12.20.18 B: The Details Of My Life Are Quite Inconsequential


“Dracula…never ends.”
–Bela Lugosi


I’m just going to keep writing because…I feel like I don’t have any other outlet at this point.

You know that old line, “you must have been dropped on your head as a baby?” Well, it apparently originated with me, or so the “official” story goes. When I was around six months or less, my father allegedly picked me up from my crib and “accidentally” dropped me on the wood floor below. I landed, according to the story, head-first—and initially, I had completely stopped moving and my father was afraid I was dead.

And so: my father had to have picked me up from the crib, lifted me up over the railing, and dropped me. That’s the official story. After that, the story goes, my father was never allowed to pick me up from my crib again or hold me.

Later, he would comment that perhaps it was all sort of a “happy accident” because I ended up being really really smart. Perhaps the accident “caused” the smartness.

Perhaps, it had all “worked out.”



I was considered very smart when I was in grade-school, but had been flagged from the beginning as “odd.” I was “too adult,” too serious. My kindergarten teacher’s comment on my report card was: “Valerie is 6 going on 60.”

I noticed early-on that the boys who were “odd” had more problems “managing” that oddness than I did. That got them in trouble a lot, and also got them placed in special-ed.

I knew enough to finesse the system so I didn’t get placed in special-ed. I knew exactly what adults wanted to hear. I was the perfect student. I had an encyclopedic knowledge of literature and pop-culture from the past 50 years that I’d throw in the ring whenever I needed to. It was a distraction, you see. So the teachers and other adults were so charmed, I never ended up in special ed.


Back then, which wasn’t *that* long ago, frustrated teachers used to hit the kids from special ed. Thumped them on the back of the head in frustration.

The “freaks” of the school.

But not me. Because my mom said I had to be normal. Or else I’d get locked up.


So I’d read from like Twain when I was in first grade; read it aloud, charm a teacher. I already had an 8th-grade reading level when I started school. By third grade, they’d just put me in a classroom *by myself* with a classic novel like Little Women; because by law, they had to give me an education commensurate with my IQ. And they had no resources for me, so that was what they did.


I did have a therapist assigned to me, however, by like 1st grade. I was a curiosity. They’d study me. I had a therapist follow me around the schoolyard, talking to me. I had thought at first that she was my friend. I didn’t realize she was a therapist.

I honestly thought she was my friend and was honestly interested in my in-depth opinions on Snoopy!



I’d have long “conversations” with dolls, animals at the zoo, and whatnot. That was known as “play.” It’s pretty standard for children.

Around three years old, I told my mom there was a 13-year-old “African” boy’s spirit in the house, and that it was “talking” to me.

I told her its name was “EO.”


(This was like in 1977, almost a decade before Michael Jackson’s “Captain EO,” just in case you’re wondering.)


She then shook me really really hard, and told me never to speak to “EO” again, or to tell anyone I was speaking to any-thing.

Or else: I’d get locked up.

And just like that, EO was gone.


And yet: I missed EO.


I tried to bring EO back, but he was gone. Maybe I had “grown up.” Maybe EO took a look around the situation in my house, and was like “bad scene, bad scene.”


I was in college, and still I missed EO.

Of course, by then: I had a whole academic library to figure out what the fuck had happened.


Everything in my life can be conveniently dismissed by the fact I had an alleged head injury as a baby in which I lost consciousness; a head injury that was never checked out by doctors, even though it was indicated that I had lost consciousness and my parents literally thought I was dead (because you don’t want to get the doctors involved; because then they start asking questions; then the police get involved; you don’t fucking want that).

All the esotericism, as well as all the alleged abuse. All of it: brain-damage.


OR: the brain damage—assuming what had happened to me as an infant was exactly as the official story indicated—facilitated the esotericism.

In which case…

Perhaps dear PaPa was right!



AND/OR: the brain damage made me more vulnerable to being abused.


AND /OR: the brain damage made me more vulnerable to esoteric experiences.

(Did I say that already?)


Anyway, I later referred to that infancy “accident” as “the primal incident.”

And when I had a brain injury in 2014—apparently landing head-first with the entire weight of my body against the concrete—I called it the “re-cycle” of the “primal incident.”

Which would have been exactly FORTY years since the Primal Incident (1974).




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