ESP & Me

Like many Brown students, I was a ravenous reader as a child.

Unlike many Brown students, I was so ravenous a reader as a child that one day, I stumbled into Dewey Decimal class 103—Parapsychology and Occultism—at my school library, and over the course of the next several weeks checked out so many books on this topic that I was eventually banned from that shelf.

Yes, as a child I was a little obsessed with the paranormal. Specifically, with ESP (extrasensory perception). I didn’t begin my research into Dewey Decimal 103 thinking that I had a sixth sense—in fact, I, the young skeptic, assumed most instances of the paranormal to be coincidence or straight up deception. But it only took one chapter of “Paranormal Events Scientists Can’t Explain” in A Beginner’s Guide to ESP for my malleable prepubescent mind to change.

You see, during my research, I learned that ESP could take many forms, and at some of them, I was pretty adept. For instance, about 20% of the time, I could guess the right card picked randomly out of a deck of five. Pretty impressive, right?

The more I read, the more convinced I was that I was some kind of clairvoyant, and the more haunted by my power I became. I would have Ravenesque “visions” on the playground of horrible car accidents, and would plead with the subject of my premonition that they avoid standing in the middle of a highway at night wearing all black—for the spirits had foretold that if they did so, they would meet their doom.

I was always right. People who took my advice never died. I developed a small following of true believers. My career as a psychic was booming. But like many young artists, my dreams were summarily crushed by none other than my own mother.

It was a school night, and I was giving my spectacular and mystical brain a well-deserved rest. I fell asleep quicker than usual, partially because this was one of my first nights in a bedroom of my very own (a few days before this, I had, through what I assumed was a mild form of mind control, convinced my older sister to give up her place in the solo room for the chance to share a room with my younger sister).

I don’t know what it was—maybe my state of solitude-induced hyper-relaxation, or my most recent ESP research, or the fact that I had just watched Armageddon at a Girl Scout sleepover. But something caused me to have a terrible dream—a dream I knew could only be a premonition.

After my vision startled me awake, I sprinted out of my room and into my parents’. It was empty—a bad sign—so I took the stairs two at a time heading down to the kitchen, my head pulsing with anxiety and paranormal energy. I finally skidded into the dining room, locked eyes with my surprised-looking mother, grabbed her hands and pulled her towards me, shouting:

“MOM! YOU GOTTA MOVE SOMEWHERE ELSE! OTHERWISE YOU’RE GOING TO GET HIT WITH A METEORITE AND DIE!”

She stared at me in stunned silence. I cleared my throat and clarified. “I know, because I have ESP.”

After this incident, school librarian Mrs. Z placed the library ban against me to prevent further outbursts. To make things worse, my mom moved me back into my old room with my little sister because I was having “nightmares.” This was the thanks I got for trying to save her life.

My sixth sense faded without the books to sustain me, but glimmers of it still reappear. For instance, I bet right now, you’re wondering if I’m really about to end this article with nothing more than a terrible pun.

And to that I say, well… E-yes-P.

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