Every person fights a war in their life. Life is the war itself. An old man sits in a comfy chair holding a forty-five in his hands. He can scarcely lift the pistol to his mouth. But his suicide is thwarted by a thief.
“The inevitably of death is such that suicide is a fool’s errand. I, the old man, say to you, the young man.” The old man says.
“I am old, and I have cancer... I was going to commit suicide before you broke into my home.” I say waving the gun at you.
And so now you have guessed my plan and the layout of this story so let’s continue.
“I guess you should either sit down or this old man will call the police. I would rather you sit and listen to my story because no one else will.”
You, the thief…the reader, sit down and I will stop waving my .45.
“I’ll begin the story...
I was in the Great War. Well a great war. They said World War One was the war to end wars but that was only the beginning. That war began the century of imperialism and death. But the war I was in is the greatest of all. Life is the Great War I am talking about; greater than all the wars fought by all the nations. It is a war fought by each and every one of us. This story begins in Roswell...
I was born on a military base... White Sands military base. When my father decided to stop travelling with the Army, we moved to Roswell, New Mexico. My father wanted to be a career man with the Army Corps of Engineers, but my mom thought otherwise.
It was mostly her decision that we move to Roswell. I was five. I knew German because we had been stationed over there for two years. It was 1987 and Ronald Reagan was condemning the Berlin Wall and Perestroika and punk rock were slamming into the Russian culture. Pussy Riot was 25 years away from taking the gulag system by storm or was it that these girls were taken by the gulag system and disappeared in the storm of the Homosexual Revolution.
I’m all for equality and I am not afraid of Gay people breaking my brown cherry by edict of the queen of the Gays. The thought of a squad of gay football players would run a train on my ass seems far from feasible.
My mom was sweating out the summer listening to David Bowie. Queen Bitch played on the radio. Everything was hunky dory.
Did I mention it was hot outside and we didn’t have an air conditioner? This is the summer of my discontent. I have a lot of angst for a five-year-old. Or was it just the Mohawk my mom thought looked cool for the summer. It’s a hard knock life for David Estrada in Roswell, New Mexico. I am five and this is a great day to be alive. Today is the first night that I meet one of them. And the furthest thing from my mind is the impending war for the Earth.
My mom thought it was just a new imaginary friend. But we had sleep overs at their place. Greys are an insidious race of aliens. They are like Republicans in every way except Republicans have a taste for human babies. G. W. eats little kids at thanksgiving.
And so, I grow up with alien friends. My mom would wish it was the illegal aliens they talk about ridding the country of in political circles. But she doesn’t know how special I am. The Greys were soon gone and so was my mom.
And so, the story goes on...
My mom died, and my friends were gone. It’s only first grade and already my life is fucked, and I have mommy issues. Dad tried to find a replacement mom, but he wasn’t boyfriend material and thus couldn’t even start to think about being a husband again. So it was the two of us through all the ineptness that comes with being a single dad in the Eighties. Dad got drunk most nights...he hired babysitters but none of them would fuck him like in those nasty pornos he would hide away in his closet. I found those when I was ten. They sat me until I was old enough to hit on them. And then I took care of myself when dad went to look for Ms. Right. For you to understand this story more fully you must know who my parents were. My mom wasn’t just a stay at home mom she was a scientist and an outside consultant to the military. When I say my father retired from the military I must admit he didn’t stop working for them. The American military just gave them both jobs near Roswell. Well near is relative. Their jobs were near Alamogordo, New Mexico at Hoffman Air Force Base. And what I know today is that they were trying to reverse engineer grey technology.
My mom didn’t die...She disappeared during one of these experiments. But at this moment in the story I am twelve. And I miss my mom. 1994 began the years of the grey invasion. I was abducted again. This time it was my mom and a group of greys. It was like a custody battle with grey aliens in the mix.
This is exactly what you think...My mom is an alien. She can shape shift. My mom is a grey alien. And this is why my dad can never find Ms. Right. Grey Aliens plant thoughts in your mind so when they want to change shape or disappear they just put the thought in your mind. That’s why they don’t like pictures to be taken of them.
So when my mom left the only picture she left of herself was the one in my mind. My dad chased blonds for similar impressions left in his mind. And so what can I say other than my mom was a Grey Alien who left my dad with me for no reason what-so-ever.
And so I have come to the conclusion that my childhood is like the missing time of abduction stories. I was waiting to a crosstown train in the summer of my youth. That’s when I saw another UFO. I wanted to believe that love was real. My memory of my youth was as hollow as Swiss cheese. I want to give you a hint though...Grey Aliens wear glasses when they shape-shift. Their eyes don’t quite adapt.
I was 19 and this is London. Ishtar is the name of the god she prays too. Who is she? This god, Ishtar, who she prays to, to show her, her own beauty, is living in the congregation of this small African prayer room. Why are they praying to Ishtar, Babylonian Goddess?
On this bloody Sunday I watch her carve a word into hardened crusty French roll and dance around a table where a man sits singing. Singing and chanting become one as she dances into a fury. I am not saying that no human wears glasses, but every Grey Alien does... Ishtar is an Alien whom I am descended from. She is my ancestor.
The girl danced with herself to learn her own beauty. But found her worth was far beyond beauty. Our worth is beyond the physical... stimulation of other people. What people think of her is not her worth. But the fact remains that acceptance of a group is your worth... transcending this makes you part of the group. My friends with think I am a nut.
She was empty...And the spirit would soon fill her.
I was complete watching them there secretly while I should have been waiting for my train, but I knew soon that a Grey in the line of Ishtar would arrive, a cousin if you will, would come into the group. And so for a moment spying on the ritual I was home... I saw her. And I saw my Grey cousin take off her glasses. I did not believe the information presented to my eyes and so I ran.
Home was in Reading off Castle Hill Street. To a normal person the thought that gods are really Greys is stuff of bizarre fiction or movies directed by Ed Wood. And so I was 19 in London. How did I get here? I ran away from Alamogordo and my father in search of my mother. The goddesses of Ishtar were my first lead.
My father never knew about the visits with the Greys. He never knew why I was so obsessed with Aliens and finding my mother. To him she just left one day. She just left us alone with each other to boys raising the other.
And so Ishtar was the only link I had with my mother. I was not only running from Alamogordo but also the mental hospital my father put me in for a while. As soon I got out I ran so far and followed what leads my mother had left me.
“Hey.” The Ishtar Grey said to me as I ran through the alley back towards the underground entrance. I turned around and she lost her human form. And she disappeared in a puff of grey smoke. I ran to the underground and head home on the train. The vision of her visage ran through my head as I rode the train home. Where do I run? What have I done? But it is not what I have done but who I am. Her visage could not be coaxed out of my mind even when I was having sex with my girlfriend.
“David.” Heather moaned as she ran her hands through my hair. I stopped moving and I went limb thinking about the Grey in the prayer room. I am such an idiot. I’ll have to tell the Doctor about this event.
“There’s a group of north Africans in a basement prayer room off the Strand... Down town. They worship Ishtar...”
“You were supposed to go to Wembley Stadium to watch the game.”
“I took a detour...”
“I hope you don’t take any detours when we go to France.”
“I don’t know what to say...it seems I am chasing ghosts.”
I turned over and Heather and continued to make love. It seems all I needed to do was to talk about the event this afternoon and the Grey was gone.
Heather doesn’t wear glasses. Her hair is dirty blonde and her eyes are green. She is not a Grey with fire in her eyes. Most people don’t know how to describe their contact with a shape-shifting Grey... but I am trained, and I know that there is a light, a fire, in their eyes when they remove their glasses. The light flickers like a candle within their grey eyes; a fire in the pupil of the grey eye. It’s like a flickering candle in the black pupil of the grey eye.
We slept in each other’s arms.
Heather doesn’t even wear contacts but since I have been living with her we have both had grey contact. It’s been the same old deed since 1916. Is this all in my head? What I can figure out is that the Djinn are Greys. Born of fire and moving in smoke and keeping to themselves are the markings of the Djinn. Heather and I go out the next night. We go to a local pub. The George and Dragon waits for us on this January night.
I keep the conversation light to avoid a fight about grey aliens. She laughs at my dirty jokes and I tell her she is beautiful...she puts my baseball cap on and giggle. My Red Sox cap covers her red hair.
Celtic music played in the pub. We danced at Heather’s request. It was so beautiful to hold her; her curves turned me on and we kissed. We kissed and twirled on the dance floor of the small pub.
Heather left her purse on the table like she has done a thousand times before. But when we went back to the table she noticed someone had gone through her belongings. Nothing was missing from Heather’s purse. It just been dumped out unto the table and left there. We left after the discovery. It was about midnight.
My friends you will think I am a nut but out from behind a hill appeared a flying saucer. Greys materialized around us. In puffs of smoke and fire they appeared around Heather and me on the way to our flat.
“Keep his things, Heather we’ve come to take him home.” One of the greys was my mother. And with that being said we vanished in a puff of smoke.
My home is a mental institution in southern California. The truth of the matter is that my parents paid a lot for someone to kidnap me and bring me back to the states where they could have me institutionalized. My life is boring when I take my medicine. In London I really lived on the streets and begged for change. They tell me that Heather was a figment of my imagination or a whore who befriended me.
I’m not nineteen but that is when I developed my condition. I am twenty-nine and a Doctor... of history and philosophy. Inside a psych ward in Alhambra, California is where I stay when I get off my meds.
They say that Schizophrenics are the worst of the mental patients at getting off their meds. They are the least med compliant. The one thing to learn when you are mentally challenged is that society asks you to be submissive. When they tie you to the bed; submit. When they send you to meetings to be socialized; submit. When they throw you out of the meetings for being schizophrenic; submit. When you have no friends because of the stigma of schizophrenia; submit. When the only woman who ever loved you is your mother; submit. Even though others who are not schizophrenic believe in flying saucers; you must submit. Even though others believe god is talking to them, you are schizophrenic and why would the creator of the universe talk to the schizophrenic; submit you must.
Religious ideations are a symptom of schizophrenia, so thus the saints are schizophrenics. Psychiatry is the symptom of a psychotic society. Drugging those who don’t make sense is a problem of understanding...
The less I say the more I make sense; submit.
“I am prescribing you more medicine. This talk of flying saucers is out of control. I’ve read you blog.”
My psychiatrist says to me. “Your mother is not a grey alien. I met her.”
“And you would know all about aliens and the inside of my head.” I retort.
“I am a psychiatrist.” She said to me.
The conversation goes nowhere because I am schizophrenic and that is the final nail in the coffin. No one will ever take me seriously, again.
The inside of the drawer, where I put my clothes, it says crybaby. It reminds me of something a friend told me when I was young. Something a girl had told me after my mom died.
To make things clear my stepmom and dad decided to bring me back to the states and the mental institution. After I leave the mental institution I will live in an apartment and care for myself... left to my own devices I think that this medicine is shit. But I am not; daily meetings with other patients and doctors keep me in check and med compliant. What is not to love about my life?
And so it goes that my life is given to the power of my family and psychiatrist. Even living on the streets was more preferable than this. But that is just a story my parents told the medical professionals.
“Does any one of you want to go back to an emergency room? One of my patients went screaming in to Whittier Hospital that he was Osama bin Laden. David Estrada do want that to happen to you.”
I was dozing off, and so he picked on me. “Too late.” I said know that I too went screaming into an emergency room screaming I was bin Laden.
I don’t know what to say anymore so I nod . . .and my counselor goes on with the lecture about med compliance. What can I say? He is supposed to be right, but I cling to the thoughts that I have been abducted by grey aliens and I am a hybrid. To think that the supreme beings are not of a supernatural origin but just alien to this world is pure blasphemy.
“David are you paying attention.” He says.
Clearly, I am not...
“My thoughts are elsewhere.” I admit.
We are dismissed...
“David,” my counselor stops me before I leave the room. “Where do your thoughts go?” he asks.
“I am still trying to reconcile my thoughts and the reality of my life.” I leave the room. My counselor doesn’t call after me. I wish he would. I wish to god someone would stop me. Stop me from making the same mistake... but what would my life be if I were to submit?
Submit to the psychiatrists and the other doctors and health care workers. My will means so little when you are concerned with the danger I pose to those around me. My rational mind normally agrees but I need to figure this thing out myself and get back on the trail of the greys.
Talk of rationality and grey aliens in the same sentence is maddening.
And I continued with the outpatient treatment. Until one day I got a crush on a counselor with glasses; that’s the day everything went sideways once again.
The glasses couldn’t hide the light in her eyes. The spirit in her eyes and her infatuation with me were apparent to everyone but me.
“David, would you like to start?”
Someone next to me starts talking. I really don’t want to be schizophrenic anymore.
“David, I would say that no one, save the doctors, want to be here and no one thinks schizophrenia is fun.”
“What?” I am surprised to say the least. “Are you reading my mind?”
“No, I am not. I am reading the look on your face when Liz shares her thoughts with the group.”
“Liz?” I say quizzically. “Liz is drooling on herself.”
I leave the room noticing that she was smiling as I left. There is something about her... this counselor.
Something about the way she looks at me. I never needed love until she came along. Who is she?
She, the therapist, is Audrey Tautou. She is my love at first sight and on my way out of the room I take my second glance to seal the deal.
Schizophrenically, I begin to whistle with love in my heart. I stand in the corridor with my back on the door for a moment listening to her trying to continue with her processing group. They need to talk it out... I hate being labeled this way. I don’t feel out of my mind...but Audrey is my therapist and just two months ago I was yelling about being Osama bin Laden. I am the epitome of terrorism. No one would believe me if I told them the truth. So I play along with schizophrenia because the truth still makes me sound like I am schizophrenic. The truest of loves would not be convinced that I am not schizophrenic and that my stepmother was gas-lighting me. I ran to the U.K. because of her. And aliens are real. And unbeknownst to me, at this time in my life, Audrey Tautou is a grey alien...
I’ve never loved anyone like I loved her. The truth is fantastic. The truth makes me seem like everything my parents say about me being schizophrenic is true. I am standing outside of the building drinking coffee waiting for the groups to be over, so I could go to the next group and talk about my feelings... the ones where I hate myself for being schizophrenic or the denial and the belief that I was gas-lit by some asshole because they don’t like what I have to say. They don’t like what I say when I am angry or that I don’t go to church. What does Jesus have to do with my schizophrenia? For that matter what do God, the father, and the Holy Spirit have to do with my schizophrenia? Well if God created me with a condition called schizophrenia then isn’t that a perfect creation?
Sooner or later all good things come to an end.
What can I say? Audrey Tautou was my therapist and soon she would be my hair stylist.
“What’s your problem?” Audrey says to me on my final day in the outpatient program at the Behavioral Health center.
“I’m Schizophrenic. No one will love me. No one will take me seriously. I am a joke...My problem is that I am still alive.”
“I think you have learned nothing here. Maybe I could get the doctor to extend your stay, but something tells me you want to stay, yes?”
What was I supposed to say?
“How am I to respond, Dr. Audrey?”
“I don’t know, anymore. I think maybe you might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back and maybe today is my last day as well.” She sobs a bit. “You are loved David, but some people just don’t know how to deal with your eccentricities.”
“Schizophrenia isn’t an eccentricity; it is a devastating disease from which there is no cure. The medicine doesn’t even help; I think Audrey Tautou is my counselor at the BHC.”
“How does that make you feel? To transmute your feelings for an actress onto one of your counselors, this is problem you face? How do you know I am not who you see before you? I am who you think I am?
Is this an existential problem you face? When you leave here will you still watch my movies?” Audrey said removing her glasses. She winked at me as someone put a black linen bag over my head. I felt the needle prick in my neck. I was out...
Mr. Estrada, do you know why you are here?
“This must be some joke.” I say into the darkness of the room I am in... I say back to the voice without a body. I say to the voice in the void.
“Mr. Estrada, do you know why you are here.” Same question new voice.
“David, we are all the people who have tried to help you throughout the years, but you refused our help.” I recognize this voice.
“You are too slow...” A new voice “We were waiting for you to say something, but you never did.”
In the blackness I was bombarded with these voices and empty promises of help. I would follow the voices, but I am tied to the gurney...l think I am in Whittier Presbyterian Hospital; tied to a bed again being gas lit. Greys do gaslight abductees because if anyone says they have been abducted by greys people know that they are crazy. Greys don’t exist. This is the rational thought. The thought of the rational is the greys and gas lighting doesn’t exist.
The rational thought isn’t always right. And in the blackness, I stay until I awake in the morning when Audrey is serving me eggs... Maybe I am just hungry for love. I am still tied up...and this is Presbyterian Intercommunity Hospital.
“You have nice earrings.” I say to Nurse Audrey Tautou.
“The Doctor was sympathetic to your plight, David. You need to stay in the hospital for the rest of your life. We will untie you later but now I will feed you.”
The pictures in my mind began to breathe as my dead-grey-alien mother walked through the room’s door.
“My dear what have they done to you my David Estrada?” She said as Audrey took her leave. What was I to do tied to the hospital bed... My mom began to feed me eggs and oatmeal. It may have been cream of wheat, but my head was spinning from my schizophrenia. I remembered that after they tied me up I began to think that I lived life backwards including a reincarnation into the past. Where I was the subject of infanticide, my head being bashed up against a rock because I was (I am) defective. Then during my second life I was gang raped because I was god. And as I was crucified the United States dropped a nuclear missile on my head. And I was home... I loved my parents and they weren’t around to save me from being deified but I would not be resurrected. As the warhead exploded I knew what love truly was.
I recollected this as my mom cut my over-easy egg with the edge of the plastic fork. And a nuclear bomb fell out of my mother’s mouth.
“We want to commit you to an institution indefinitely, David. This can’t go on. You are more in than out anyway. You might as well stay.” She said as she got up to leave. She stood in the doorway with tears rolling down hear checks saying, “Just stay, David, just stay. The outside isn’t for you.” She wiped her face with her sweater and put her glasses back on. Mom turned and left...
I felt like I could die. Just walk away. Without my dead-grey-alien mom to back me up this time it seems that I would spend a long time in a mental institution. One more time I must submit to the will of God. I know I am not god you see. But these ideations come from somewhere beyond myself. I was gaslit...No one will ever believe me.
I was just looking for some beauty. And so in my mind I dreamed I was far away. And that is where it always begins. As I meditate, I dream, my mind wanders to Audrey Tautou.
And so I found myself in the hospital, in a mental hospital. I was having a breakdown once again. Because I know now as I sit and write that grey aliens are not real and Heather and my time in Britain were a figment of my imagination. I was a schizophrenic bum in Britain looting the trashcans of the Underground.
“What do you dream of, David.” Audrey asked. “What have you always wanted?”
“How am I supposed to answer that, Audrey?” In that moment we went skinny dipping and in the next we were joined by the rest of the process group.
What a buzzkill. Fatty Arbuckle urged me and my fellow schizoids to stay out of the gene pool, but I couldn’t help to want Audrey. I just wanted love so much that I forgot I was schizophrenic.
It dawned on me that day that Audrey was a djinn. She wanted to know my wishes. “I dream of loving you, Audrey.” This time she got up and left the process group. Maybe all the drugs I did are the cause of my disorder. But that would mean that there is hope for me, but I know that is not true. I am hopeless. I wanted to chase her, so I did. There is this thing about being schizophrenic; it makes me an unbridled fool.
“Audrey,” I said.
“I am you therapist.” She shot back before I had a chance to finish what I was saying. “You can’t love me.” She said in French. “I mean we can’t be in love.” She composed herself and said in English.
“Fuck you, David Estrada... It is unethical.” And like a scene from a Woody Allen movie she said. “I think you should find another therapist, we shouldn’t see each other for a couple of months and if we still feel the same way then we should date.”
I felt faint. I didn’t fight the feeling and so I fell to the ground.
I didn’t have any plans of waking up in the emergency room with Audrey holding my hand. But it could have turned out worse.
Falling wasn’t the miracle I needed.
And weeks went by. And I couldn’t stop loving Audrey Tautou.
But she could stop loving me. I didn’t blame her of argue. We just stopped talking one day. She sstopped answering my phone calls.