A friend said that to me the other night, and it stuck. We were going down the laundry list of my many “irrational” fears. This person is always trying to convince me that New Orleans isn’t haunted because “ghosts don’t exist” and that “not everyone gets murdered in houses.” (These are just two of my allegedly irrational fears, btw.)
To rebut his theories, I brought up the many hours of True Crime and paranormal investigations I’ve ingested that say otherwise. To which he responded:
“Stop watching True Crime. They’re just profiting off of women’s fear.”
I never thought of it that way.
He made an interesting point. It made me think about how exactly True Crime has and is impacting me, and maybe you, too. Did True Crime make me fear things I shouldn’t fear, or was it existing as a woman that did it? Probably both.
The thing about me is that I’m always straddling two polar beliefs: a. I’m divinely protected at all times, and b. There’s a murderer among us on every corner.
It made me curious as to why, and as always, we must start at the beginning.
I have feared being murdered since I was four years old.
In 1981, I was turning four—I had just landed in America from Costa Rica—and Adam Walsh’s face was all over the news. For better or worse, television has always been my most loyal babysitter. Sesame Street, Mr. Rogers, daytime soaps, MTV, the 6 o’clock news,—I’d watch it all.
But every day from 5 to 7 pm, the tone would change. I saw weeping adults and angry police officers talking about a little missing boy who got separated from his mom in a mall, and nobody could find him. I didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t even speak English, but I remember feeling that the overall vibe was less “he’s playing hide and seek” and more “something really, really bad is happening.” I’d hear my mom and grandma discussing how we’d been to that same mall just recently, with a mix of panic and relief in their voices.
And then they found his head in a dumpster.
LITERALLY ME ^^^
I can still recall the image my innocent little brain concocted of Adam’s head wearing a red cap floating in a dumpster. They never showed it, but his baseball card photo of him wearing his red cap had been plastered all over the news for weeks. Of course, that image is seared into my skull.
A couple of years later, my mom and I were at the Omni Mall—a different Florida mall than the one Adam was abducted from—and I wandered off. (What can I say? I’ve always loved going on solo walks.) When she found me, she was in a palpable panic. “Remember what happened to Adam Walsh?!!” she growled in a low tone. And look, I have no real recollection if that’s what she actually said, but that’s what I associated with her contorted face and demeanor. She looked so scared and relieved simultaneously. It cemented in me a sense that what happened to Adam was really, super, horribly bad. And that the danger still existed and it could get me. Up until then I don’t think I had a perception that bad things happened. And especially not to little kids.
I believe there are key moments in our youth that impact us and mold who we become. Adam Walsh is one of them.
But. I stored it away.
It’s worth mentioning that I had a pretty happy childhood. I got to imprint and form from many wonderful, fantastic things I still cherish to this day and it’s what makes me the cool motherfucker I am. My taste in music, curiosity, compassion, and exposure to so many ideas and different people comes from how I grew up. I wouldn’t trade it.
But by age 11, I was a latchkey kid, and sometime around then, I was pinned to a wall and kissed and groped by a much older man in my apartment complex who told me if I ever said anything, he’d hurt my mom. He never did it again. To this day, I can remember that moment, but I can’t remember his name. My mom still doesn’t know (unless she’s reading it now—sorry, Mom.) Don’t worry. I’m fine; I rarely think of it. It’s just a sepia snapshot in the back of my mind, but it planted a seed in me that men and neighbors can be bad. That dangers CAN find us and they’re closer than we think.
I buried it.
By high school, I was untouchable, carefree, and oddly, I never questioned my safety—silly, considering I grew up in Miami in the 90s. The rumors about Gen X are true—our parents were barely aware of our whereabouts, hence the 10 o’clock network reminders to check in on us.
They’d give us a curfew, then drop us off at ranch raves in the middle of horse country. I’d sleep over at a friend’s house and end up at foam parties and Prince’s old club, Glam Slam, on South Beach when I was 15. I don’t even remember having a fake ID, but we must’ve, right? It was customary back then for most members of our senior class to drop LSD on the bus to our Disney After Dark Grad Night. But other than that I was drug-free. No pot or whatever the burners were doing. LSD was the second drug I ever touched in my teens. The first was Rohypnol. That’s right dropping roofies like a party drug was normal. We only did it on special occasions like Homecoming and Prom. We’d take them at the hotel on South Beach, paid for by our parents. The hotel was overrun by graduating seniors from four different high schools. It was liberating and really fun. And, in hindsight, super dumb and dangerous on our part. But before you judge…back then, it wasn’t called “The date *grape” drug; it was just a roofie, something you took for fun when you were underage so you wouldn’t have to drink as much but get the same buzzy effects.
My poor mom knew none of this, and I’m glad I got to experience those things. I’m especially grateful I was lucky enough to get out of my teens unscathed. I graduated Magna Cum Laude and a virgin.
This escape from danger would eventually cement a subconscious belief that I must be divinely protected. (Mad props to my guardian angels—you’re the real ones.)
My murder-death fear remained dormant even through college, which allowed me to go camping with my then-boyfriend for 8 days. Thank goodness this trip came before I saw The Blair Witch Project. (I won’t step foot in the woods nowadays. For a gazillion reasons and a bear is not one of them.)
Even into adulthood, when I first visited and finally moved to New York City. I’d have zero fear walking home from a bar by myself at night, enjoying a playlist, and feeling alive, aware of my surroundings but not paranoid.
Enter True Crime…
I’ve never liked horror movies. I feel too much of the characters' emotions in movies, and I don’t like the feeling of fear. My imagination is also pretty vivid, and I don’t like to store gore in my mind if I can help it.
But in 2014, everyone’s talking about Serial. It was a True Crime podcast, a newish concept. Before podcasts started multiplying like lantern flies.
I WAS F*CKING HOOKED.
I used to read books on the train. Now, I listen to stories about co-eds getting brutally murdered. That all started with Serial. It eventually spilled into a near-constant stream of the ID channel on Hulu. One story after the other of women (and some men) getting murdered by their friends, lovers, neighbors, crushes, parents, strangers, etc. The psychology of it fascinates me. I want to understand why they do what they do. What are the patterns? On both sides. I want to know why the bad guys do what they do and what the victim’s missteps are.
I notice myself amassing more and more dangerous scenarios, places to never be, people to distrust, and subtle signs to look out for. I will never live in a house. I will never have a life insurance policy or share finances. When I'm walking alone, I find myself assessing every single person within a 5-mile radius. I notice vans and alleys, always marking exits. I am constantly running scenarios and strategies in the background. If only I’d put this interest to good use and become a forensic psychologist or profiler instead of a basket case.
So, while I’ve been aware of bad things and bad people since I was a sprout, there is no doubt that the overindulgent, overconsumption of True Crime has awakened those fears I’d buried long ago and is making me…weird. I can’t make small talk for more than two minutes before I bring up some horrible thing I heard/saw. It’s bad.
But I keep buying into it. Like an addict. I keep watching. I keep listening and poisoning myself with this crap. And I’m not the only one. I know so many women who are equally addicted. Maybe we find it oddly soothing. It gives us a sense of control. Maybe I thought I was protecting myself with information so that I see the bad guy coming from a mile away. And there’s some of that. But in reality, it’s just made me weary of every man I see on the street. And I don’t know if it’s good to be this hyper-aware or if it’s ruining my life. Our lives.
Is it planted fear for profit, or is it my gut telling me to turn around and clock the man walking a little too fast behind me? Every survivor of a heinous danger has told us that trusting their gut is what saved them. Therefore, we can’t afford to gamble with the benefit of the doubt that maybe it’s just “too much True Crime.” And so, I stay hyper-vigilant. But it’s exhausting. Running anti-malware in the back of your mind constantly sucks a lot of energy.
I don’t want to be a sitting duck, but I would like to return to a time when I could walk around anywhere in the city at 3 in the afternoon without my keys woven between my knuckles. And while yes, the True Crime franchises ARE most definitely profiting off the morbid curiosities of women, we must also look at what draws us to this genre to begin with.
(It’s actually a pretty even split between male and female viewership, with women leading slightly at 58%. Makes me wonder what the men are getting from it…tips? jk. Or am I? 🫠)
I don’t know what the end game of driving women to agoraphobia would accomplish. It hardly seems profitable for the economy. And you always have to follow the money. I still gotta run the numbers on that, so, I’ll get back to you.
All this to say that I’m going on a Doom Detox™ to see how/if it affects my psyche. That’s right, I’m cutting out True Crime for 30 days starting June 1. If you want to follow my detox journey—the highs, and the lows—please consider subscribing.
As always,
Live, Laugh, Xanax.
XO, Me. 💋