When Human is Not Enough

by A.E. Bayne

I am an average human being, but I couldn’t always admit this to myself. While in grade school and middle school I strove to be more than human, wishing for heroic recognition and powers to annihilate my enemies. I would dream about this constantly in the miserable stew that was my pre-teen and early adolescent hormonal smorgasbord. Here’s how it would go down:

Cue sweeping 80’s metal band anthem, something along the lines of Metallica’s “Master of Puppets”, or Guns & Roses’ “Welcome to the Jungle.”

The setting: Our Lady of Good Counsel Catholic School, the playground (though most people call the asphalt space with lines painted on it a parking lot).

The situation: Preppy bop-girl terrorists have hijacked the school. They have used their evil mind control device to turn everyone into sheepish followers who love listening to Madonna and Huey Lewis and the News. The student body is being brainwashed, and I am the only one who can save them from these bitches and their diabolical plan to rule the school.



Pan cameras (there were always cameras in my dreams) over the top of the school and focus on a black helicopter moving in from a distance in slow motion.

Zoom in toward a lone figure, riding astride the landing gear of the copter and holding onto the doorframe with one hand. The original Lara Croft, that’s me, decked out in warrior regalia – camouflage fatigues; insanely long wavy hair flying; combat boots reflecting a patent sheen; machine gun belts crossed over my chest, showcasing my buxom figure, with the gun held at a perfect 45 degree angle in one hand, because I am that strong. Fucking badass!

I jump from the helicopter which is hovering some 20 feet above the ground. Metal music is blaring, hair bows and friendship bracelets are flying, and I’m kicking some girlie-girl ass.

Fade out.

That was always the end of the fantasy. Considering the enormous hormonal imbalance I was experiencing, it’s surprising that the school was not obliterated by the sheer psychic vehemence of my daydream. I never could imagine actually killing anyone; but damn, they got the scare of their lives. I mean peeing in their pink and yellow flowered cotton panties scared. And wasn’t I the hero in that story! They noticed me then, for sure.

The daydreaming continued into my young adulthood, and I tended to live simultaneously in a world where I felt invisible and one where I made all the rules. Boys weren’t noticing me in the real world; no problem. In my dream world I could be any kind of mystical princess/warrior/sick skater chic/rock star/actor that I could imagine; and every one of those characters could snatch a guy within her reach (and chew them up and spit them out if she wished). No one would vote for me for student council; screw ‘em. In my fantasy I was President of the world – no, the UNIVERSE – and you better believe that it was not a democracy. Didn’t make the school play, or passed over for the solo in the choir recital; whatever. In my mind I was a multi-platinum recording artist with a lucrative contract – no school for me! With dreams like these, who needed reality?



A time came though, after my first year in high school, when my dreams began to change. Instead of feeling invincible, I just felt pathetic. My dreams continued to be based on a familiar storyline, recognition and fame; but now they became morose and masochistic. Perhaps I would never be a famous person who was loved by many. Perhaps the only way to get noticed was through pain and showing people that I was hurting. These dreams were wrought of guilt with a touch of self-deprecation and loathing. Death appeared and disappeared as a constant theme for two full years during my early high school days.

Alas, none of the dreams were true, and reality prevailed. I have fully grown into an average human female, 35 years old with one fantastic son. I have a solid job with good benefits, and I pay taxes. I tinker with writing and do the things that I enjoy to keep life interesting. I’m not a world traveler, or a famous novelist, or a poet laureate. I’m not stunningly gorgeous or vivacious. I’m simply a good person. Pragmatic. Average. And that’s okay.

So when I read a recent Washington Post article about
people who believe that they are vampires, these thoughts and memories flooded through my mind. I was like that once. I understand what these people are feeling. It’s not easy being normal. You wake up one day from the haze of adolescence and all of the promises of youth have been for naught, and it’s damn hard to face yourself in the mirror and hold your real life up to those lofty expectations. Real life cannot compare, because the tangible is often too solid in light of those warm hopeful dreams imagined under the blankets in the safety of your parents’ home, where they paid the taxes and worried about the bills. Some day the vampires will come down to earth with all the rest of us, mundane and human though we may be. They will find the extraordinary in the ordinary, and I promise the pain will be short and sweet. Here’s wishing a safe and easy landing to all.