Kudzu Queen
I don’t know if chaos junkies are born or made, I only know that as far back as I can remember, I qualified. It was an easy, natural progression from being a chaos-comfortable toddler to becoming a spontaneous combustion-obsessed child.
I was a weird, neurotic kid who tormented myself endlessly with catastrophic mental scenarios (The most significant thing that’s changed in the intervening years is that I am physically larger). Generally speaking, my dysfunctional hillbilly family provided me with enough raw material to stress about, but every once in a while, all the adults would be in a state of truce (or else they were merely tired, and resting up for the next knock-down-drag-out).
During calm times, the dearth of trouble brewing on the home front alarmed me greatly. It distressed me more than the serious problems we often had, for if I did not have something in particular to worry about, I did not know what to do. I needed specific crises to worry about like a fussy baby needs its pacifier. I had no illusions that my worry could control outcomes, but I found a twisted kind of security in the thought that if I obsessed about something enough, as least I’d be ready when the shit hit the fan. Without proper worrying, any damn terrible unforeseen thing could happen. I’d be unprepared, which would be truly terrible.
When I was 9, I happened across a mass-market paperback book about supernatural phenomena. The chapter on spontaneous combustion both horrified and fascinated me. Evidently, you could be doing homework, playing kickball, or fighting your brother for the cereal box toy when suddenly WHOOSH, up you went in flames. There was no warning or explanation, and all that would be left of you would be a circle of ashes. This could happen to anyone, at any time.
Now THIS was something that one could worry about 24/7.
Inexplicably and suddenly bursting into flames was a much more serious thing to worry about than anything my father might do in a drunken rage. And it made my mother’s sporadic bursts of insanity seem like small potatoes, in comparison.
My family’s issues became veritable mental tater tots. Although I loved to worry about home stuff, I knew I’d better devote as much mental energy as possible to worrying about spontaneously combusting. It horrified me to think of all the years (nine) I had not even been AWARE of spontaneous combustion. My God, I had a lot of catch-up worrying to do. Jesus, what if I’d suddenly combusted at, say, age 6, when I hadn’t even known enough to worry about it? I would have been caught completely unprepared.
Although I made room in my mind for other topics when I had to, spontaneous combustion was never far from the forefront of my consciousness. A nice person probably would have worried about other beings combusting, like their cat or their grandmother or that second grade teacher who had always been so nice. Not me. I didn’t have that kind of decency. I worried solely about myself.
How bad will it hurt? Where will I be when it happens? What will people think? I was pretty sure that the entire rest of the world had not read the same book I had, so when I burst into flames, most people wouldn’t even realize they were witnessing a supernatural phenomenon. They’d just conclude that I was even weirder than they suspected.
In Sunday school, I found myself thinking, “I hope I don’t spontaneously combust right here. Because everybody will think I’m a real bad sinner, and it’s the judgment of God. Oh, please, don’t let me combust in church.”
In school, I found both alarm and comfort in the thought of combusting. “I hope I don’t burst into flames before recess. That would suck. It’s my turn to be “A” in 4-square. But if I have to burn up, right before the long division test would not be a bad time.”
Family trips in the car had historically been the very special kind of hell one would expect when six people who don’t get along are crammed together in a small metal box for half a day or more. My brother was my arch nemesis for the first decade of my life. Li’l Bro was surprised when I suddenly wanted to sit next to him on car trips. He knew better than to think that I had started liking him. He sensed a dark ulterior motive. But he never dreamed what it was: should I combust during a car trip, I was taking that tattletale-ing little twerp with me. As soon as I started smoldering, I intended to wrap that loudmouth little pest in the mother of all bear hugs. As many times as that kid had ratted me out to Mom, no way was he getting my toys after I spontaneously combusted.
Decades click by and childhood terrors lose their chokeholds on our minds. I’m not afraid of the dark any more. I no longer feel compelled to check under my bed for carnivorous trolls before retiring. Since becoming an adult, I’ve learned to regard spontaneous combustion much differently. I no longer fear it. In fact, there have been times when I’ve been in favor of it.
These times invariably involved myself getting caught committing some blatant act of stupidity, at work or out in society at large. I’ve wished I could spontaneously combust rather than have to face a justifiably irate supervisor. When one gets caught committing stupidities against society, cops are sometimes factored into the equation. Ain’t nothing like sirens and uniforms to cause wishing to get ratcheted up another level, to ardent prayer (“Dear God, please let me vanish into a ball of fire right now.”).
Right now I’m having some difficulties with the IRS. But I’m not freaking out about it. I’ve been expecting to spontaneously combust ever since I was 9 years old, and it hasn’t happened yet, so surely I’m about due. I hope I can time it for right when my audit begins.
Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.
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