The gypsy princess and I lived in the desert for a while.  Our property was just outside of Yucca Valley where the Joshua Trees bloom in to heavy eyelids- opening and closing each spring.  She kept herself soft and sweet, all comfy in a pumpkin colored hell.  That is, until her gnawed off fingernails grew long enough to enable her to start seeking her way out.  The gushy flesh of the insides were always warm from her breath.  As she dug her way through the walls each day, she’d stop occasionally to dance in there.  She’d dance and dance until she believed the cows had returned.

A cowgirl princess living in the southern Californian desert, who would have guessed?  She was a strong woman with big eyes and sharp lined lips.  Her voice was boldly soft spoken.  She wore her hair short and with bangs.  The pixie princess moved like a ballerina, but paraded around in a sexy way, swaying her boney hips from side to side while never putting on her undergarments.

She danced slowly or joyfully pranced her way around the dwelling contingent upon her mood.  The coquettish princess could keep her clear eyes fixed on one object or a person absent mindedly for longer then what would seem appropriate.  When she did this action she looked like a fierce cat peering into you.

The lioness was ready to pounce at any moment.  It was as if she could see through you into your deepest, darkest fears.  She’d gather the juicy details of you for her macabre short stories, and by the time her focus went elsewhere, all the energy that you had was sucked dry.  It was exhausting.        

She was a French speaking, Spanish speaking, Rom dialect speaking, and a sort of English speaking suicide girl with a whole head full of philosophy.  The scholarly princess was an astounding artist with a make-believe chip on her shoulder she’d acquired from her made up childhood.  She told me it was abusive due to severe neglect. 

Princess would stare at the computer for hours, days and late into the night.  She had a brilliant intellect and provocative way of tapping away at words on the keyboard  The creative princess used to love the sound of the pen moving along the paper.  She marveled at the thick black ink. It was her blood, but now her fingers did all the work-  the tap, tap, tap that drove her to the brink.

She may have actually stayed comfortable inside that shell of hers if it hadn’t been for the intense pain inside her chest.  She rarely complained of the discomfort that stung her deeply within.  But I knew it was in there.  I first discovered her ailment when I saw her doubled over in anguish, clenching her heart and pounding on it, telling it in a deep, unrecognizable voice, “Keep breathing you weakling, you’re going to be okay!”

The internet world made the zombie princess believe that she could be somebody else.  What she already knew of herself from the past had always been delegated to her by the others that controlled her.  She was told what to wear, how to act, what to say, what to eat and what to read- just to name a few.  The compliant princess always knew what was expected of her and she played the obedient part well.  The calm and collected air about her never faltered in the eyes of others.

Now that she was on her own and living with me, sleeping became something she did at twenty minute intervals.  Well at least until 8 AM, then she’d sleep like a baby until one or two in the afternoon depending on her dream cycles.  I’d sometimes catch her in the evening after she had just bathed under the stars in our outdoor bathtub.  She’d go through all the motions- as if she is going to go to bed:  she would lie down under the covers, close her eyes and pretend to sleep.  After a few short moments she’d rise up and go back over to her computer.  Always curious as to who might be online. 

Those innocent onlookers she enchanted had no way of knowing she’d suddenly developed multiple personality disorder.  No one but I could see she had lost her wits from the comforts of our modest home.  I’d ask her on occasion, “Would you like to leave the house today?”  But it was always either too windy, freezing cold, or too blazing hot for her to go outside.

Sometimes, in the wee hours of the morning she’d go outside to water and feed her imaginary horses while singing fragments of songs, piecing them together as if they fit perfectly.  I don’t think she ever knew one song in its entirety.  She’d sing with a twangy country drawl as if she’d been reared on Americana, but weaned from it a little too early.    

During an intermission from her creative process and her constant chattering online, Princess would chain smoke and clean our small, rundown Romany dwelling.  She’d never venture to clean up the yard outside, she just focused on the inside.  She didn’t care what the neighbors thought of the abandoned love seat, the disregarded truck tires and engine parts, the broken glass, or the old, rusty bed springs and other unsightly trash.  What mattered to her most was that she had a somewhat clean kitchen, living room, bedroom and bathroom.

She’d vacuum the cat hair and sand from the soiled carpet with a dusty old machine.  Cigarette ashes would fall, trailing to the ground from between her parted lips as she worked.  She kept one eye closed during all of this and mumbled in a strange language I couldn’t understand, as if to tell an invisible person sitting in the chair to lift his legs.  The devil had her by reins and he was holding on tight.  He wasn’t about to let this spunky little angel go.  I believe all the while creating a mental disorder for her that would soon lead to severe depression. 

I left Princess at home alone more often than I should have.  I knew she secretly loved it when I drove away.  The tears didn’t look real anymore.  At first they did, but by the fourth time I hit the road on another tour, I knew she was up to no good.  Perhaps she had an imaginary lover.  I knew she couldn’t possibly muster up any real ones. 

Upon one of my returns, I noticed that Princess had discovered many new ways of appearing and disappearing all at once.  I had to look for her everywhere, she was no longer in her shell.  She was somewhere out there in space.  When I finally found her again after searching frantically for hours,  she gave me no solid excuse as to why she was going insane.  She explained to me  that she was a writer in complete desert solitude without any human interaction except for the ghosts in the walls and the voices in her head.

I asked her about her childhood and she told me bits and pieces. The sheltered Princess was raised in an extraordinary way.  She was brought up perfectly safe in a comfortable middle-class situation. She had no complaints or else she just didn’t have the ability to express them.  Her mother and father did nothing wrong.  Well, except for the overly protective style they entertained.  In turn, they created an extreme introvert with a set of false identities. 

Princess appeared perfectly normal to everyone else she came into contact with.  I was in awe of this angel of aberration.  I was more often annoyed with her than in awe, but she was a young, naive woman that took me under her wing and I was perfectly happy with her.  I was after all, an on the road off the road workaholic with a sexy princess waiting for me in the desert.  I had no complaints. 
    I saw an abrupt change in her behavior after about a year or so of living together.  She now held extended conversations with what she called, “The alien inside my chest.”  And they were becoming more and more frequent.  The withdrawn princess became so reclusive that she would even cry in the bedroom while our dinner guests were still eating.  I admit we had people in the house a lot when I was home, but she couldn’t even handle evening company for a couple hours.  Drinking beer with the boys, playing cards and wondering what would become of my future all faded to a distant place within my mind.  I had the blubbering Princess to contend with now.
    I was puzzled by her distance, but I should’ve known when the computer would suddenly crash for no apparent reason whenever I came to look over her shoulder, and when she took up writing on the computer more than writing on paper that she was in fact chatting with lonely young boys and dirty old men. I should have known this by her sudden loss of interest for me in the bedroom. She didn’t even fuss over me anymore when I came home from my travels.  She just kept behaving as she must have when I was away. 
    Maybe it was my fault that Princess was no longer able to interact with real flesh and blood.   I should’ve tried to stop her from losing it, I should have tried to hold conversations with her.  I never gave her the devoted attention she was searching for.  I see that now.  Princess needed me, and I failed to give her my companionship.
    I was an addiction.  I have always been addicted to something: tobacco smoke circling around my head and the creativity that came with the swirls, the inhales and exhales, holding a marijuana cigarette made me look cool, and the coffee that I drank in the rainy season of my youth made me intelligent and strong. 
    I had an addiction to the mirror, my reflection, and recording myself  in time and place.  During my bout with narcissism, I rarely ate.  I never enjoyed quality chocolate- nothing sweet, seldom anything savory.  I was too caught up in myself and the beauty I saw bounce back during my depression.   I became addicted to depression itself. 
    I had an addiction to connecting with people I didn’t even know but thought I did through the smoke screen and keys.  The made up people who could type words that would then instantly appear before me.  I was addicted to driving late at night looking at  stars.  They were so real, they made me feel so good about myself.  Three addictions led to four and so on. When yet another addiction became to sex, I knew it was time to leave my current position. 
    “Get out of my body!” She’d cry out more and more.  It was when she began shaking and sobbing herself to sleep and waking with the same emotions as the night before, I knew something had to be done.  I suggested she see someone, talk to someone and figure out what was going on.  She laughed and sneered at me, “I’ll never take your drugs!”  I understood perfectly what she meant.  Loud and clear.  Every day I’d pray for others in the world- including Princess.  I’d pray for those who were suffering more greatly than I. 
    I’d bring it up again, “You don’t have to take prescription drugs, you could just talk to a therapist.”
    “How do you think a measly therapist can possibly extract an alien from inside me?  Only God can do that.  It’s you who should talk to a therapist, not me.”  I had no further argument.  I was too exhausted by then.

The next day the martian princess opened the phone book and wrote down the names and phone numbers of several psychologists and psychiatrists, posted it on the refrigerator where it hung for days.  She never once called any of them.  So a few weeks later, I decided it was up to me to support her and motivate her to go away from the desert, and go far, “It seems to me you’ve lost your mind. Don’t you think a change would be good for you?  Why don’t you come with me next time I go on the road.  I want you to be happy.”   

She sort of agreed with me, “My mind is not lost, it’s thriving actually.  It’s out of control and I have no way of stopping it right now.  It’s my spirit that is lost.”  With that said, she began packing right away.  It was a long and drawn out event that I didn’t even notice until two months later when she drove away from our hellhole in the desert.  I knew she would.  I knew she would break my heart.  She had things to figure out, things I couldn’t figure out  for her.  I could have kept her locked up  safe and sound, but I wanted Princess, not an alien residing inside my house.    

She told me she was leaving for the coast to go and practice yoga.  She said she’d find an apartment and live there for the time being.  Maybe she did, maybe she didn’t.  Maybe she went away to meet one of her online lovers instead.  Either way, it didn’t matter to me anymore.  All that mattered was that she was free and so was I.  I think of the Princess out there in the world from time to time, but I haven’t seen her since.