Mentor Tape 1

[CW/TW: The Mentor's Tape recount stories of mental/emotional abuse and gaslighting in a student/teacher setting. Listener discretion is advised. This warning is strictly for this subseries.]

(Beep. Music fades in)

I don’t think you expected to hear from me. But I do think the sight of this tape probably gave you some sort of rush. A thrill, you could say. I don’t blame you for that. It’s my fault for making these tapes. Because I did it with the full knowledge of the sick satisfaction you’ll get knowing that I bothered. That I exerted this effort. Because it means that you still matter, that you are still important to me, right? That's what you're thinking.

I know that all too well. You are the sort of beast that can only be destroyed through neglect. Disregard. Silence. Instead, I am offering you so much attention, it would be considered a feast by your standards. And maybe I’m dumb for that. Maybe. I can’t ignore that possibility.

But at the same time, I won’t let you control the narrative. Our story. Or your role in mine. And that’s right. It’s my story. My story. My decision, so I won’t allow that. My truth will exist, and it will exist beyond me. Beyond both of us. Where you can’t get it or suffocate it or alter it in some way. But you will want to. I know that. I know you better than you know me. And I know you will do everything you can to retake control, a control that you assumed was yours to claim. You thought I was your little puppet by default, and you will do anything you can to keep me that way.

But not so fast. You can’t take this from me. Not anymore. Not without giving something valuable up.

If you want to fight, you have to acknowledge the fight. You have to admit that I’m upset, that you’re pretty golden child isn’t so golden. And by golden, you mean loyal, obedient. To fight me would be admitting that you’ve lost control over me and that maybe you never really had it.

So what if I put in more effort than I should for these tapes? It’s nothing compared to what I will get for telling my story. For ensuring that it will exist outside of both of us, some place where it is safe from you. And if you try and fight me, you lose something your ego loves. Your precious ego: deprived of its true nourishment and withering away. That’s a prize too. Even if I can’t get anyone to believe me.

(Music cuts) Checkmate.

(Beep. Music fades in)

I don’t think I’ve ever been that secure of a person. Not even before the dreams started, and I had very real reason to see myself as an outsider. Or you could say, when I wasn’t so tired.

But all the same, my teenage years weren’t so kind to me. Fun fact, they aren’t all that kind to anyone, unless you’re borrowing from the future. Sure, you get to enjoy a few years completely and totally unscathed, untouched by the deep sense of personal and social insecurity that defines that era of most of our lives. And in the moment, it just seems like some people are lucky. But no, the cosmic scales will find a balance, and those will become the best years of your life. Or the most satisfying ones. 

The rest will feel hollow. You pass through them, feeling like you are merely going through the motions, struggling to find any sense of fulfillment as you check off achievements and experiences like mere items on a to-do list. All the emotion you should feel is muted. All things pale in the glow of whatever you remember high school being. Or that’s how I always assumed your life was. It would explain a lot.

Like while you inflicted that sense of disappointment on other people, like a vulnerable young girl who trusted you. Like me. Because you’re just so unhappy, and your misery demands to be kept company.

Maybe that’s a bit too strong of a lead. So much so that it isn’t exactly fair anymore. Poisoning the well, some would call it. I mean, we are just getting started, so I guess I should watch what I say, right? I should be careful not to imply or even lay out the framework for certain mental images. Like you using your position of influence, trust, and authority to scope out your prey. I should be careful not to suggest that you use your venerated status as a vantage point to spot and then single out the weakest in the herd to then be eaten alive.

Clearly, I shouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say that. How could I ever do that?

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

After all, you didn’t stalk me. You didn’t single me out in anyway, certainly not while lining yourself up to pounce when you got the chance. It wasn’t like that. It didn’t need to be. I was already alone.

If anything, you’re merely opportunistic.

I was seventeen when we met. I was somewhat too young to be where I was, at least in a practical sense. Or that’s what the constant administrative nightmare made me think. It was terrible, not being able to sign the most important forms required for the living part of college life. 

It might have been frustrating, but I never should have told you that. I never shouldn’t have told you anything.

Looking back, I don’t entirely understand how I was able to be so careless or daring in college. Not in a grand way. But there were little things I didn’t do that you think I would do considering how cautious and fearful I could be.  

But regardless, I didn’t do the expected recon work ahead of course registration. I never looked up anything about my professors. It would make sense to. I don’t know why I didn’t. I think I wrote it off as a petty thing students do to avoid the work that will make them better people. But in hindsight, I see this wasn’t entirely true. I see the wisdom and purpose in it. 

Then again, you keep your true nature hidden. And someone else around you is disparaged by most but changed my life. And someone else’s profile happens to be spot on. No, I couldn’t have trusted that. Maybe it only matters in so far as it can be fodder for that infamous what-if game. Because, really, it might not have made any difference, or it might have come at too high of a cost to justify. I don’t know. I can’t know.

But there were red flags right in front of me that I shouldn’t have ignored. Like when your eyes just seemed to dig into my soul, taking an inventory that I knew was going to come up short. I was never able to look you in the eyes without feeling a deep sense of discomfort. I thought it was just my standard aversion to eye contact. But no, it’s true what they say: the eyes are a window to the soul, and it was the first time I had ever seen true evil. 

I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think about it.

That’s where my culpability lies, where it starts, and where it ends. Look, I won’t pretend to be blameless. It was a mistake to see all those warning signs and not act accordingly, but my mistakes were not malicious. Yours were. You made your choices. I didn’t do that for you. And really, your actions are the only ones that count here.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

I took your class to kill time in a schedule that was far too light. I couldn’t take any advanced courses: first year students were locked out of them. And I couldn’t bring myself to ask for the exception I needed. So I picked from the scraps. Your class was just the most appealing of those scraps. It was the least of many boring options.

I want you to know that.

(Music fades out and new music fades in)

I was seventeen when I met you. And you seemed like the type of woman I hoped to become one day: strong, confident, assured. You know what I mean; it’s a story told far too often. But back then, it was true. You presented yourself as the manifestation of my hopes for my future. I was drawn in by the warmth of your eternal fire. With no hesitation, I flew towards the trap.

But the remarkable thing was that you didn’t snap it shut right away. You were too practiced for that. You knew that if you did it too soon, I might run. I’m men, there was always a chance I’d come to my senses, right? Even if it wasn’t a high one. Maybe I wasn’t as trusting and naive as I looked. 

So no matter how often I went to your office hours, you kept it basic, teaching me the text and praising my ideas. Intrusive queries came up, but they were few and far between and timed out in such a way that I could overlook them, maybe even convince myself I was overreacting.

After all,  no one else had a problem with you. Or at least I never heard of one. Then again, I did not talk to anyone. I always sat alone. I always walked alone. I was always alone.

But even if I wasn’t. I might have still overlooked that. Because more importantly, I wasn’t afraid of you. I was afraid of every other professor at that school. I don’t know why, exactly. But they scared me. You didn’t. They could be just as warm if not warmer as you were pretending to be, but I shrunk away from them. In fear. In unfounded fear. But not with you.

Cue a whole bunch of psychology, I guess. I don’t mean that to be flippant. Not this time. That actually makes sense, and you know that. I think you know more about that other discipline than you admit. You’d need to for this hobby of yours.

I remember the way your eyes lit up when I made a comment about not being close to my mother. My tone must have given more away than my words. I don’t know how the topic came up, but you know. You did it. It was part of your plan. And then you pulled my culture into this and sealed my fate.

Allegedly, I should say. But it doesn’t matter. You had this need of mine in sight and found a way to strike at it when the time came. 

And you did just that, didn’t you? When I went to go pick up my final paper after you graded it. That was your chance, right?

Is that why you hugged me?

(Music fades out. Beep)