A swamp monster has taken over my life. It breathes loudly in my ear while I try to sleep and drips menacingly over my shoulder when I eat my meals. Strangely enough, I seem to be the only one able to see it.
Sometimes I tell people about it. Some of them, like my mother, seem to take it for granted that the monster exists, and sometimes I think that they almost see it themselves. No doubt they’re haunted by their own ghouls and demons, the kind that I can’t see.
Others seem to be truly oblivious to the existence of such beasts, and when I try to tell them about my monster, they sympathize politely while all the while their eyes flash with disbelief. I can see them exchanging looks over my head, wondering whether or not I should be committed, pitied, or simply humored.

My swamp monster isn’t malicious; that much is clear to me. It’s full of good intention, so much so that I invite him to come with me sometimes. Today, for instance, it’s been with me all day, every moment, and I even invited it to come along with me to see a movie with some girlfriends and stay the night with me. The swamp monster was shocked and flattered, and, to be honest, I think it was worried that I wasn’t sincere in my invitation. But I was. Because I know it means well and is lonely sometimes. So I tolerate it as often as I can.

My therapist thinks that I indulge it too much, though. Maybe he’s right. Still, I think that my swamp monster is pretty much here to stay, so getting used to it is probably a good thing. Maybe during the coming week I’ll be able to snatch some moments to myself, without it hovering over me like an oozing, pulsating, muddy puppy.