A Work of Process

a human finds their voice

As the sun rose on Christmas morning, I had that feeling of not knowing where my home is. I parked outside the house we used to share; I wanted to be closer to my children waking up. We've been apart two years now; it breaks my heart to feel so far away.

The father of my kids is Wilson. We were communicating better, but a mismatch in our needs for physical affection had always left me wanting more.

Wilson and I first filed for divorce in the pandemic. He bought another house; our children, Gracie, Leia, and Tiger stayed with me. It wasn't easy, but we worked it out; not like this time when a game that we began together left me homeless; and I lost my greatest privilege of custody.

I've maintained strong remission in recovery after rehab and love to reach for natural highs, through dance or exercise. A boyfriend from my past had taught me about ‘subspace' and I wanted to explore it.

Wilson and I made a profile on a dating site to spice things up. A clever woodsman named Coyote caught my attention. His writing style set him apart from all our other suitors; his messages were thoughtful and artistic. He had experience with altered states of subspace, and offered time and patience for couples like us, new to the scene.

I'm not used to people asking my opinion; my voice often came last to all other demands. Coyote shifted my perspective so profoundly that for all the carnage that's about to follow, I now walk around the world with grace and confidence, thanks to his patient ways. I felt like we were on such equal terms in every interaction that it's still a massive challenge to imagine he was working underneath our trust.

Two Wolves

I grew up in New Hampshire, in the woods, learning from the trees more than the streets. We didn't have much money, so I learned to work hard for what I wanted at an early age. In my married life, I was home raising the kids, and times were hard. I lost my voice and felt so lonely in our partnership.

I thought Wilson was out so much because he wanted other women more; the ones who went to business meetings wearing makeup and high heels. I worked hard to keep in shape, cooked his favorite foods, and tried to please him, but it never seemed enough.

It makes sense to me based on my childhood and marriage why I crave attention. The interest of Coyote made me feel valuable in ways I'd never felt before. I understood our pact to keep our feelings separate from our primal acts. But still, it sparked mischievous desire to imagine that perhaps this Dom would fall for me as hard as I was crushing.

Three months had passed, and we had yet to meet in person. Coyote said the reason was his truck was in the shop. For reassurance, Wilson met with him for coffee; they hit it off instantly.

I was so glad they got along. I bent more rules on all the socials, accepting invites from random people, which had never been my style. Details from our chat appeared on other apps, at first seemed like coincidence, or the algorithm's game. The corresponding messages made it seem like they were coming from a common source.

Music is my passion; I'll choose the company of songs over people when given choice of how to spend my time. I love all genres and feel music in my body with a synesthetic sense, my favorite gift of neurodiversity. The soundtrack of my life deserves a multimedia production it's so rich with energy.

I tried to reach Coyote's heart with a custom playlist; it turned into my favorite kind of project: a musical documentary, like a soundtrack to a roadmap that evolves as time goes by.

Coyote sent back pictures in return. My imagination stretched to understand his deeper message underneath. The first displayed a ghostly tulip, like the flower on the cover of my favorite Morphine album. A track called Rope on Fire was important to our game.

The second photo of an empty room was captioned ‘waking up in subspace’. It looked like it was taken in a sanitarium; the kind of hospital you'd see in psychic thrillers. Bright wooden floors, so realistic I could hear the silence with my eyes. What does this mean? He certainly can't mean the hospital; this must indicate a quiet place to rest after our wild scene.

The third picture was graphic: a close-up of raw meat with a gash inside, seeming to suggest impending pain. I expected this as we'd discussed that in order to reach subspace, sacrifice was necessary to feel the rush of pleasure as reward.

The next was like a picture I would take: my favorite view, the clouds outside the airplane window after reaching cruising altitude. I wondered where we'd go together, or if it was a metaphor. The emotional equivalent to soaring high above the clouds sounds like paradise indeed. If I had to spend a night in that strange bed, the promise of an airplane must allude to brighter days.

The last photo enforced that concept, spanning wide across an endless vista, captioned ‘two weeks after subspace’. Two hot air balloons alighted all my wildest dreams; I pondered what the symbolism meant.

Coyote asked if I was ready. I made a deal that night to follow this mysterious man wherever 'subspace' meant. A darker sense of fear inquired; the hospital, an airplane, where was all this going? I showed the photographs to Wilson; he didn't think they were alarming. The distance illustrated in the pictures made me wonder if we'd gotten into something bigger than our heads.

I started noticing view-counts rising on our family YouTube clips, and there’d been more activity on our Zillow listing than when we’d bought the house. I knew someone was watching us online, and at this point, the man behind those magic words could do no wrong. I wanted badly to be his, maybe this godly man was on a rescue mission for a lonely lady of a tired marriage just like me.

I changed my wallpaper to a photo of the man behind the Instagram account that worked in tandem with our chat. We ‘kissed’ so many times, I started feeling like my phone had personality.

I stopped telling Wilson all the other things my phone could do since Coyote came around. His interactive game made me feel desired. I never thought for once that somebody was luring me out of my nest the way you coax a feral kitten closer with drops of milk and meat.

Rope on Fire

I longed for the embrace of the creator behind this digital adventure. By now, our chat had evolved into a full-blown multimedia production with an interactive soundtrack, secret messages hidden in social media games, a world alive with possibility.

I drove to yoga on a technicolor morning with a surge of independence; little did I know this was a day when everything would change. In my past life, a class felt like an action of rebellion, as my schedule was tied so closely to my family.

Afterwards, at a cafe, I was attracted to a man I’d never seen before. He looked just like the photo of Coyote I’d been lusting on for months. I knew the clever woodsman was aware of my location, from the tracking game we had been playing. I wondered with excitement if this was the moment we would finally meet.

Curiosity took the wheel. I followed the mysterious man out of the parking lot, my heart pounding. His car turned into the driveway of a farm. Rolling down my window, I pretended to be lost and asked him for directions back to town.

The stranger introduced himself as Vernon; his language referenced subtle details from our steamy chat. I followed him, entranced, into his barn. I wasn’t sure exactly who this guy was, but felt he was connected to our game.

After a brief and passionate encounter, a tidal wave of guilt crashed over me. I thought of my children, the weight of my choices pressing down. How could I upend their lives for my own selfish desires?

My journal often has the answers. I reflected on my recent notes from therapy, and made a big decision to leave my marriage in pursuit of happiness. I was craving independence, wanting to explore a different future, regardless if another man was on the other side.

That evening, I told Wilson I was leaving. I couldn’t bear to tell him about anything that happened at Vernon's farm, or all the build-up to that day.

Wilson was concerned that my sudden request could be a psychiatric emergency. I agreed to be checked out, I have nothing to hide, and I thought I’d surely have a chance to explain my side of the story.

Instead, I felt lost in a system that wasn’t designed to help me in the way I needed. I didn't feel I'd had a chance to explain my truth to doctors who gave me a diagnosis based on inaccurate information.

This label affected my credibility going forward. I was served with custody papers at my discharge from the hospital; returned home to find the locks had changed and all our money had been moved into a new account.

My identity had been so deeply intertwined with parenting, I was completely unprepared for the legal system. I felt alone, scared, and punished, as if I’d committed a heinous crime.

Dirty Linen

The Game I had been playing with Coyote kept evolving, in ways I found impossible to resist. He invited me to his special project Limitless. I was posting so much content that my friends became quite confused.

The Game encouraged me to exercise, and mostly challenged me to try my best. But when the energy turned sinister, I sought help from authorities; they sent me back to WMC.

I realized how my frightened pleas were received as paranoia; no one had physically harmed me. Regardless, I was scared by empty threats; I shivered, naked under the paper scrubs, feeling like my skin would now belong to someone else entirely.

Arrival was completely different than the first time. In contrast to the raucous energy of the main floor with puzzles, groups, and roommates, my unit ‘PERC’ was silent. I had the whole room to myself. A nurse brought my medication and a cup of water, it looked cloudy.

I welcomed the drowsy, clouded feeling that pervaded for the rest of the day. I wondered later if I'd only been a little more alert during the admission process, I could have exercised my rights in any way?

Mealtimes were the only structured events, as no groups or therapy sessions were available in the PERC. Days turned into weeks; the isolation was severe.

In the evenings, I was asked to give urine samples. I noticed on the lab-slip they were monitoring hormones related to fertility. I was confused, as these tests didn’t seem relevant to my mental health.

Now that I've learned the truth about my family lineage, I wonder if there was a reproductive purpose in this extraordinary stay. I filed a complaint about the doctor on my case at WMC who doesn’t have a license.

Shortly after, I experienced what I believe to be Havana Syndrome while staying in a hotel. I heard a ringing in my ears, it felt like vertigo.

Initially, surveillance didn’t bother me, I have nothing to hide. When I felt like someone was watching through my phone, it was flattering to imagine that an audience was listening to me.

When I noticed the same markings of The Game on both my daughters’ phones, I became quite concerned. The content is nothing anyone would find alarming; it’s their behavior that raises red flags to me.

My daughter Leia started performing for her phone, just like I did. The patterns are familiar, like the ones I'd learned from Coyote’s special project, Limitless.

In her recent workout videos, Leia looks directly into the lens, as though someone is watching her, as if she’s completing an assignment. I see how easily I was manipulated, and I fear that Leia might be falling into the same trap.

Immunity

The story of my adolescence sounds like ones grandfathers are famous for. I'd leave before the sun rose on those cold New Hampshire winters, walking miles to the bus stop with a baked potato in each pocket for warmth and sustenance.

I traced roadmaps in the trees, through icy windows, as the moon stood out like lightning in the early morning sky.

I took another wild ride this year, with a few bumps in the road just like those school commutes. I felt like I was stuck inside the internet, playing a game without conclusion, living in a digital captivity. It seemed like the only way out was if I could understand the mystery of how, or why, or who the other player was.

Much like leaving Wilson, I tried escaping many times. I was hot to go to subspace, but I changed my mind. I’m grateful for the lessons and my independence. When I played that song after my yoga class, it was with intention to break free.

I am free now, I declare it. Disconnecting from devices was the first step. With perspective, I can see the real prison was in my mind. It was built from fear and the habit of prioritizing others' approval over my own integrity.

In the winter where it’s always waiting, the sun woke Caitlin up and gave her a new name. Reaching bravely through the afternoon, she climbed the final stretch of twisty ropes to greet the muddy grass between her journey and the sky.

The piano had been playing all along. The music held me through the darkness, and when the daylight finally touched my thirsty eyes, I knew that I belonged.

My name is Cady Atlas Lord now. I am a traveler of the light-year stars. I am fascinated by details that often go unnoticed, and the spirit of resilience that I celebrate in song.

Thank you for your time to hear to my story. As a lifelong listener, it really means a lot.