Story review: The Destroyer by Tara Isabella Burton

This is a tough one for me to score and review. As with the previous tales in the collection, the quality of the writing and construction show that these stories are indeed Some of the best. Here we have have a story told from the POV of the daughter of a scientist - born from self-cloning, and then pressured into being constantly enhanced into something more than human. Her mother is clearly brilliant, driven and insane and this leads to my issue with the piece; I loathe mad-scientist stories. I grew up on pulp and b-movie narrative where the world was destroyed by over-reaching, over-ambitious, arrogant or just plain evil and see the erosion in expertise this, in part, has lead to. It is a theme that has become part of our culture, repeated endlessly in lazy articles and online arguments. In reality, it is not science and scientists that cause the problems, nor even war and generals, but politics and politicians misusing the tools provided to them.



Now, I know that many of the great "destruction by science" tales are not about arrogant scientists at all, or barely so - the progenitor of the genre, Frankenstein, is misread as such, and is a deeper story about a search for meaning and a creator - but just reading that trope tends to set my teeth on edge.



However, that is my reaction to that aspect of the story and is, perhaps, rather unfair. Because this is a fabulous piece of writing. Burton suggests the world as a backdrop - it is in Rome, including the great structures such as the Colosseum and the Senate on the Capitoline Hill, ruled over by Caesar. Is this scientist a witch or an alchemist? But we get reference to other cities that were not contemporaries of classical Rome, and dropped references to technology that is distinctly modern. That fact that this left as no more than hints and never explained makes the backdrop tantalising and somehow mythical.



The first-person narration from the daughter, in the past tense further enhances the mythic quality, and a sense of doom; the story opens "Long before my mother destroyed the world, her experiments were quieter, more contained." So we know where this is going. The backbone of this story, like The Art of Space Travel, the previous one in the collection, is this mother/daughter relationship, although this is obviously far darker and more negative than that of Emily and Moolie, as mother pressures daughter (neither is given a name) through the promise of a fake love to become what the mother wants, despite her own wishes, but ultimately is saved by this and becomes greater than her parent.



You know, I think I've talked myself around.

The Spiral

It has been said that depression is a selfish illness, and this is true. It is a condition that causes the sufferer to fold in on themself, to shun the outside world more and more, to be concerned only about their inner thoughts - as much as they are concerned with anything.


My own particular flavour (although not unique, of course) is an especially piquant blend of depression and anxiety. As I someone put it recently, “Depression is not being able to care about anything and anxiety is caring too much about everything; having both at the same time is hell.” (I wish I could find who wrote that as it deserves attribution). Those of us  so afflicted are buffeted by constant doubt about everything - double guessing every deed, every word - paralysed by both the appalling, deathly lethargy of depression and the terror of the consequences of our own actions. All compounded by the knowledge that we are (I am) utterly worthless, that we probably deserve to feel this way and suffer all that comes with it; part of the reason it is so easy to become isolated is that we know we aren’t fit for human company.


(Even writing that I have to fight the idea that anyone reading it will think how pathetic it is, this blatant attempt to garner pity - or, worse yet, actually pity me, or feel for me; it is made easier by the thought that nobody will probably read it. Welcome down the rabbit hole that almost every single thought leads. Imagine that, constantly, endlessly, not being able to escape that).


About that selfishness; much of it seems to be caused by an over-abundance of empathy. Not just the worry about how my words and actions will be interpreted, but how they will affect others. But it isn’t just  the big things; EVERYTHING has to be weighed for its consequences, on whether it is the right / best / optimal / moral thing to do. I am crushed beneath the paving stones of good intentions.


And the more we care about someone, they more important they are to us, the harder it is. The effects are magnified, the potential harm all the greater. The knowledge that I can only hurt them by my actions and, if they are around long enough, finally I will hurt them by my exit, on that day when I ask myself “why not?” and can’t come up with a good enough answer. And this is further exacerbated by the Groucho Effect: why would I want to belong to a club that would admit someone like me? So people who do insist on getting close to us become tarnished by the illness. I mean, what are they thinking? If their judgement is so poor that they want to be around me maybe they deserve it. Which is, of course, just an excuse to chase them away, something else to to beat myself up about. Another failure to cling to, to define myself by.

It's become a pattern

How do I do this? I keep falling in love - or think I've fallen in love. I make promises, overt or implied and, even though I say "don't get too close, I'm damaged, I can't do this, I'll hurt you", I let her get close and then I fuck it up and hurt her.


It's become a pattern. I need to stop, but how? I tell myself loneliness is easier, safer for everybody, but I am so afraid of being alone - and so afraid of being with someone. I was with someone for so long, for half my life, and when it ended it tore me apart. I don't know if I can survive that again, but why can't I just stay away from the risk? Stay safe. Stop hurting other people and opening my own wounds.

Reports of my demise, etc

So, I’m still here. Obviously.

Still a struggle, of course. I’ve not felt this low in years. I just realised that this morning, I’m back to the time when I genuinely feel lucky to have made it through the day. The hardest part is that, while that should feel like an achievement, feel like a victory, it doesn’t, because I know I’ll have to do it all again, day after day, and I don’t think I’m strong enough. I know I’m not strong enough, or I wouldn’t be in this mess. So maybe I should just bow to the inevitable and give in. Take that easy way out. I know it’s there, I’ve opened that door before and stood on the threshold looking through into the inviting, terrifying darkness beyond and, once you’ve opened that door you can’t forget that it’s there.

Things are slightly simpler now. I’ve broken up with my girlfriend so I only have myself to worry about. Selfish, I know. That was making it so difficult, though, like it has before. The worry that I’ll be dragging someone else down with me making the spiral worse. That tendency to isolation that I’ve mentioned before; drive people away to make things simpler, hurt them now so they don’t get hurt later, because if they want to be around me their judgement obviously can’t be trusted anyway.

I’ve thought I was better for so long, but I guess I’m just not able to cope with stress. The stress of a relationship, of work when it gets difficult - and my job is relentless at the moment. At least I don’t have the immediate stress of poverty as I did before, although there is the worry of what will happen if I become completely unable to cope with work. I’ve almost had to walk out - or run out, screaming - several times in recent weeks, and the sickness benefits of this job are a lot less generous than those I’ve had before and, should it go beyond that, the benefits system a hell of a lot less forgiving.

So I guess I’ll continue on as best I can.

I don't know if I can do this anymore

I don't know if I can do this.


OK, background. After a massive breakdown some years ago I was a wreck. After losing my partner of sixteen years and my job I was on benefits for years, trying to hold myself together and generally being a fuck up. I hurt people, people who tried to help me, to love me.


Then things started t come together. Some friendships and getting an exercise regimen sorted and getting a dog - all things that only months or even weeks before wouldn't have been possible, but fell into place at a time I could handle them. Then I got back into work and a relationship. I was normal again.


It felt great. Having a job is the best therapy, it really is; it gives you self worth and self respect and all that shit - and I was able to not only  start paying off my debts but actually afford stuff, going out and buying things! I started socialising and stuff; it was a transformation.


The relationship started soon after, possible helped by my new-found confidence. A steady courtship with an old flame lead to more, and it was wonderful.


But two years down the line things are starting to fall apart. In recent months the job has become increasingly stressful and I feel that I am floundering. I just don't know if I can cope; I regularly consider calling in sick or even leaving part way through the day. I feel incompetent. And cracks have been apparent in the relationship for some time. I don't know if this is where I want to be. Am I in love, or wanting to be in love, or pretending that I'm in love? I'm just going to hurt someone else who has trusted me.


Part of it is that I feel I have lost myself. In the years of rebuilding myself I had been writing - I'm not sure it was any good but I've been doing it and getting better at it - and taken up photography, at which I'd think I had become quite decent. But in the last two years I've hardly done these. The focus on the 'important stuff' has left little energy fr anything else.


The only thing that is consistently better is my fitness. I took up running (in my forties!) and run 40-50 km a week, a half marathon most months, and am aiming for a marathon in October. This is an accomplishment, yes - but it is also my drug, being able to ignore everything else and exult in the focus and muscle ache and endorphin rush. So I recognise that this, as much as it keeps me close to sanity, is my drug. Along with alcohol.


So I shall probably plug away, keep on going and hope I come out of the other side. Ignore the stress and the worry and the crying and the booze and the ideation (imaging the the cold bite of steel in my wrists or closing my eyes while I cycle to work and letting chance decide my fate). Because I don't know what else to do.

I’ve come to the conclusion that the main problem with depression is the isolation. At least, this is the issues with my depression, but I’m not sure that it is a universal. Perhaps all happy people are the same but all depressed ones unique.

It seems to stem from the complete lack of self worth. If I do not value myself then why would I expect others to? If friends go a time without contacting me this is to be expected, because why would they want to spend time with me? I don’t mean this to sound self-pitying, as though I am sunk in some fug of feeling sorry for myself (although this does happen, on occasion), it is just a self-evident mindset, an obvious state of the world that i accept and love with. So I am (I believe) less likely to go out of my way to contact people, to arrange nights out or get-together, to pick the phone and say hi and shoot the breeze. It doesn’t take long for this to become a self-reinforcing mechanism.

And it can be more damaging than that. It can lead to the Groucho effect; why would I want to be a member of a club that would have someone like me as a member? Surely there is something wrong with people who do want to spend time with you. So you chase people away, pick arguments where there are none - which, of course, is made all the easier by the fact that everyone has their own insecurities. Of course, this manifests itself with those we are closest to; not only are they obviously even more deluded than anyone else, we are just going to end up hurting them anyway. It’s what happens. We fuck up and hurt people and make the world a worse place by our very existence, so perhaps the best course of action is to drive them away early on. Take that minor annoyance or disagreement and build it up, in your own mind, into a major issue that justifies the short-term hurt. Yes, I will have to live with it forever but I’m a freak and I deserve it; I’m sure they’re a normal person who will get over it and, anyway, I’d have hurt them eventually.

I tell her that I love her but I don't know if I'm lying.

I tell her that I love her but I don't know if I'm lying.

I just don't know. I look at myself in the mirror and vaguely recognise the face, but have no insight to the workings inside the head. How crazy is that? I guess being able to look in a mirror without wanting to smash it is an improvement.

When my mind broke it was like a whirlwind inside my head. I knew that I was millimetres away from it tearing me apart so stayed in the calm centre. I could feel the maelstrom swirling, barely outside the border of my skin and that I had to stay as still as possible to avoid being caught up in it. That storm was also inside my head; its violence was the tumult of thoughts I couldn't deal with so I blocked them off and refused to acknowledge them. So I shut off so much of myself to survive.

I've felt like a more-or-less functioning human being for a couple of years now - I rebuilt relationships, managed to get a job - but I don't know if that part of me I shut off is still there or, if it is, if I can still access it. I feel like I'm going through the motions. I don't know if I can cope with the stress of work, the demands and complexity of being with someone. The desire to let go is welcoming and terrifying.

It was going so well

Today wasn't what it was meant to be. The plan was to spend the day with Becky. I haven't seen nearly enough of her recently, partly due to my awkward shift pattern at work. Tough over the Christmas period. And her being married doesn't help.


Today we had planned to meet up quite early, spend the day together and then take my son out for a meal this evening. The heavy snow that hit last night put the kibosh on that, though; while the tram is running fine it doesn't go anywhere near her and the buses seem to have been cancelled, on top of which she is quite timid about getting stuck out. So I hiked up to hers and we went for a lunch at a local pub instead. Had a lovely afternoon, but toward the end she started getting a bit upset. She asked me to go home with her, for a drink with her and her husband and I said I would if she wanted. He knows and has asked her to invite me over before, but I've quailed at the potential awkwardness. Or I'm a coward, one or the other.


But at her door Becky said, No, it's okay, you get home, it's not a good idea. I said I'd come in if she wanted but maybe didn't press hard enough. So twenty minutes walk down the snowy road she sends me a text saying she feels she's been abandoned. I try to call but she doesn't keep her phone on her. I text saying I'm heading back, and I start back up the steep, snowy hill, trying to call again and again. No answer by the time I get to the end of her road. I don't want to barge in but how can I take her saying I've abandoned her a walk away? So I call the housephone and he answers. Can I speak to Becky. She seems shocked I've called. It's alright. Yes. Everything's OK. Hangs up.


So I walk home. Already tipsy from the wine we'd had at the pub I think I need to drink more. Four hours later and not heard a peep. I've texted, asked if everything is OK. I hate this.