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It’s truly exasperating that he can’t grasp the allure of my obsession.
From a young age, I was captivated by tales of the supernatural and devoured every mystery novel I could find. The thrill of being frightened while safely cocooned in my cozy blankets was intoxicating. Sure, I might have been a tad too young for these mysteries, but once I discovered R.L. Stine’s Fear Street, I was hooked. The shocking betrayals and heinous acts, even if fictional, made me ponder the types of individuals capable of such deeds.
There’s a thin line between mere interest in true crime and full-on obsession. That line is drawn somewhere between casually watching an episode of Dateline on a weekend and, like me, consuming every podcast or series adorned with the words “murder” or “mystery.” My partner has certainly heard me exclaim, “I know this one!” far too frequently, which likely contributes to his bafflement regarding my passion.
This discrepancy is a consistent point of contention in our home. It’s frustrating that he can’t see why I find true crime so captivating. Maybe our upbringings play a role. He was a latchkey kid, while my parents never left me alone at home. This difference might help explain our contrasting views on safety. Perhaps it’s also because, as a woman, I’ve been conditioned to remain vigilant in public spaces, whereas he moves about without a second thought. While he refers to me as paranoid, I see myself as extra cautious. Hearing that term irritates me, leading me to justify my protective instincts as essential for our family’s safety. If he uses the word “paranoid” one more time, he might just find himself featured in an episode of Unsolved Mysteries.
Joking aside, when he brushes off my instinct to secure the front door after accidentally locking him out, I start to understand how some women end up on shows like Snapped. My survival instinct to always lock up is second nature, and I refuse to apologize for it. “But we live in a safe area,” he argues. I mentally air-quote “safe,” reminding him that no place can truly be considered secure anymore. He responds, “You’re watching too many of those shows.” To which I retort, “Or maybe you’re not watching enough!”
I wish my partner could comprehend that my fascination with these engrossing stories stems from a desire to protect myself and our family, not because I’m some sort of oddball. Plus, I’m curious about the wild things people get up to while I’m often preoccupied with parenting duties.
I wouldn’t dream of telling him he watches sports too frequently, making him overly competitive and prone to emotional outbursts. He has his interests, and I have mine; I wouldn’t want to shame him for not understanding the appeal of these real-life narratives. True crime is, at its core, classic storytelling. It features characters, traumatic events, unexpected twists, climaxes, and, ideally, resolutions (unless we’re discussing cold cases, which can keep me awake at night). I recognize that the “characters” are real individuals with genuine lives, and that’s precisely what makes their stories so compelling to me. My mother enjoyed true crime, as did hers, meaning my daughters will likely inherit this intrigue, leaving my partner outnumbered. Perhaps one day he’ll come to appreciate it.