The Horror of Blending In
Horror Movie T-Shirts, The Things We Do for Love, and The Gap Between What We Know and What We Feel
Despite an affinity for Halloween, my daughter is terrified of monsters. It’s gotten so bad that I can’t wear my horror T-shirts around without her telling me she doesn’t like them, so I do what any caring father would do. I try to wear the most nondescript clothing I can. Shirts without logos. Polos. Jeans. Basketball shorts.
Most days, I’m okay with it. I tell myself horror is in the heart. Besides, basketball shorts are ridiculously comfortable. Like, my God. Have you worn them before? They may be the least restrictive bottoms ever. I haven’t shot hoops since I was a teenager, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love lounging around in some lightweight polyester.
Anyway, horror T-shirts and other signifiers that say, ‘yes, I’m a horror fan’ don’t end up on my person much these days unless I’m going to a convention.
And that’s okay. Horror is in the heart.
Except . . .
When I go over to a friend’s house and see toys on shelves and mondo posters on the walls, or I watch videos from The Library Macabre or Kelsi’s Nostalgic Life, I sigh and think, “that looks nice.” My pal Shane McKenzie? He’s wearing a new Leatherface shirt almost every time I see him, and I’ve known him for twelve years. Buying a new shirt inspired by his all-time favorite movie brings him palpable joy.
Most of the people in my neighborhood are not horror fans. They find out I write horror, and even though they think it’s cool, very few of them have gone out of their way to read my stuff. That’s fine, of course. I only bring it up to say that I’m rarely around horror people except when I’m intentional about it, and sometimes, that just isn’t possible. You might be surprised to hear this, but if you saw me in the street, you wouldn’t know I’m a horror fan, let alone a horror author.
My immediate family is not a horror family.
My daughter is afraid of monsters. My son likes the FNAF and Poppy Playtime games, but he will quickly throw in the towel on a book or movie I try to show him if something is too creepy. My partner, Jean, watches horror adjacent stuff occasionally, but usually, we watch thrillers or comedies. Horror isn’t really her thing, and even when she finds something she likes, it’s just a good movie or show, and she moves on with her life. She doesn’t internalize it like I do.
On my worst days, I wonder if the people closest to me even know the real me. It’s a fucked-up thought and one that is almost certainly not worth entertaining, but that’s mental illness, right? It’s your thoughts trying to distort facts.
And it stems from fear.
See, a lot of us fear standing out—I’ve had bouts of stage fright myself, usually in public bathrooms—but something else that unsettles me even more than that, and that’s blending in. Becoming irrelevant. Fading to less than a shadow.
I’m not delusional, of course. I know this happens to us all eventually. That’s what death is. Even if life goes on after our bodies stop working, I’m not convinced much of ourselves remains intact. Death is something that scares everyone at one time or another, but what about when that erasure of self happens to us when we’re still alive?
It’s like being a machine. You do what you have to do and follow the programming. Meanwhile your soul lives cramped inside a box that keeps getting smaller. It’s no wonder the image of the screaming inner child resonates so completely.
Or maybe it’s how a ghost feels: here, but not.
When my daughter asked me not to wear my scary shirts, I had an intrusive thought from my inner teenager (the bully who lives in my head and does everything he can to keep me cynical, afraid, and hurting). He said, “See, here’s just another way you’re compromising yourself. Soon, there won’t be anything left.”
I know that my daughter asking me not to wear scary shirts is not an attack on my identity. She’s just a five-year-old asking her father to make her feel safe. That’s the reality of it, but the gap between what we know and what we feel is wide. Knowing how to clock the difference between fact and emotion comes with experience and more than a little hard work. I honestly don’t know how people do it without medication, but that’s another essay and not one I’ll write because I’m no psychiatrist.
Obviously, this has nothing to do with shirts or putting on a Netflix thriller to half-watch instead of 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple. It’s about the fear of blending in, of fading into the background, of constantly wearing a mask to make yourself more palatable to others.
It’s about the fear that love will cost you yourself. That’s what makes love so scary. That’s why my inner teenage bully mumbles to me that every time I swap a Demons t-shirt for a solid-colored polo I’m giving up a piece of myself.
But here’s the thing: if it’s real love, the pieces of yourself that you treasure don’t disappear or even get smaller. They just make room for other treasures.
To my inner teenage bully, I’d say this:
Thank you for getting me here. We’ve been through some real shit together, and you helped keep me safe. But now? Now, I got this. I know what I’m doing, and it’s time for you to rest.
Hey, friends. I hope you enjoyed that essay. It's something that's been on my mind for a while, and it took a lot of thinking out loud to figure out how I wanted it to land. I considered comparing and contrasting the fear of blending in with the fear of standing out, but that didn’t feel quite right for this essay. Maybe I’ll do that for one in the future. If you found this relatable or interesting, leave a comment down below and let me know. Your validation will help me become an ascended being.
This issue of Fiction for the Cosmically Disturbed is a week late because I was traveling with my family. We went to Orlando so the kids could see Disney and Universal. We didn't get to do every park because Jean wisely built in some days for us to relax in our hotel room. The kids loved that because it meant spending all day in the lazy river with their cousins. I needed that because I caught some travel crud, which kept me down for the count on one of those days. At least I had Ronald Kelly's Hindsight for company. Great book!
We went to Magic Kingdom, Animal Kingdom, Universal’s Islands of Adventure, and Gatorland. My favorite ride was, perhaps predictably, The Haunted Mansion, but there were many other highlights. My son got to play Beast in a reenactment. My daughter got to go on stage for The Lion King performance. I, perhaps less predictably, enjoyed the heck out of the Bears Jamboree; I had no idea that bluegrass renditions of classic and current Disney songs could be so much fun! The whole experience got me so excited for older Disney movies that I showed the kids Bedknobs and Broomsticks, a film I remember fondly. On revisiting it as an adult, the second act admittedly drags, but I sure do enjoy Angela Lansbury, the primitive VFX, and some knights beating the crap out of a group of Nazis. Those were the elements that aged the best.
Anyway, Jean is sad the trip is over, but we’re both happy to be home. There were plenty of tomatoes out back ready for picking, and we have some zinnias blossoming, despite not planting any. Our bearded dragon was well cared for by a friend, and there are tell-tale signs in the backyard that the armadillo family is still helping control the bug population. I’m excited to get back to work (at the day job and on the book in progress), and it will be nice to see neighbors and local friends again.
Thanks, as always, for reading. If you're a premium subscriber, scroll beyond the break for movie recommendations related to the horror of blending in.
