awakening & mary janes

I grew up with this angelic story being told every year, like a holiday tradition. This is the time I got ran over, well, rather my Mary Janes did. This would be the first of many, where mysteriously, my life's been spared.

It was incredibly hot that one fortunate day in Key West. Church service had just gotten out, and about twenty-parishioners, including my family, had gathered in the parking lot.

Their attention was pulled away by a loud, roaring engine. The engine belongs to a very large Mercury and seated behind the driver’s seat, sits a blonde-haired, nineteen-year-old boy.

That's when they see me, the little towheaded blonde 3-year old. That's when time slowed down to an agonizing crawl.

I'm standing directly behind on the passenger side of this large and noisy Mercury. To their horror, they hear him throw it into reverse, and what happened next to those poor twenty-parishioners, probably changed their life.

There was just enough distance between them and the Mercury, to make running to save me completely futile. The group is frantically waving and yelling, trying to get the drivers’ attention, but this, too, is futile. Horror rippled through each one of them on that hot Sunday afternoon, as they hopelessly watched the Mercury back over right me.

With stunned glances and fear pushing them, they ran over to the car, still shouting and screaming at the driver. Collectively, they got him to stop, but only after when the Mercury was parked over me. Instantly, they drop to their hands and knees, expecting to find my poor mangled body, but I'm not there, only my shoes are. My poor Mary Janes.

With the group stuttering and shocked at my missing body, they turn to look for me and find me standing, shoeless. The group is simply stunned. To their disbelief, they find me safely 30' away. To this day, no one has any idea how my shoes came off and then finding me so far out of harm’s way.

This was the first account of my guardians saving my life. For 49 years, we've always wondered what saved me that day. I know the parishioners left that Sunday service believing they had witnessed a miracle, as I should be flat as a squirrel. Dead.

This miraculous angelic intervention would be the first of many I would experience. Needless to say, my guardians have been pulling some overtime.

My eyelids felt like they’d been glued shut as I tried to fight them open. Struggling, I slowly make out my husband and realize I had had the operation. As I watch my husband walk over, I immediately felt something was different. Different about me. Something must have happened during surgery. I must have died on the operating table, and he’s about to tell me. I don’t feel like myself, I want to cry and laugh at the same time. Things are not making sense, I need more drugs and sleep.

Before drifting off, everything before my surgery, my life, my way of thinking, and my way of co-existing, was simply, no longer. I am no longer that person; I just didn’t know the extent at the time. I came out of that surgery with an instant knowing.

It’s not your time, and you have something to accomplish.

Ah yes. You’re back. I’ve been told this message for more than a few decades now. Like a record on repeat, my lovely guardians love to whisper, “its not your time, and you have something to accomplish.” Sweet Jesus. I just want to throw my head back and scream, “Just fucking tell me already.” I’m not a very patient person, but come the fuck on, 4-decades could wear the best person down.

Talk about the puzzle of my life. This message was getting old.

The quaking of my phone woke me and Piper was on the line. Piper, who I call Pie, is one of my oldest and closest friends. Her personality is hilarious, and her energy is bright and contagious.

Pie, through my lovely match-making skills, flies down to meet my brother Cam. Six-weeks of online dating, they decide to meet. They’re driving up to Gatlinburg with me on the speakerphone, and I’m joking about coming out of surgery already dressed for Halloween. Smiling through my pain, they start to tell me how the trip is going, and the next minute I hear nothing. Blink.

I have a paranormal resume that will exceed the length of a six-foot man, and what is about to happen to me is simply unexplainable and trust me, I’ve seen my share of crazy.

In a blink, I am no longer in my hospital bed in Idaho; I’m no longer holding the phone to my ear, listening to Cam and Pie.

I am in my brother’s Acura, looking over his left shoulder. I am physically, roughly 2,000 miles away. I see Cam’s gray seatbelt running across his chest. Cam has on a short sleeve, button-up light blue shirt, black belt, and dark jeans. In a blink, I soak up Cam’s overwhelming agitation. Apparently, the date isn’t going so well. In horror, I pulled the phone away as if to hang up on my impromptu family reunion, but no such luck, I’m still hallucinating.

Upon opening my eyes since surgery, my life had done somersaulted on my ass. I wake up no longer the same person, and now I’m actively hallucinating. Fucking fantastic. What kind of drugs are these people giving me? I need more. Nurse.

The next day I pondered if I should call and tell Cam. They scraped the inside my throat, focusing the majority on my esophagus, and I could barely speak, whimpering through every miserable swallow. It’s so fucking painful.

I’m trying to think through the pain, but nothing is making sense. About 95% of medications, including this worthless cocktail, simply don’t work on me. Period. I have CYP enzymes where my body ultra-metabolizes medications before they can even take effect. Great time to have your throat cut from ear to ear.

I’m telling you this because I wasn’t high on pain medication when I visited Cam yesterday. After several restless naps, I decided to call and ask him. As gently as I could, I asked, Cam? Can I ask you something?, “Yesterday, did you have on a light blue button up shirt with a black belt and dark jeans?.” Also, were you upset, like jacked-up bad, agitated?.”

Cam has stopped questioning me since childhood, but I know his silence was probably questioning me now and my sanity. In a quiet voice, he asked, “How did you know?.” I told him in detail what had happened. He, too, has the same CYP fucked-up metabolizing gene, so he knows how high I wasn’t. Although stunned, Cam confirmed every detail; the Acura, the GAP outfit, and his high anxiety. I hung up more confused than ever.

I know I went through a metamorphosis, an awakening. After months of dissecting that impromptu family reunion/phone call with Cam, what happened to me, I believe I experienced teleporting. After some research, and I’m still not quite sure what I read, nor am I an expert, but its all about energy. I know energy. The logical part of my brain couldn’t understand it, and yet, I’m like an 8-year old running down the stairs to see what Santa brought.

To be honest with you, I’ve never believed anything about anything. Real truth here. I’m the type if I didn’t see through the veil, I’d say bullshit to those who say they do. I have to see it to believe it. Even teleporting. I was there; I experienced it, and yet I was having a hard time coming to terms with it. After some common sense thinking, I came away with this. Telepathy uses the same energy line as teleporting. I know this language. Fucking duh. Sometimes I can be dense. Snort.

I know my guardians have been on overtime, saving my life, yet again. I do know this. My guardians let me know this fun fact; I know metastatic thyroid cancer will never kill me. I’m saved yet once again, but I’m still struggling to find where this message fits into my puzzle. Their message was delivered, this time almost somberly, like, please fucking listen this time.

Consider message delivered.

This time it felt important, like stop and listen. Urgency came rushing at me when it was delivered, and I felt a duty to it somehow.

My abilities felt like they had been injected with outlawed steroids and catapulted me into a new spiritual realm. I knew my old life had color to it, but the lens I’m looking through now is a breath of fresh air. I feel as though I’m walking within my own miracle.

Eager to start my metamorphosis, I knew I had to look at my life. Sadly, I knew my marriage was over. It had been over; we were very comfortable and extremely good roommates. Best friends, in fact, but sadly the physical attraction had died decades ago, and I needed to face this fact. With a knowing, I knew this marriage no longer served me; I needed to let us go. I needed to let this marriage go for the both of us.

This was very painful, and it has left permanent marks in my soul. I could cry every time I have to speak about the demise of my marriage. My husband is my only family and one of my closest soulmates. He is my very best friend. I have my two children, one brother and no one else. I have a scatter of distant cousins, but not close. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew it would include the South and the water.

Life is trying to set me down a new path, and I’m blindly, while slightly cursing, following it. I knew the day of my surgery that this day would come. I’ve been expecting it. However, getting there has been all that and a bag of chips.

These bits and pieces of my life, no matter how frightening and alone I was, collectively, they have guided me to where I am today. However, I had to get through California and my miserable childhood first.

My summer in California was coming to an end, but for me, it couldn’t come fast enough. I had grown very wise by age 8. I had too. This was the year I came to my birth mother’s home to find every photo she had of me, had been removed or my face cut out. That does something to you, and it definitely did something to me. You innately grow up fast. Age 8 was also the year I heard for the first time that someone is waiting for me. Bella’s ghost delivered that message.

One night my womb donor decides that she needs baked potatoes for dinner; however, she has a conundrum; she’s out of foil. Instead of the two adults or the older brother run to the store, her brilliant idea was to send her 8-year old daughter. Alone. That’s where I come in. It’s 8 pm. It’s dark. The little convenience store sits across this huge field, lined with pear trees. I tried biting my tongue, but my expression spoke for me. I looked at her like she must be fucking crazy. Its California. This massive field also runs along a very busy road. I’m like, fuck that. I belted out, alas revised wording, my sentiments. Well, that didn’t go over very well. Smack.

As I’m running past the pear trees, I’m praying to God that no one kidnaps my ass. I was terrified. The TV news was continually reporting about; this child missing, this child kidnapped, dis-fucking-mantled, and murdered. Raped. Abducted. As an 8-year old, I’m incredulous at the level of hatred this woman has for me. Its bottomless. What also bothered me was realizing how crazy she is. I can deal with her hatred, but the level of crazy we’re talking about here, it really bothered me. It’s the eyes I tell you. Look at people in the eyes. Through the eyes, you can see into a person’s soul. Truest of evil was looking back at me.

I get to the store, waving a big hello to the friendly cashier as I go down the aisle for the foil. The cashier always had big smiles for me. “Oh, honey, what on earth are you doing here this late?.” Smiling back, I hand her the foil and tell her mama was in the mood for baked potatoes. Sadness ran through her eyes as she asked me if I wanted a bag. I’ll never forget this exchange. I immediately thought no way, I need to use it like a bat, but instead, I simply said, “No, thank you, ma’am.” I was raised with deep southern manners, but I needed a fucking weapon for the trip home.

As I’m running deeper into the field, the lights from the store slowly start to fade out. Its dark and seriously creepy. It feels like a thousand eyes are staring at me. I had the foil in a death grip, and I kept repeating, I don’t want to be kidnapped; I don’t want to be kidnapped, over and over again. Blink.

Blink. Out of nowhere, and running directly at me, is this adorable, light cream shaggy dog. She’s knee height (my 8-year old knee-height) and headed straight for me, tail wagging, tongue out, and extremely friendly. You could say she was even smiling at me, problem is, she’s a foot off the ground. Blink.

In that blink, I’m swinging wildly at this shaggy creature. Fright instantly consumes me, and I’m mad scared. I’m surprised. Stunned. I didn’t want to hit her, but instinctively I did. I felt bad. Any animal or spirit, alive or dead, you simply don’t want them coming at you at a dead run. However, startled she made me, I also felt protected. She brought instant smiles and comfort. I know she walked me home. I knew she came to protect me. Bella came bearing a message that spooky night. It simply said, “He’s waiting.” I had taken this to mean he was my guardian angel, and he was waiting over me, protecting me, like Bella.

I later had this same dog in the 9th grade. Imagine my surprise when I saw her for the first time. Tears of pure joy that only she and I share. Granny got her for me. My birth mother later dog-napped her and well, apparently took her to a farm, but that’s her version. To this day, my heart remembers how deep my sadness ran. I almost didn’t recover from losing her, and the way she went out. Alone and frightened, just like I had been long ago in that pear field. My poor Bella. Rest In Peace, sweet girl.

I made it back from California, safely back home to Granny, but only after becoming violently ill. So ill, family rumor had it that I ate something really bad.

My awakening had been keeping me up. I continued searching for its meaning. I reflected on everything and everyone in my life. Who was in my life. Who was not in my life. What I wanted out of my life. My attention naturally gets drawn back to you. You. Again.

Insert my 32-year obsession.

I remember writing to you for the first time; it was November 18, 1993. This would be my first out of hundreds that I would write to you, my quest for answers to my 32-year question, with what the fuck happened that day in your dorm room. I was haunted. I was obsessed, and when I wrote to you, I found immense comfort.

Dear Kevin,

Hey there, stranger, it’s me, the mute girl from college. You’ve been on my mind a lot. Nothing unusual there.

Life’s been busy. I got married a year ago to my boyfriend from college, and we just had a baby boy last August. We named him after both his grandfather and great-grandfather. Let me tell you; it hurt like bloody hell. These hips were not designed for giving birth.

Well. I had no idea what to do with a baby. I took prenatal classes at the hospital, but honestly, it’s not the same thing. Since arriving home, I tried recreating the womb. Who does this?. Well, apparently I do, and it’s even worse than it sounds. I ended up swaddling my son and gave him head to toe heat rash. Oh, it was August and only 100 degrees outside. I was completely clueless but loved my son more than anything or anyone in this world. I am hopelessly in love with my spotted baby.

I go on to babble about baby boys and their hoses and continuously being drenched in pee. Apparently, I was trying to woo this boy with tales of ghastly births and dirty diapers. I’m such a hopeless romantic.

This letter and another one were saved, but the rest for 24-years sadly didn’t make it. I didn’t have his address, nor was I brave enough to actually send it, even if I had his address. One I shredded and let the pieces fly out my car window, thinking if these pieces find themselves to you, please come for me. For the first 20-years, I had addressed the letters to Kevin, but one day innocently flipping through our yearbook, to my shock and horror, Kevin is actually Gavin. 20-years spelling the wrong name. Imagine all those years. This is definitely something I would do. I can be dense at times. I’m like a goldfish when it comes to names; however, you’d think I’d remember the boy with the wooly caterpillar brows. He was, after all, only the love of my life. Dense. Very.

Writing you had become my way of life. You know literally know everything about me. Lucky you. You give me comfort, and I don’t even know you. Ever since that lasso dumped me in your dorm room, I felt a closeness that I can’t put into words. I was speechless then as I am today.

I instantly go back to the last time I saw you. What I wouldn’t give to turn back the clock.

It was junior year at the University of Washington, and I had found myself standing in the backyard alone. My boyfriend and I had gone to a party, where it seems the entire campus decided to show up. Since I didn’t drink and the crowd inside was beyond ridiculous, I wandered off and found myself in the backyard. Protected by the night shadows and nearby bushes, I settled in and looked up at the night sky and just stared. My star gazing was broken by the loud crack of the screen door hitting against the house. I turned to the noise and froze.

Him. Again.

My heart instantly starts pounding out of my chest the moment I see you. Holding my breath, I watched him walk into the middle of the yard as I carefully take a step towards him, the branch beneath me, giving me away. He immediately looks up, and our eyes lock onto one another. His eyes show so much intensity. They instantly speak to me, and I can feel his excited nervousness. He’s happy to see me. Aww.

Time. I believe this is where time slowed way the-fuck-down, again.

I want to speak, I want to talk to this boy, but I can’t.

Fuck me.

This can’t be happening again. I managed to spit out hello but went mute right after that. This boy with the caterpillar brows managed to match my one-word sentence with his own hello. I smiled at him. He didn’t smile back. I want to talk to this boy, and just as I’m about to say something, our silence was broken by the crack of the familiar screen door.

Oh no. We turn in unison and see my boyfriend coming right towards me. In slow motion, we watch him grab me by the arm and cave-man style, drag my ass back inside the party.

This is where time barely moved, and I can see this as crisp as the night it happened.

As I’m being dragged away, my eyes haven’t left yours, and they are hysterically screaming at you. “Please say something. Please do something. Please. Please stop him. Please come get me. Please just kiss me. Please.”

Time stopped right then.

Its just you and me, again. The world outside no longer exists. The world might not see our soul connection, but you and I see it and importantly, feel it. We are intertwined and deeply rooted together, and he is simply my home. I want to go home. Now, please.

I’m holding my breath waiting for you to do something. Anything. Why won’t you say anything? Why won’t you do anything? Nothing. My heart falls as I’m yanked up the stairs back inside the party. He refused to move or say anything. He stubbornly refuses to show any emotions, yet I know he feels the same way because I can feel him, every inch of him. I soaked up every bit of his desperation and desire. I felt his intense deep love and sadness. Such conflicting emotions coming from this mystery man with the bushy brows.

That magical moment will never leave me. Watching him pop out of that noisy door and walk towards me under that starry filled night is everything to me. Recalling it brings happy, but sad tears. I know I don’t know this boy, but I know I love him with everything I have.

I know my guardians have been preparing me for something, and I know the time has come for me to find out. This awakening had me recalling every little snippet, big and small of my life. All my guardian advice, all the strange, unexplainable moments, all the whispered messages, and all the times they’ve miraculously saved my life. I’m analyzing them for clues and hints. Slowly, I’m putting my life puzzle together, and I’m closer to finding out what I’m supposed to accomplish.

While I’m busy putting my puzzle together, I thought of the night I almost drove off a 50’ cliff. This was a week before my high school graduation. Jesus and his angels definitely took the wheel that night, because I’m about to crash, yet again.

My friend Gigi one of my besties, and we’re in my new Toyota truck headed for Gigi aunts home. I met my birth father during my senior year, and he bought me this incredible new truck. It was beautiful and loud. He upgraded the speakers because he knew how much I loved music. We’re driving the familiar road to her aunt's home, who lived on the beach, but first, you had to make your way down through severe switch-back roads to get to her sea-level home. I thought I had turned down the route that would take us to the switch-backs, as I knew these roads like the back of my hand.

AC/DC was playing loud that night for us, and I had the Toyota going about 45 miles per hour when all of a sudden …

One minute we’re singing along with AC/DC, and the next, we’re forcibly trying to kiss the inside of my windshield like two rag-dolls, because some asshole just slammed on the brakes.

Energy so ridiculously strong, like stopping on a dime, is powerful and aggressive. I was so dazed and incredibly confused. I look at Gigi, and she was just as stunned. After a few frazzled seconds, I asked her why she did that. Why did you slam on my brakes? She looks at me like I was high on crack. Complete confusion. I ask her again. This time she gets mad. Unbeknownst to me, Gigi’s forehead hit the dashboard pretty hard, and it was really throbbing when I suggested that she had somehow caused this. I can see slight anger, but concern showed in her eyes as I watch her stare at the steering wheel.

I follow her gaze, and there sit both my hands, tightly wrapped in a death grip around the steering wheel, and that’s when we both notice my legs. Shaking. Shaking so bad, that I’m moving the truck. I turn and look at Gigi; we’re both speechless. I look past my shaking legs and find both my feet planted firmly on the brake.

Oh no. I did not do this. I can’t breathe, and I can’t believe what I’m staring at.

I did not move my leg off the accelerator, and I certainly didn’t place both my feet on the brake. We never skidded. We were going 45 mph and then STOPPED. It was powerful that instant braking. The violence inside that braking shook me up more than my legs pretending to be a jackhammer.

Still coming out of my daze, I immediately thought this was wrong. Not only did I not brake, I never brake with both feet, that’s just wrong. My truck is manual, and we’re sitting there stalled. With my feet still planted on the brake, I notice my knees. Not again. My kneecaps are moving two-inches higher and lower where they normally sit. Watching them rapidly move up and down in flawless movement was mesmerizing. It’s unbelievable how fluid my knee caps are when I’m this terrified. This reminds me of the time when I was almost kidnapped. That’s the kind of fright you never want to experience. Uncontrollably terrified. Its where you can’t move or think. Scared stiff into silence.

With stunned glances, we look at each other in silence. As if on cue, we turn and look out the front window. Its about 8 pm and it’s foggy. Its always foggy here. This is the Pacific Northwest. With my headlights illuminating the fog, making for a perfect horror movie, where all we needed was Freddy to knock on the window. We look over the hood, past the fog and …

The road is no longer. It has completely disappeared. Staring back at us are the shadowy waves from the Pacific Ocean being illuminated by the night sky.

I’m not sure how long we sat there in complete shock, but we eventually got out. We walked around to the front of my truck and found below my headlights was a 50’ sheer drop to the beach. We literally stopped on the very edge of this cliff, stopped on a dime more like it, because there was no more than the width of a dime between my front tire and air.

Gigi was my only witness this time, but she saw the true horror, shock, and deep concern to know that this was genuine. She knew I didn’t slam on those damn brakes.

I drove home that night with the same message; it’s not your time; you have something to accomplish; it’s not your time, you have something to accomplish. I’m too dazed to even listen. I didn’t pay attention to the messages back then, but I’m putting these pieces together now. I know this piece is instrumental in creating my path where I am today and where I’m about to go.

I should have died that night, along with Gigi. She and I both know this.

As 2017 was coming to a close, I felt desperate to help solve this life long puzzle-message and then my 32-year obsession with a total stranger.

As I’m recounting all my ghostly advice and interventions, I giggle at the time I destroyed our day, the day we tried playing hooky in Seattle. This was truly a miserable day. My guardians pestered me for the entire day. Poor Erica.

With grown-up attitudes, Erica, another one of my high school besties and I, had decided to skip school. We started out walking down to the Port Orchard foot ferry, then jumped onto the Bremerton ferry to enjoy a fun-filled day on Seattle’s waterfront.

Well, that was the plan anyway. The moment we started walking to the foot ferry, I knew I would see my birth mother today. I knew she was coming to my school, and I didn’t know why, and I kept saying this out loud, repeating this over and over. I couldn’t stop myself. The message dripped with dread. I walked around with horror that day. I was numb. This woman terrified me. Just say it isn’t so. Take it back.

This was my first and only attempt at playing hooky, and it was completely destroyed. Further, into our sad and wretched day, the message was delivered again, and again riddled with impending doom. I couldn’t stop repeating, “my mother is coming to pick me up today; my mother is coming to pick me up today.” I want to ignore the message, but I continued to repeat the same message, all damn day. I wanted to kick my own ass.

Emotionally spent, we finally get back to the school just minutes before school lets out. I get into Cam’s car and settle into the passenger seat, anxiously waiting for him to jump in and take us home. At this point, I’m dying of anticipation, like waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I place both my hands in my lap as I anxiously look out the front window. Sitting across from me, sits a car backed-in and facing me, sits a person in the driver’s seat. This person is holding up a newspaper. Hmm. They’re just reading, I tell myself. Perfectly normal behavior. But. Maybe it’s the way they’re holding the newspaper. Hmm. Something feels off. I feel sick. Its too high, and it was completely obscuring their face. Hmm. I can’t take my eyes from the newspaper as I watch in horror, the arms slowly start to lower, revealing the person hiding behind it.

Holy shit.

My stomach immediately falls to the floor. I don’t want to believe it, but there sits my birth mother. She had come to take me to lunch and was surprised to hear that I wasn’t at school today. I didn’t live with her, and I didn’t know she was in town.

I’ve had a lot of experiences like this one with the newspaper. I’ve been psychic my entire life, as I was literally raised by my many guardians. Being psychic isn’t as easy as it sounds. Having invisible angels isn’t as glamorous as it sounds. It does come with some perks I won’t lie, but for the most, seeing through the veil and receiving messages is nothing but afterlife drama. I didn’t ask to born like this, and stubbornly, I know my guardians have protected me for something. That something is going to cause me a few sleepless nights. Going over my endless near-deaths and the constant messages were maddening at times. The severity and depths that my guardians went too leaves me speechless and scrambling for answers.

Like, am I supposed to be the next President? That’s one colossal joke, but just fucking tell me already.

I knew whatever it was; it was going to be something, something incredible.

Over the next few weeks, I started to uncover a few more details, a few missing pieces from my dark and brutal past. I had to go through some pretty rough stuff as a child, and I’m on the cusp of discovering that I’m a real-life Cinderella.

I’m 32-years old, and I’m a nut for nature, and I’m in my backyard in Idaho. I have enough passion for 10-green thumbs. You can always find me outside and guaranteed with soil under my nails, and to be painfully honest, I’m probably running around barefoot. One beautiful summer day, I’m busy weeding out my many lilies. It was getting hot, and I had just started walking towards the house for some water and blink.

My next blink brought me to my knees.

In that blink, I’m no longer in my backyard walking inside to get water; instead, I’m standing in my home I shared with my grandparents in Port Orchard, Washington. Problem is, I’m in the 6th grade. This was playing just like a movie but felt like I was there watching it in person.

Grandad just asked me if I want to go to the store and get some more watermelon Bonnie Bell lip balm. I was running out and had been complaining to Granny earlier. I am a big-time lip-balm enthusiast, even to this day.

We had just taken Granny to the airport. She had flown out to Colorado to visit her sisters for the week. Eager to refill my pockets with delicious Bonnie Bell, we headed off to the store. I picked out my favorites, watermelon, and bubble gum. I remember being very happy and content.

Freshly back from the store, I’m sitting on the corner section of our white couch happily applying my lip balm, when Grandad came to sit next to me. Very close to me. Hmm.

Blink.

Upon opening my eyes, Grandad had climbed on top of me, swinging his left leg on top of both my legs, pinning me to the couch. His arms wrap themselves around my arms, completely pinning me under him.

Simultaneously, he pushed his large and very slimy tongue deep inside my mouth. I remember not being able to breathe. I believe I was in complete shock at this time. This movie memory was extremely hard to watch as a 32-year woman, as I dropped to my knees needing to throw-up. I want to throw up for this poor child and for myself. That’s all the memory showed me, but I do know I went wild on his ass once I came up for air.

Instant sobbing. I’m in complete and utter disbelief. I want to hug this poor little girl. I was innocent, so young, and so alone. This felt like such betrayal; I was completely confused. I didn’t know what to think. I remember the rest of the week was a flurry of nasty naked photos of women lying about on my bathroom vanity. I would innocently walk up the dining room table and find pictures of nude women neatly arranged on each placemat.

The rest is gone. I don’t recall anything else.

I feel like a shoe needs to drop. Did something else happen? I can’t shake this feeling.

Apparently, I placed my horrible, scarred memories into some kind of black abyss. The shock and confusion alone for being molested, I could understand why the human psyche protects itself from such harmful memories.

This sudden black-hole memory made me seek out intense therapy. We focused on my molestation and coming to terms with the possibility of having more black-holes revealing themselves. I was trying my best to prepare myself, and to my relief, I hadn’t experienced another one to date. Many years later, I learned that I suffered from Childhood Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, which caused my Swiss cheese memory.

Reflecting on this particular part of my past is hard for me. Writing about it makes it even harder, but necessary if I want to put this puzzle together. Hmm.

I’m still scratching my head when Grandad came showing up headless. He delivered two messages that day. Grandads emotions was a message by itself. He was so regretful, his emotions slamming into my chest, and the intensity immediately alarmed me.

Like, what the fuck happened? Is someone about to die? They wouldn’t tell me this way, or anyway, but it had that kind of feel to it. Such sincere, deep regret, the kind that is endless.

Then there are the two messages about a man that is supposedly coming for me. Apparently, he’s good. Well. What to do about those messages. Where does he fit in, or does he? Then I have this other man, from Ms. Bubbles. The man whose first wife died and he has two young children. These two dead visits were strangely within seconds of one another. That meant the dead came together. But why?

With all my puzzle pieces feeling scattered, yet I’m like a locomotive steam engine as I roll right through my metamorphosis. I can barely keep up. I am thoroughly and utterly obsessed with finding an answer to my 32-year old question - this other man with the caterpillar brows. I can’t take it any longer. I need to find out and not stop until I do. I have no idea how any of these scattered pieces belong or even fit together, but something tells me … I’m on the cusp of finding out.