It made me think there were other people like me out there. A few years later, I discovered we were born on the exact same day.

I've been through some strange and difficult times. At various points when I have felt particularly forsaken, I have found myself thinking about that girl. The fact that both our bodies have been here on Earth for, allegedly, the same amount of time makes me feel less like an alien. It makes those bleak times bearable somehow.

To put it mildly, I am a skeptic. I always wondered if she was a real person. I know that probably sounds crazy, but when you've spent a lifetime as an outlier, you start to question everything. Thirty years after that night in the den, I was at a women's soccer game in Los Angeles and looked up to see her face on the jumbotron. Holy shit! She’s real. It shouldn't have been shocking—she helped found the team, after all—but I never expected her to exist in the same physical space as me. Seeing her there, three decades later on a sideline in LA, wasn't just a celebrity sighting. It was a proof of concept. If she was made of skin and bone and breath, then I was, too.