When I was a child I had very sharp hearing. One evening during a storm I toddled to the door and wouldn't come away until Mama opened it. She found a bedraggled little kitten on the porch crying, and exclaimed, “Millie, I don't know how you heard it over this noisy storm.” I loved hearing that story about how sweet little KitKit came to live with us.
As I got older I heard more and more sounds, but we couldn't always find what was making the noise. One evening I heard Papa quietly saying to Mama, “I know Millie's hearing is acute, but I think she's making most of it up to get attention. We should probably ignore her.”
It wasn't true! I really did hear the sounds. I ran to my room and sobbed for hours because Papa thought I was lying. I never mentioned hearing noises again. Mama was so worried she took me to the doctor. He told her my hearing was fine and we didn't talk about it anymore.
By the time I was twelve I also heard voices. Maybe I was going crazy. I started reading about it on the internet and discovered there were abnormal brain conditions that caused a person to hear things. I desperately hoped that wasn't me.
One night a scream scared me awake and I practically fell out of bed. I ran to my parents' room, but they were sound asleep. Grabbing my bedside flashlight, I went outside to look around, but didn't find anything. That morning when I got up, I found Mama sitting on the couch sobbing, Papa's arm around her shoulder. “What's wrong? What's happened?”
Papa quietly replied, “Your Aunt Dorie died in a car accident last night.”
I ran to the couch and knelt beside Mama. I put my cheek on her knee and began to cry too. I loved Aunt Dorie, I really loved her. I knew it was her scream I had heard last night and I was horrified. Papa reached over and gently stroked my hair as I trembled with sorrow and fear.
I was so sad that Aunt Dorie had died, but at least now I knew I wasn't crazy. A few weeks after her funeral I began researching Extra Sensory Perception and Mental Telepathy instead of reading about brain disorders.
In my teens I started seeing images. Once when I was in my room studying I clearly saw Tommy, our little next door neighbor kid, sitting in the big old tree in the park. It was no surprise when the doorbell rang and it was his distraught mother asking if I had seen him. Well, yes and no; I wasn't about to give her a direct answer. Tommy's big brother Billy and I had been great friends when we were little. I said, “Mrs. Johnson, remember when you used to take Billy and me to the park and we loved playing in that old elm tree? I wonder if Tommy might be there?”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, her face brightening. “I hadn't thought of that. I'll go check right now.” She turned and rushed down the street. Of course I knew she'd find that little rascal. The family was so grateful they invited me over for an ice cream party that weekend.
Sometimes it was difficult to pay attention in school. A couple of my teachers noticed. Mrs. Fry sent me to the nurse's office a couple of times, but the unsmiling nurse always sent me right back; my temperature was normal. Mr. Matson, my favorite teacher, took it a step further and set me up with the counselor, Ms. Jackson.
I saw her once a week for six weeks. At first she just wanted to make sure my home life was safe and stable. Then she started asking sharper questions about my mental health. That got her nowhere because I had years of practice not talking about the voices in my head. Finally, she asked about my subjects in school, if I wanted to go to college, and what interested me. She emphasized the importance of good grades and helped me make arrangements with my teachers to get caught up when I fell behind. Now I finally had an adult I wanted to talk with.
My senior year, I was accepted by one of the colleges Ms. Jackson had suggested. When I opened my acceptance letter I could hear her bright laughter as she cheered for me.
The college didn't offer a degree in ESP so I started with Intro to Psychology, a class of about five hundred. How could I feel Prof Dessoir's icy blue eyes focus on me in that sea of faces? Twice, the Teacher's Assistant, Ms. Reinhart, sat next to me—or rather, I sat next to her. Not planned, but there she was in her tie-dyed green scarf when I rushed in late and grabbed one of the last seats. Once was coincidence. Twice was just plain weird.
The class was fairly interesting. I did my term paper on Parapsychology which allowed me to continue my research. When my paper was returned it didn't have a grade, just a note across the top that said, “Please see me in my office.” My stomach clenched as I wondered if I'd already failed.
When I entered Prof Dessoir's office, he offered me a chair and we spent a few minutes in idle conversation. I knew he was trying to put me at ease, but I could hear my toe rapidly tapping the floor. After a few minutes the TA joined us. “It was Ms. Reinhart who brought your paper to my attention,” Prof Dessoir quietly told me. “It's a very mature paper for a beginning Psych student.”
Oh no! They thought I plagiarized it. My mouth was so dry I couldn't speak to defend myself. If he were going to kick me out of school, I wished he would just hurry up with the execution.
Ms. Reinhart spoke quickly as if she had been reading my thoughts. “We know you didn't plagiarize it. We could tell that you've previously researched this topic and we're impressed by your original thinking in the conclusion.” She sat quietly smiling at me, looking me in the eyes. “Please tell us about your personal experiences.”
Oh no. They weren't going to trick me so easily. “I don't know what you mean.”
Prof Dessoir, shaking his head, said, “This paper is very personal. It's about more than a great grandma who told fortunes or a visit to a clairvoyant at the carnival. This is about you. My TAs are all former students who have shown special sensitivities and Ms. Reinhart was drawn to you the first week. If you're interested in exploring your uniqueness, there is an evening seminar that requires a letter of recommendation. I'd be delighted to write it for you.”
Ms. Reinhart added, “Please consider attending. I know you'll find it enlightening.”
With that, Prof Dessoir wrote an A on my paper and escorted me to the door. “I hope to hear from you in a few days,” he said with an encouraging smile. We shook hands and I walked down the hall, my mind in turmoil. As the elevator binged and the door slid open, I turned away and retraced my steps to his office. Prof Dessoir and Ms. Reinhart didn't look the least surprised to see me again so soon. After years of anxiety and fear I unexpectedly felt calm, confident that these people would help me understand and utilize my “sensitivities”.
“Please,” I said eagerly, “I'll take that letter of recommendation.” A shiver of excitement ran up my spine. My whole life I've had to hide my differentness, never daring to be honest, never having a friend I could hang out with and truly share confidences. Maybe now I would meet people who understood me and helped me to understand myself. I really hoped so.
Author: Laura Nicol
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