No matter how deep into shit you get, there will always be someone who is willing to help you, if you just reach out. Whenever I read about the Jonestown massacre (which I do a lot, ’cause it’s fucking fascinating) my heart breaks. Over nine hundred people, some purposely, some forcefully, drank poison because their cult leader, Jim Jones, commanded them to.
I’ve always wondered where that point of no return was for those members. Probably way before the cyanide and moving to a commune and turning over all worldly possessions. What was the moment that they didn’t think there was an out anymore? Didn’t think that someone in their life, outside the cult, would be there to help them if they reached out? And it makes me think of my family, because no matter how fraught my relationship with my mom or sister, or what modest means my dad would be able to provide to help me get back on my feet, not having a ton of worldly possessions himself, I know they would always be there for me if I reached out. It makes me sad that hundreds of those members had family who would have done anything to help them but that at some point they decided it wasn’t possible anymore to make a call.
For years following the shoplifting incident, my dad would swoop in many more times to help me with even worse trouble. Drugs and boys and huge fights with my mom. Luckily, I eventually straightened out, but even in my twenties, I could call him to ask adulting questions like, “How do you apply for a credit card?” and “What is a résumé supposed to look like?” He helped me open my first bank account and made sure that the moment I got my driver’s license, I had AAA, just in case. The other thing he does is always, without fail, tell me how proud he is of me whenever we part ways, either in person or on the phone. Even when I didn’t deserve anyone being proud of me, he still made sure that I knew that he was proud of the person I was, even when that person made (lots of) mistakes.
Fun fact: the shoplifting charges were dismissed! And to this day, my dad hasn’t told my mom about it. But I guess I kind of just did. Sorry, Mom.
You’re in a Cult, Call Your Dad: Final Thoughts
GEORGIA: When was the last time you had to ask your dad for help and thought, Whoa, I’m way too old to be asking my dad for help?
KAREN: It was about five years ago when I had to borrow money from my dad because I couldn’t pay my mortgage. I’d been pretending the financial problems I was having didn’t exist, which I absolutely do not recommend. Denial usually triples the size of any problem. Not only was I way too old to be running to Daddy’s checkbook, I was too old not to see that it was a very short-term Band-Aid. Like one of those off-brand Band-Aids that comes off an hour after you put it on because you bend your thumb wrong. You know the kind.
GEORGIA: What’s something you wouldn’t know how to do if your dad hadn’t taught you?
KAREN: Let’s see: tell a good story, make beef stroganoff, drive a stick shift, appreciate classical music, insult people creatively, sing, make good popcorn.
GEORGIA: Out of all the cults in history, which one do you think you would have been most likely to join?
KAREN: Is the Illuminati considered a cult? They’ve always seemed appealing to me because they’re so secretive. I don’t even know who or what they are, yet I’m kind of afraid to be talking about them in print. That’s power. It’s just kind of understood that they run shit, but they keep a tight lid on things. They’re not making commercials inviting you to join. You CAN’T join. They don’t want you. That’s the only kind of group I’ve ever cared about.
GEORGIA: If you were to start a cult, what would the rules be? Could I join?
KAREN: My cult would be like one long game night you’re not allowed to leave: charades, Yahtzee, gin rummy, Risk, all of it. Just constant hanging out and playing games and eating onion dip. The leader of the cult will be determined by who wins the most games that day, so it’ll end up rotating, thus preventing extremism. Oh, and everyone has to have a black bob. Georgia, I hate to tell you this, but you’re already in it.
art by Rita Garza of RitaWorks Art & Illustration
4
SEND ’EM BACK
KAREN: The one realization Georgia and I have come to as we read story after story about murderers to each other is that almost every serial killer suffered a major head trauma as a child. They all got hit in the head by a swing. Or kicked in the head by a horse. Or a third thing. And afterward, things in their brain went haywire. So Georgia, child-rearing expert that she is, suggested that if your kid gets kicked in the head, you should probably “send ’em back.” Who knew that in this age of helicopter parenting this idea would strike such a chord? Turns out, lots of us have been hit in the head as children and lots more have accidentally hit their children in the head. We’re all afraid to find out which one of us will turn out to be the bad apple. That’s why it’s important to learn about and look for red flags in all children, especially ones who were forced to raise themselves on horror movies and powdered lemonade.
Georgia on Car Crashes and Meeting Karen
I blame Stephen King for my addiction to fear. It all started when I was just ten years old. I was a skinny kid with stringy hair, an overactive imagination, and an obsessive, all-encompassing love of books, cats, and snacks … so basically, I was the exact same person I am today. I loved nothing more than getting cozy with a paperback from the local library in the grandiose-sounding neighborhood of Heritage Park. Maybe a Roald Dahl or a Judy Blume, with Whiskers curled up at my feet and a plate of cheese toast and apple slices beside me.
But I also loved scary movies, like any good anxiety-ridden person does, despite the insomnia that accompanies them. Back in the ’80s, adults didn’t bat an eye at a kid watching terrifying movies that would give them nightmares for months. We watched movies about stuff like a dying murderer using black magic to possess a little boy’s favorite doll (Child’s Play), and a baby who gets kidnapped by a goblin king and the baby’s big sister who has to survive a big creepy maze, grotesque Muppets, and David Bowie’s junk-hugging leggings to get him back (Labyrinth). My mom recently reminded me that for my eighth birthday party, a sleepover, she rented us little girls the gory and graphic Robocop, featuring violent cyborgs, and left us to watch it in the dark alone. Parents had to be called for pickups within the first twenty minutes of the movie.
Our baby boomer parents, who as children had duck-and-cover drills during class due to legit LOOMING NUCLEAR WARFARE, must not have thought fiction was that big of a deal.
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I think kids are way too sheltered these days and some exposure to the real world is necessary for growth … that said, there’s some shit I saw as a kid, both fictional and non-, that greatly contributed to my pretty significant anxiety disorder. So yeah, maybe don’t let your kid watch Robocop at eight years old (I’m side-eyeing you, Mom).
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And even though I’d heard scary stories late at night at sleepovers, nothing prepared my ten-year-old ass for the terror that was Pet Sematary. How did I have the opportunity to watch horror when I was ten? Well, my parents divorced when I was five, so they weren’t around after school due to their work schedules, and they weren’t around at night due to their dating schedules, so as latchkey kids, what my siblings and I watched on TV was not policed.
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“Georgia, what’s a latchkey kid?” you ask. Excellent question! You see, way back before helicopter parenting, a kid was allowed to be home alone for hours on end with no supervision while their parents were at work or at a bar or wherever (also cell phones didn’t exist yet, remember?). The latchkey part comes from the house key that was either on a string around the kid’s neck or hidden in an obviously fake rock in the garden. During their parent-free hours, latchkey kids were expected to just hang out at home or go out into the world and live their fucking lives or whatever, all without supervision. We’re all still shocked that the majority of us weren’t kidnapped or killed.
If it sounds like fun, stick around for Karen’s step-by-step guide next!
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So there we were, under the supervision of our regal gray-and-white alley turned lap cat, settling in on our very ’70s tacky brown plaid couch under a couple Grandma-knitted afghans for a night of that exhilaratingly awful-yet-wonderful feeling of being terrified by a movie. If you’ve never seen Pet Sematary, go watch it. Right now …
… Fucking terrifying, right???
To be fair, it’s corny and hokey, as most early Stephen King movies are, but that’s part of the charm. It knocked a neuron or two loose in my ten-year-old brain, and I still haven’t recovered. I was so that little girl who would rather see her beloved cat become a smelly, evil zombie-cat than have no beloved cat at all. After that movie, I became fascinated by the concept of terror and gore, and so thanks to Stephen King, I became addicted to the feeling of fear. I needed more.
I started checking out Stephen King books from the Heritage Park Library, consuming the thick paperbacks at a rate that would’ve worried my parents if they weren’t so busy working and dating. I started with Pet Sematary, which turned out to be WAY scarier than the movie, then moved on to some of my favorites like Christine, It, The Dead Zone, and The Shining. Each one kept me up reading late into the night.
I’ve always had anxiety-induced insomnia, which causes me to lie awake and stare into the darkness, thinking about all the worst things that can befall me and those I cared about. These books were teaching me about new and awful befall-able things, but now I had Stephen King keeping me company, so I wasn’t alone anymore. Any insomniac will tell you that it’s not as bad when you have someone to share it with.
Within a year or two, I’d read through the library’s entire Stephen King collection, but my love of scaring the shit out of myself late into the night had only just begun.
And somewhere along the way, I got my hands on something even scarier, the biography of a serial killer. Not just any serial killer. Ted Freaking Bundy. And not just any biography. The Stranger Beside Me by the goddess that is Ann Rule. Stephen King and his fictional fear were a gateway drug to the hard stuff, the real-life terror of true crime.
I was horrified. And thrilled. And I wouldn’t know it until the term was coined twenty-six years later in the My Favorite Murder Facebook community page, but I became a Murderino.
I was lucky no one in my family ever shamed me for my fascination with true crime. In fact, they were in it with me. At the time, Unsolved Mysteries and America’s Most Wanted were two of the biggest shows on TV, and the faces of missing children were plastered on the milk cartons that sat on our breakfast tables. Thinking back, I don’t know how anyone else who grew up when I did didn’t become obsessed with true crime. The ’80s practically forced it down our throats in the name of TV ratings. There isn’t one person my age who doesn’t still get the chills when they hear the gravelly, soothing voice of Robert Stack or hear the creepy theme song from Unsolved Mysteries. But while everyone else in my generation seemed to outgrow their fascination with true crime, I fell deeper in love.
I didn’t know it was something I was supposed to be embarrassed about until I got a little older and realized that people thought I was a creep for wanting to talk about murder all the time. Apparently, it’s creepy to obsess about the weapons most commonly used in familicide, the analysis of bloodstain patterns, and the psychological profiles of people with Munchausen syndrome by proxy and to want—no, have to—know all the tragic, horrible details, and yes, even see crime scene photos and read autopsy reports. And did I mention my waking nightmares of being kidnapped? But I couldn’t quit.
Much in the same way I loved being terrified by Stephen King, I loved how Ann Rule made me feel that my constant anxiety about death was legitimate. Look, there it was, right on the page! Georgeann Hawkins had been worried about a Spanish test instead of the very real threat of someone lurking in the shadows, and then that someone manifested into Ted Bundy and snatched her off the street. It was real! I wasn’t crazy!
Anxiety had been a very real, very problematic part of my life long before I stumbled upon true crime. I was already lying awake in bed at night, paralyzed with fear: worry that something awful would happen to my parents or my siblings or my cat, worry about the future, about being made fun of at school, about car accidents and what-ifs … those things kept me up at night already, true crime or not.
There was something so satisfying about getting confirmation that the world wasn’t as great as Happy Days or Mr. Belvedere made it out to be. It didn’t take the anxiety away, but it still felt like a fucking triumph. I was a child, and I wanted to know about every bad thing that’s out there so I could prepare myself for the worst, and what the hell is worse than a child murderer?? Literally nothing. Not. One. Thing. I didn’t just want to feel the thrill of fear or the satisfaction of validation, my survival depended on my knowing about crime.
Ann Rule even says in The Stranger Beside Me that her ultimate goal was “to warn women of danger, and hopefully save their lives with some bit of advice or caution they read in my books.” I was determined to glean as much of that advice and caution as humanly possible. I was going to arm myself with knowledge.
In fall of 1993, Polly Klaas, a girl my age on the other side of California, disappeared out of her home. She was abducted while surrounded by her friends at a slumber party, plucked from her sleeping bag and carried out past her mother’s bedroom and into the cold night. It seemed like such a dirty trick to steal her from the safety of a room full of her best friends. I didn’t know her, but I lay in bed at night imagining her escape from her captor, willing it to happen. I’d picture her untying knots with her teeth and wriggling out of restraints, running through a field to a lonely highway and flagging down a passing car who would carry her to safety.
Polly didn’t escape. She was killed. When her captor was found, a story came out that Polly had been alive hidden in the nearby woods while a cop helped the sick fuck pull his stuck car from a ditch. I was so angry that I knew for sure that life wasn’t fair and never would be. I knew that if sweet Polly wasn’t safe from the dark ironies of life, then there was no way that I was either. I had always had a hunch about this aspect, but now I was sure.
But anxiety wasn’t the only thing I carried out of my youth and into my adolescence. Along with the fear, there was a growing understanding that not everyone was in this with me.
When I got older and realized my peers weren’t super into true crime like I was, I learned to suss out those who shared my passion by picking up on little hints like favorite TV shows (Law & Order, CSI, anything on Discovery ID), and later I figured out I could trick people into discussing true crime by asking my favorite conversation starter, “What’s the craziest thing that happened in your hometown as a kid that fucked with your head?” I hung on every word of the real-life stories I was told, about kidnappings and murderers and teachers revealed to be child molesters. Everyone had a story, even if they purported to not be into true crime.
Enter Karen
I didn’t just find a friend when I met Karen, I found a kindred spirit. We met through mutual friends, and although we’d been at a couple of parties together, we hadn’t really talked much. Over a decade earlier, when I was twenty-one, I used to see her perform at this tiny restaurant turned comedy venue called Largo. Karen was so cool and funny, and I was uncharacteristically intimidated by her the first few times I met her.
But at a Halloween party in 2015, before our convo about The Staircase and before our first lunch date which turned into an idea for a podcast which turned into this book which turned into a similar story in the intro to this book, but from her perspective, I heard her from across the room talking to a small gathered crowd about a gory car accident she’d witnessed the day before. I needed to know more. So as everyone around her slowly backed away to find a conversation that involved less blood, I moved in closer, grabbed her by the arm, and with grave sincerity said, “Tell me everything.”
Car accidents are another of my big anxiety triggers.
When I was sixteen, my first “real” boyfriend, a sweet redheaded boy named Mike who I’d met at summer camp a few years earlier, was killed when the car he was driving got swept up in a flash flood and ended up under the wheels of a big rig. I found out about Mike’s death when my sister called me at my high school boyfriend’s house. We were broken up at that point—me and Mike—but it still fucking wrecked me.
And then there was high school boyfriend Chris. I’d met Chris during my two-week stint in rehab. We were in for the same drug of choice, meth, and a little while after rehab we both ditched the meth and fell madly in love. It was an obsessive relationship that was, while not quite healthy, an important one in terms of teaching me about relationships and love. We eventually broke up, and I graduated high school and moved away, but we kept in touch, and I always had a place in my heart for him.
A couple of years later, I got a call from Chris’s older brother. Two nights earlier, Chris had driven off the freeway into a wall and had sat dying in his car for hours before being spotted the next morning. He was alive when he was pulled from the car but died on the way to the hospital. It took me years and lots of therapy to stop constantly picturing him waiting in his car for hours to be found. Was he conscious? Bleeding? Scared? The night he crashed, I’d suddenly woken up at 3:00 A.M. with a start and a piercing, painful headache. I eventually fell back to sleep, but later on I put it together that the moment I woke up, he was in his car dying from his head injury. I’d wondered for a long time if he’d been thinking about me at that moment, or if the synapses firing in his broken brain had briefly popped on to some memory of me that I could sense in my sleep. I’m not a superstitious or really even a spiritual person, but it just felt like there had to be some connection.
Stay Sexy & Don't Get Murdered Page 9