It all started with a trigger. Its intent guided me to a path that I knew I had been on before as I recognized the dreadful sickness in my stomach, but I could not place where or when. But when I finally did….. the efforts to turn around dissolved and sent me into an abyss of darkness without any clue as to when it would end, and my world would split in half. I would live in two different worlds. One that would exist in the day and one that would exist at night.
That pivotal moment set everything in motion. The remnants of the many nights of dreams filled with darkness and fear would infiltrate into my days, slowly crippling me by fear, dissolving my days into tears, anxiety, and paralyzing panic attacks.
Another world would collide with my days as my nighttime horrors would begin to emerge into my days, catching me off guard like a raging bull charging through the streets of Spain. My ability to experience laughter, visiting with my favorite friends filled with lively conversations, and the ability to do normal tasks such as shopping and cooking faded away. Each day eroded from the nightmares that I woke up from.
At first, I thought that I could handle it. But as time passed, I realized that this other world intended to stay, carrying its vengeance and taunting me with its invisible force.
And right when I thought it had finally ended, it would return with a vengeance, as if saying ‘not yet’. It turned into a battle that I could not escape from.
I soon found myself on a treacherous road, like being in an old wagon fitted with old, weathered, wobbly wagon wheels, and my undisclosed driver determined to drive them over an old dried-up riverbed. I would sit and feel anxiety while my head laid buried in my hands, and my stomach twisted like a dish towel that your grandmother would wring dry. All while, I waited for one of the wheels to collapse from the abuse that it had taken as it hit the stones that lined the bottom of the old riverbed because those wheels were weathered and ignored by their master. My pleas to stop as I felt every bump over the rocky bed remained unheard. The driver proceeded on, and I, the rider, wanted to jump off but couldn’t.
At times, I thought I had finally shut that dark door, but I had no idea that it would continue to haunt me repeatedly over and over without warning. I had labored to keep this door closed and its secrets hidden.
This door laid in the crinkles of my brain as an invisible barrier that I determined would not open without a bomb of effort. I constructed every part of my life’s decisions to avoid it. When I approached too close, I felt anxiety rise, my heart would race, and the sickness in my stomach would paralyze me. I would end up on the cold floor of my bathroom, crying, and unable to move while I waited for the darkness to go away. When it finally did go, I would seek refuge and peace, hoping that the darkness would not find me again.
For decades, what had lived behind that door haunted me. I would shove them out of my conscious mind so that they would seep in other ways. The truth included that for those many years, I did not know all that was behind that door. I only knew glimpses. Those glimpses were terrifying to me.
With the new year rolling in, I laid in my steaming bath water with the window opened slightly, allowing the cool winter breeze in along with the smells of pine, and I would wait for the touch of the brisk cold air to bring nature’s comfort as it had so many times before.
As I ended my steamy bath, I listened to the wind chimes blowing in the gentle winter breeze that would bring more snow, and I could hear the honking of the lost seagulls that had found their way here from the last storm to the foothill of the mountains.
Did they feel as lost and confused, like I do sometimes?
Would they find their way home?
Did they crave it as much as my soul craved finding its peace?
I had finally concluded that I would not be able to heal on my own. So, I finally searched out for help.
***
More about me Here along with some Housekeeping…
I started writing stories in the 5th grade, which seems odd since my English teacher hated my writing. But her complaining didn’t deter me. She never looked at or tried to enjoy the story (she was all about whether the commas were in the right place). It wasn’t until college that I received some admiration from my professors, who looked at my stories with a different set of eyes.
How did it all start? During my youth, frequent snowstorms often left us stuck inside for days due to significant snow drifts that closed schools and businesses. In my young mind, what could be better than to play Monopoly with my sister or to WRITE WRITE WRITE. Can you guess which one I chose?
Yes, you are right. I would sit at my yellow desk under my big bedroom window so I could watch the snow fall beautifully while I wrote in my imaginary world.
To my left, down to the third drawer of my desk, all my papers and spiral notebooks would burst out like a volcanic mess. And as my mother once said, “Your attempt to keep things organized is like trying to herd cats. Impossible.”
It was my mother’s perfectionism as a clean freak that made her difficult to live with as a writer, as she saw my writing as a mess in my room. She wanted my room clean, so I became a master at hiding my stories in that house so that when my Mother thought it was time to clean my drawers, she would never find my stories.
I found some places in the house to hide and protect them. When I got older, it turned into a hilarious treasure hunt. You must have figured by now that this was in the time when I’d say 99% of homes did not own a computer. It was a typewriter or paper.
So yes, I waved goodbye to snowmaking angels and entered into the magical world that I was making, which included a bog, a castle, and a little Princess in Scotland. What can I say, I was like 11 or 12.
So, writing and hiding was the epic beginning of my writing career, which has spanned several decades.
I am a multifaceted individual. I have had my career, which has led me to places that I never thought I would see. I left it in 2020 to start writing. I have several novels in the works, including some comedy, mystery/thriller, and children’s stories.
I am only now beginning to share, curious what I will see, read, or hear.
What to expect from me….
Though I would love to be one of those authors who offer you something every week or a few times a week, I won’t be as diligent as much of my writing is in the draft stages, and I am taking the time to work on them.
As time goes, I am certain that I will become a weekly poster, but for now, it might be 2 or 3 weeks depending on the story.
All of my writing is free for the first 3 weeks; after that, it will go to SubStack’s billing model.