All posts by Jesse Fox

Jesse Fox is the nom de plume of a St. Louis based writer in progress. Born in the foothills of the Ozark Mountains in Missouri she grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. After graduating high school, she headed to St. Louis. Her aspirations to be a writer began there; first with poetry then fan-fiction when she discovered the internet. St. Louis has been her home for over two decades and she's held down an eclectic mix of jobs while working on her writing. At present she manages rental property, honing her skills as writer and artist, dreaming of a long lived career as a writer.

Experiencing the Paranormal through the Eyes of a Child

The Innocence of a Child

As a child, I grew up in a household where the paranormal was an everyday experience. We never really talked about it, but being inquisitive and opinionated (my mother used to tell me my curiosity would be the death of me) I wanted to ask questions. Of course, the answers I wanted were not forthcoming from my parents and as I became a teenager I read voraciously, tested the waters on my own, and pretty much scared the crap out of myself. I shut down until I was well into my twenties and couldn’t continue hiding who I was.

This isn’t about me though. This is about seeing the paranormal through the eyes of my best friend and cousin’s son. This kid came into the world opinionated and has not shut up since. It wasn’t until he was three that I began to notice things that had me wondering if he like much of our family (my mom and his grandma were sisters) had a bit of what Stephen King referred to as the Shining.

Shortly after his fourth birthday, his family moved into the house where he and his mother still reside and I finally concluded that he had indeed inherited the family gift. We all knew that the house, a nice little two story built in 1903, had an unseen visitor. Again, as when I was kid, it remained a secret in mixed company and I believe the reason was because my cousin didn’t want her son to be scared. See that’s where adults make a mistake. Fear does not come natural for children it’s a learned behavior.  Although, I was sure that he was aware I never mentioned it to his mother because I figured that any mention of it would send her into a panic. I changed my mind after a particularly grueling afternoon of babysitting.

As children are apt to do they enjoy it if you get down on their level and play. He always liked to play camping when he was little. We’d string up some yarn across my bed, hang a blanket to make a tent, and spend hours goofing around in that tent. On this occasion, he told me he had to go to the bathroom, left the tent, and went to the bathroom. After an exorbitant amount a time, he exited the bathroom, and I asked him what took so long, visions of a full roll of toilet paper plugging up my toilet dancing in my head. He screamed as loud as he could and stomped his foot, “SHUT UP!”

Of course, having a four year old scream at you and tell you to shut up, your first reaction is to discipline the kid. When I told him not to tell me to shut up he looked at me as if I were an idiot and said, “I’m not talking to you.” Then he burst into tears, real tears, not the fake crying that some kids will use to get out of trouble. I was shocked at this outburst because it was so uncharacteristic of him.

He crawled onto the bed, into my arms, and proceeded to tell me he was talking to the footsteps; a chill swept through me and instantly I knew what he was trying to tell me. I asked him what the footsteps wanted and he said they wanted to talk to him, but he didn’t want to talk to them. I explained that he just needed to tell them to go away. He said he tried, but they wouldn’t listen to him and maybe they would listen to me. I ask him where they were and he pointed at the corner of the room. When I focused on that spot, I felt the presence that had scared him witless. Taking a deep breath I stared at the spot mustering as much conviction as I could, “You need to leave you’re scaring him and he doesn’t want to talk to you.”

After a few minutes, the presence seemed to fade away and he looked up at me with a smile. “You made them go away. They never listen to me, you chased them away.”  His entire demeanor changed and for the remainder of the day he acted as if nothing had happened.

When his mother came to pick him up, I told her I needed to speak with her in private. As I explained what had happened she slumped against the wall and shook her head telling me she’d thought it was just their house. This confused the hell out of me. She explained she’d heard him talking upstairs in his room numerous times and decided to ask whom he was talking to up there. His answer was always my friend. When she asked him who his friend was, he would just say the man. When she asked if she could talk to his friend he’d giggle and tell her that she couldn’t see him so how would she talk to him. She’d tried to write it off as the imaginary friend thing, but now she knew better.

As he got older, he would ask me questions whenever I visited about what happened when you died. I’d tell him no one truly knows and would direct him to his mom. His mom would laugh and say it’s okay if you want to talk to him about it. I’d tell him what different people believed and told him that he would have to decide for himself what he believed. One of my favorite questions he asked me happened the Thanksgiving he was eight.

“Did you know there’s a ghost living in our house?”

I glanced at his mom and she shrugged. I smiled at him and replied, “Yes, I know about him.”

He went on to ask me how I knew it was a man. Had I saw him? Had he talked to me? I was honest with him and explained that I didn’t see ghosts, but that I could sense them and sometimes hear them. His reply was, “So, God made you so you know the ghosts are there.” Again, I was honest and told him yes. He nodded sagely, said he could do that too and then wandered off to play. He didn’t seem bothered by any of this and it made me smile to know that he wasn’t afraid anymore.

One of the funniest moments was a couple of years later when we went to see the movie The Messengers. He’s fascinated with ghost stories and he drove his mom nuts until she agreed to take him to see it. On the way home, his mother and I were discussing the movie when from the backseat he suddenly piped up with the following.

“I don’t know why those people were scared of the ghosts. Ghosts won’t hurt you. They’re just lonely and they hang out and watch us like the man in our basement.”

His mother nearly wrecked the car.

I blinked and looked at her and then him, “You didn’t tell your mom about that?”

Her eyes got as huge as saucers and she demanded to know what he was talking about and why I knew when she didn’t. Shrugging he replied that when they’d went into the basement to get the Christmas tree and the decorations that he’d seen the man standing in the corner watching them. He explained he hadn’t said anything to her because he didn’t want her to be scared because the man isn’t a scary man mommy. She told him she wouldn’t have been scared and he rolled his eyes and stated, yes you would have mommy, because you think ghosts are scary, but they’re just people without bodies.

Experiencing these things through his eyes over the years has made me more receptive to my own ability to sense spirits. We lose an innocence of spirit as we age, grow, and learn fear of death and what waits for us on the other side. Because of him, I’ve rediscovered some of that innocence. He’s thirteen now and hasn’t mentioned the man for some time although we both know, through conversations, that he’s still aware and that he knows he can’t tell just anyone about what he’s seen. He’s a smart kid and I honestly believe that part of the reason he doesn’t tell his mother certain things is that he is trying to protect her.

Someday I hope he can share that part of himself with her.

Empathic:Dealing with the Ups & Downs

It wasn’t until I stepped into the adult world that I discovered something about myself that I hadn’t known. Well, on second thought I did know, I just didn’t realize what it was called. As a child I was often overly emotional. I found myself often angry or sad with not knowing why. Often I lashed out at the people around me and when I hit puberty it became worse. It was while a teenager that I closed myself off out of fear of the emotions that tore through me as if they were an invisible storm.

As an adult I discovered that the “curse” as I’d often referred to it was actually a “gift”. My problem was that I had no one in my life that could explain it. Although my mother was gifted she looked upon her own gifts as a curse. Trying to talk to her was nearly impossible because she’d convinced herself that she was being punished for some imagined wrong. Sadly, her inability to accept her gifts along with being the primary caregiver for my father finally broke my mother. By the time I was a teenager she was already taking prescription drugs just to make it through the day. I saw what she could do and how it ended for her and I swore I would never allow that to happen to me.

Out on my own in the workforce as an adult the walls that I’d built as a teenager began to fall apart. I found myself consumed again by emotions that didn’t seem my own sometimes. I would discover soon what it was known as–empathy. I became a mother figure, even a confessor to the people around me. People I barely knew would talk to me about the deepest personal things. That’s when the migraines began. Sporadic at first, but as I became older they increased in frequency. It took me forever to connect the headaches with the overwhelming emotions that I often found myself swimming in. It was my best friend who gave me the answer I was seeking without ever knowing.

My best friend also happens to be my cousin on my mother’s side. Despite being blood relatives we didn’t really know one another having been raised hundreds of miles apart. It wasn’t until the summer before my senior year of high school we truly connected. Her mother seemed to know that we needed each other. It was that summer that we connected and we’ve been best friends since, nearly 25 years of friendship. The connection we had was what answered my question. We often knew when each other were sick or in emotional/physical pain even if we were no where close to one another. Hell, we even finished one another’s sentences and seemingly read each other’s thoughts. Used to creep the hell out of her ex-husband. 🙂

It was through that connection I realized that what I was often feeling was the emotions of those around me. I knew I could never rid myself of this “gift” but to continue in my life without traveling the road my mother had I had to learn how to control it. That was around the time I was 25 and I’m now 41 soon to be 42. I researched voraciously reading anything I could lay my hands on. Slowly but surely I learned I could  control it. It hasn’t always been an easy path, but the older I get the easier it is.

My “gift” has helped me more than I could ever imagined. Of course I’ve creeped a few folks out over the years, but sometimes–as mean as it might sound–I kind of get a kick out of it. I no longer fear the world around me as I did when I was a child. There are still moments in my life when I run into people that are the opposite of me. I have a friend that was very much one of these people. For years she literally drained my energy with the overwhelming need to cling to me. The friendship has now shifted and sadly I am grateful. It’s horrible when as an empath you find yourself being used as a dumping ground for the things someone you love doesn’t want to deal with. Sadly, she’s not the first nor will she be the last. At the moment I have another friend who is trying to take her place as my own personal “psychic vampire”. Of course I learned my lesson the first time around. I keep this one at arm’s length.

There are still times when I need to shut down those walls, but now it is to rejuvenate myself. I’ve learned that I need space and time to cleanse myself whether it’s a long hot soak in a tub or a walk in the first snow of the new year. Getting away from the people around me is healing. The worse times are when I’m sick or just exhausted. It is then that the walls I keep up sometimes fall. Even family get togethers can be taxing, but the pros well outweigh the cons.

I’ve learned to channel my gift through my writing over the years. That is yet another gift from the Goddess. I reach out to friends and strangers alike with my words and those words heal. I know that might sound odd to some, but it is the truth. Before I became a published writer I wrote fan fiction and it was there I honed my skill. Over the years I’ve received e-mails where someone tells me that it was like I could see into their heads and I helped them understand problems they had in their lives.

I now understand why I’m here, but I try to remember what a boss told me once.

You are the most loving and caring person I have ever met. You hold up everyone around you, but never think of yourself. Just remember what happens when the foundation of a house crumbles–the entire house comes down. Take care of yourself sometimes so the house can stand for many years.

He was right. Without a foundation the house will fall. Sometimes it’s fun to pour a little concrete.

Peek into a Young Writer

For the past week I’ve been doing some serious cleaning. In my family we have what I affectionately refer to as packratitis. If I don’t do seasonal cleaning in my apartment I swear I’ll end up being buried beneath a stack of only Goddess knows what. 🙂

During the course of rooting through the closet from Hell, I came across a box of odds and ends. Among those bits of the past I found a great number of things including some small journals. For as long as I can remember I’ve kept some type of journal or diary. The first journal I clearly remember was a small red diary with a lock and a tiny gold key. I was in the third grade and the extent of it was about how much I hated my younger brother, who was a huge butt munch, and how much of a crush I had on Tim Ceplina. Of course the butt munch brother found my diary, broke the lock, and proceeded to tell everyone at school that I was crushing on said boy. I wailed and screamed about how my life was over and I would never be able to show my face at school again.

Oh, for the good old days when my biggest concern was how to get even with the butt munch for ruining my 9 year old life.

As I got older the subject matter didn’t change much other than to become more soaked with teen angst. I was still crushing on Tim Ceplina and wishing I was dead. The dead part mainly because Tim didn’t even know I was alive. LOL

Entering into my twenties I’d started a new life in a new city and the journals which had once been rife with angst over why my latest crush ignored me transformed. No longer did I ramble on for pages about how I should just jump off a cliff because no one would notice anyway. Instead I decided to become a poet. Yes, a poet. *head desk*

Now there were volumes of dark, broody poems that involved darkness, blood, moonlight, yada, yada, etc. A few years ago I would have been embarrassed to admit this much less allow anyone to see it. Last night as I sat flipping through these small journals of “poetry” I thought about how much I’d grown in the past twenty years. I also realized that I had always written even if I hadn’t realized it.

So despite my horror at doing so (somewhere deep inside the 21 year old version of me is screaming bloody murder at my betrayal) I’ve decided to give you a peek into a young writer. Below is a sample of the broody poetry that eventually led to story writing and becoming a published writer. Yes, I’m blushing as I type this, but that’s okay. As they used to say in those old Virginia Slim cigarette ads “You’ve come a long way, Baby.”

Untitled Poem

Night falls

Darkling mist

On gossamer wings they come

Dancing on tiny inhuman feet


Music plays

Mystical notes

Tiny voices to enthrall

Calling to us–children all


Dancing feet

Complex steps

From beyond swirling forms

Through the veil they cross


Full moon rising

Clouds departing

To come to them is forbidden

Yet what sweet music they sing

Okay, let the laughing commence. 😉

Just When You Think You’re Alone…

I’m just going to ramble so humor me folks. LOL

Last night I had a rough night. In RL I’m a property manager for a small family owned business. At 11:30 pm I had a tenant knock on my door and scare the crap out of me. Let’s just say I’d already had a crappy day, but that knock was the icing on the cupcake. It led me to not only call the police, but to wake my boss up, and then thanks to the very nice officer I discovered there’s a tenant in the building that I apparently can’t trust.  I had to call the maintenance engineer this morning to let him know what happened last night and there was a job I needed him for. Details are unimportant at this point. Suffice to say I didn’t get to sleep until well after midnight and had to be back up at 7:30 am.

I was frankly feeling down and frustrated this morning when I woke up. This job takes away from what I love, my writing, but it’s a necessity for my day to day survival. Frustration is the curse of those of us who actually grew mentally into responsible adults.

Claddagh Symbol of Love, Friendship, and Loyalty

During my morning ritual of checking e-mail, making calls, and checking my Live Journal I came across a post from one of my best friends on-line. If not for this lovely, talented woman half-way across the world and in another hemisphere (she lives in Queensland, Australia) I would have long ago given up my dream of being  a published writer. When I had no faith in myself she had enough faith for both of us. She poked and prodded me like no one else, not even my family, ever did about my dream of being a writer.

As I sat there reading this post that she’d made I began to cry. I couldn’t stop. Her words made me realize that over the past ten years that I’ve been on-line that I had touched some people far deeper than I’d ever imagined. Sometimes I forget about these people. I’ve never been able to hug her, but I talk to her at least once a week over Skype. We laugh, curse, read each other erotica (mainly I read to her she’s still my tester for my writing and she never blows smoke up my ass), and I’m her tester for all the art she creates (which is incredibly beautiful). I consider her not only my BFF, but my soul sister even though we’ve never stood in the same room. I hooked her up with Dark Roast Press my publisher and though I know her as Winnie some of you here know her as Juanita Campbell (eyeballs C.H. Scarlett and Myristica) the staff artist for Dark Roast.

I found myself feeling like a damn fool after reading what she had to say about the past we shared before either of us got to this place. A place where our dreams are coming true; slowly, but surely.

Sometimes everyone including myself needs to be reminded that we’re not alone, even when we believe we are.

May the Goddess bless you and keep you, Winnie, as you have blessed me. *hugs*

Excerpt from “Samhain’s Embrace” by Jesse Fox

I wanted to share an excerpt from my newest story published by Dark Roast Press!

Samhain's Embrace

TITLE: Samhain’s Embrace

AUTHOR: Jesse Fox

AUTHOR URL: http://jessefox1968.wordpress.com/

PUBLISHER: Dark Roast Press http://darkroastpress.com

E-MAIL: jesse_fox2008@peoplepc.com

MY SPACE: http://www.myspace.com/jesse_fox2008

TWITTER: http://www.twitter.com/FoxTracks

RELEASE DATE: October 31, 2009

URL TO THE BUYING PAGE: http://darkroastpress.com/samhain.php

RATING: Adult

WARNINGS: There are explicit M/M Sexual Situations in this novella.

BLURB:

What is loss to the human heart?

A spirit of nature, misunderstood and forgotten by modern man, when drawn out on the one night he roams the darkness freely, seeks to understand the meaning of loss and ease a young man’s pain.

Bran Conleth is a man broken by the ultimate loss – death. Desperate to summon his deceased lover he chooses the one night when the veil between the land of the living and the land of the dead is at its thinnest. Instead of his lover, he calls forth the embodiment of the night – Samhain.

Together they share one incredible journey that will teach Samhain about human loss and Bran that there is life after death.

EXCERPT:

Samhain sent out a silent thank you to the Goddess that the young man had brushed off the faint movement as nothing more than a draft. His unseen eyes followed as Bran lifted the silver athame, and then reached beneath the altar to retrieve a simple wooden box, the top engraved with a pentacle. He stood and moved across the room to where the circle was and Samhain could not pull his gaze from the long line of the young man’s naked back. Few witches still performed sky clad in this day and age, not that it was significant one way or the other, although he did find the human form– male and female–quite enticing.

His gaze mapped out each inch of the young man’s body with precise glances, his wide shoulders, narrow waist, and hips, and the soft swell of his ass that led into long muscled legs. That he found himself drawn to this child of magic was no surprise to him. Samhain understood intimately the grief that surrounded him in a miasma of pain. Death was his bread and butter, so to speak, and although humans found it terrifying and unspeakable, he appreciated it for the beauty it led to. Humans didn’t understand that life sometimes, more often than not, was far more unspeakable. Death was a part of nature, a release from the bitterness of an existence that did not always allow true happiness. This man, though, had found happiness in life, and Samhain understood his bitterness towards death.

Remaining invisible, he glided from his hiding place and approached the man who had knelt within the circle, laying out items from the box. There was a lidded bowl of salt, a censer with incense, a piece of lava rock, and a lidded bowl of water. He settled each item at the appropriate point of the compass, removed the lids from the bowls and returned to the box to pull out a small medallion and a box of matches. The care with which he went about this ritual fascinated Samhain, for he hadn’t truly seen such faith in the old ways in a very long time. Yes, there were witches in this day and age, but over the years, the rituals watered down, lost to the mists of time, and to see this man show such belief and care was heartening.

Finally, the man stood, went to the northern point, and began pacing the circle, pausing to light each candle, and lastly the incense. The flames swelled and danced as he lit the incense and turned to face the mirror. Lowering his body to the floor, he settled his gaze on his reflection, with a look of determination in his eyes.

Samhain drifted along the perimeter, curiosity driving him on even when his instincts told him he should stop this ritual. It was clear now that the man was seeking to call forth a spirit and that was the reason Samhain was here. He was the guardian of the gate between the land of the living and the land of the dead and in his long existence, he’d never seen one of these rituals end well. He lifted his head and focused on the mirror as the man began to chant softly, the incense rising to swirl around his head.

Who am I to deny him the closure he needs? Samhain thought.

You are the guardian of the door, a faint voice whispered in reminder, the one of four whom we have given the power of life and death.

He sighed softly, his breath caressing the bare skin of the man in the circle. Yes, he thought, but will denying him be the right thing to do?

Fear or Why I’m an Alien…

I was setting here wondering exactly what I could possibly blog about when a conversation I had with a friend this weekend came to mind. We were discussing  this new movie  “Paranormal Activity” that’s caused such a stir on-line. Being as Halloween is coming up and I had a chance to watch said movie I decided what the hell. That was exactly my reaction–WTH? I was not impressed and as a matter of fact was–yet again–utterly disappointed by all the hype. I won’t spoil the movie for those who wish to see it, but my friend was surprised at the venom that spurted from my mouth about how Hollywood wouldn’t know fear or scary if it walked up and bit them on the ass.

Frustrated to the Point of Screaming

Let me explain my growing annoyance. I’ve spent all of my adult life and most of my teens looking for something–anything–to scare myself. I’m talking scare the living bejeesus out of me, nightmares for a week fear. Thus far I have failed. No book or movie has yet to stand my hair on end and at this point I feel as if I’m an alien.

Why the desire to scare myself silly? I honestly have no answer. Maybe it’s because I want to experience what my friends do as they huddle in a darkened theater, clutching either the seat’s arm or their best friend/boy friend/husband’s arm until their knuckles are white with the stress. Perhaps, I want to feel that rush of adrenaline through my body as I jump in my seat.

I adore horror movies, Halloween is my favorite holiday, every year I go to at least one haunted house with my best friend and her son, yet still the fear eludes me. I roll my eyes, laugh, and often sigh incredibly loud. I’m sure the poor folks in the haunted houses despise me. No matter what they try I don’t scream, jump, and/or run. At the best they get a chuckle or a snide comment such as “Boy aren’t you ugly and scary”.

I don’t even have any phobias. A friend of mine tries at every turn to freak me out about clowns. It seems there are numerous people with that particular phobia (Thank you, Stephen King!). Actually, her attempts to scare me have become an on-going joke between our friends. I wish I had a phobia. It would make me feel less an alien and more a part of the world around me.

So, what do you think? Should I change my name to “Abbey Normal”?

Bonus points for anyone who gets the joke. 😉

Growing up in a Unique Family

I wracked my brain wondering what I could possibly write about today. Being this is my first blog for the Pagan and the Pen I decided I might share with you some of my family’s history. This history is what led me to not only my interest in psychology and the paranormal but eventually to paganism.

For many years, I never spoke of certain aspects of my childhood simply because of the stigma of two subjects—mental illness and psychic abilities. Some people would say both are one and the same because psychic abilities do not exist. I beg to differ. My father suffered mental illness most of his life and my mother inherited a gift from my grandmother that she considered a curse. As my youngest brother put it when our mother passed into the spiritual realm, ‘Say what you may about them, but the old man and her had something special. They definitely loved each other’. Because they both needed someone who would understand and love them, flaws and all, I believe the God/Goddess drew them together.

Goddess knows, my father was one of the most gentle and shy men I’ve ever met. That was when he was on his meds and they were working. He began having problems when he hit puberty at the age of twelve in 1943. He was in and out of mental hospitals throughout his teen years until he decided to leave home at eighteen. He never spoke much of his family background or his experiences as a young man traveling throughout the United States.

Born in West Virginia during the Great Depression he grew up in a troubled family. Whether that added to his problems, I can’t say. His father died of an accidental gunshot before he was born and his two older sisters insisted until they died their mother had killed him because she wanted to marry her lover. No one though, will ever know the truth being as all parties are now deceased. Having known his mother though until she passed when I was fourteen, I believe she might have done just that. She was a bitter, hateful, woman who took any opportunity to sharpen her claws on my father, my mother (who she despised for reasons unknown by me), or her crippled husband who was confined to a wheelchair.  There was a great deal of anger, physical, and mental abuse dealt out over the years by her.

My mother was ten years my father’s junior. She was born and raised in the same town in the Ozark foothills that my siblings and I were. Small towns can be unforgiving. Her mother gave birth to two children prior to marrying my grandfather. Both were children of rape (the husband of the woman she lived with raped her from the time she was thirteen) who died at the ages of five and six from what might have been influenza. After her marriage to my grandfather, she gave birth to nine more children all at home; her last was still born. With such a large family, there was little to go around and my grandfather spent a year in State prison when he was caught stealing chickens to feed his family. The stigma of both her mother and father’s pasts left my own mother angry and with little self-esteem.

Her father passed from a heart attack when she was ten and her mother suffered a stroke five years later. My mother dropped out of school to take care of her mother and her younger brother. At seventeen, she had an affair with a married man. In this day and age, he would go to prison for statutory rape. Instead, my grandmother threatened to tell his wife about his extracurricular activities. That ended the affair and three years later, she met my father.  They began dating when she was twenty-three and they married two years later.

My parents tried their best with what little they had. In those years, when my brothers and I were younger, my mother tried to hide the fact that she had premonitions. I never understood why adults think they can hide things from kids. Children have eyes and ears. One of my first memories of my mother having a premonition was when I was perhaps five. She woke screaming and sobbing and told my father she’d seen a black wreath in the floor setting in a pool of blood. She then announced that her brother was dead and my father tried to tell her she’d had a nightmare. A few hours later her sister showed up (we didn’t have a phone) and told her that their brother had committed suicide.

That was just one of many incidents. As I grew older, I began to ask questions. My mother sent mixed signals about her gift. I believe it was from years of suffering the slings and arrows of not only a close-minded community but also a family that had no desire for any further stigma. At times, she took it with a grain of salt and at other times would beg God to stop punishing her for some imagined wrong. The older she became the harder it was for her to deal with not only her sensitivity, but also my father’s illness. She avoided any conversation of it as if to deny it would mean it didn’t exist. It bothered me that she felt this way and being a child I was fascinated by what she could see.

My fascination was short-lived though when at fourteen I had my first major experience.

The house we lived in had a resident spirit that everyone knew about in the family. He manifested only as the sound of footsteps that paced back and forth between the kitchen and living room, but that’s a story for another time. There was only once that he appeared and that was to my mother’s sister. Having always heard the footsteps I was used to them and thought nothing of it. Of course, this particular fall afternoon was something entirely different.

I had my favorite chair, a huge high-backed thing that sat in front of the television.  My younger brother loved to sneak up on me when I was reading in this chair and try to scare me. Every time he succeeded in doing so which would lead to a fight. This time though I thought I had him. As I sat in the chair reading, I heard his approaching footsteps that halted behind the chair. I waited for a moment grin firmly in place and then heard my name whispered softly. Leaping up from the chair to confront my brother I was horrified to discover no one standing there. That was probably the fastest I’ve ever run in my life and despite the evidence of my own eyes I refused to believe that it wasn’t my brother. My mother confirmed he’d been with her the entire time though. Let’s just say I refused to stay alone in the house for at least six months.

Over the course of the next year, I had a handful of experiences including a premonition of the night my father on a down spin tried to kill my mother. If it hadn’t been for that premonition I’m not sure I would be setting here typing right now. Suddenly the idea of being psychic wasn’t so fun anymore. I immediately shut myself off and it wasn’t until years later that I realized that closing off was the worst thing I could have done. Not only had I closed myself off from the spiritual world, but from the physical world as well.

After years of struggling, I’m now in a comfort zone. My sensitivity is not as strong as my mother’s was nor is it the same. I feel energies, mainly emotional energy. This ability has served me well in both my public as well as private life. I thank the Goddess everyday that I learned to embrace my gift. I grant you sometimes it has scared the crap out of my friends, but that is their problem.

My best friend of over twenty years (who also happens to be my cousin) and I have a connection that’s been made stronger by my ability to leave the past behind and open up about this. Her mother and mine were sisters, from the same family, although, we were raised thousands of miles apart. Once I opened up, she confessed that she’d experienced things as well. We both scared the crap out of her ex-husband and pissed him off as well when their son began to experience things at the age of four. Rather than shut the little guy down, we encouraged him to talk to us. Now he’s nearly a teenager and he still experiences things on occasion, but has learned not to tell everyone he meets he sees things. Now if only we could convince him to clean his room. *chuckles*

Over the years, I have helped others by accepting this gift and it is a gift. I no longer fear what I can’t explain nor do I fear death. There is no doubt in my mind that we carry on long after our body gives out. I know somewhere out there my mother and father are watching over me and I have no doubt they are proud of the woman I’ve become.

Blessed Be,

Jesse