Creating My Odyssey

Quirky artist / writer / explorer / wild west, steampunk & ghost nut /renaissance soul / mental health & lifestyle blogger

Wednesday, 31 October 2018




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Husband possesses the third eye. So does his mum and so did son. They’re what you might call ‘fey’. There's something in the water.

    I shove Husband into historic properties booked for holidays first to check they're not haunted and he says:
'Nada. Not a sausage.' (He says it to shut me up. My imagination’s up there with the fairies.)         If he'd responded in the affirmative, I'd have demanded re-allocating to the nearest spanking new glass and steel hostelry. That's not to say that that won't be spooked, having perhaps been built on the site of an ancient monastery, the habitat of habited ghostly monks miffed at having holiday makers tromping around. 

 Some years ago we stayed in a historic property in Cornwall. The house had been 'modernised' in the eighteenth century with a new range added in the kitchen. I loved the place. It wasn't until we were driving home that Husband said:
'There was something on the landing.’
He tells me these things afterwards so that I don't freak out while we're there.
‘There was something on the landing. I felt it at night and shut the bedroom door on it. It was there in the daytime as well.’
Son sensed it too. He said that he wondered if the place was haunted. Creepy. Son is rarely creeped. Just tells ‘it’ to ‘**** off.’ Me? I sense zilch. Flat as the proverbial pancake except for my creeped imagination. Husband is a scientist and engineer. Rational. Logical.
'I can only tell you what I experienced.' 

Husband and son are sensitives. Not the kind of sensitive that weeps over a sunset (although they do that as well) but the sensitive of the 'something's lurking back there' variety. You may not believe in this malarkey but I think there's something. I can usually tell if Husband is sensing something by the look on his face. Sort of blank. A couple of years ago we toured a pre-English Civil War National Trust property in Oxforshire and his expression dawned as he stood in the end corner of a corridor busy with visitors.
'I've got to get out of here,' he murmured. We moved into another room. 'I sensed fighting, with swords. And I was depressed. Horrible.' He shivered. As we departed the house, he uttered: 'Walter.'
'Water? You thirsty?'
'Walter. The name's just popped into my head.'
'Ooooh. I gotta Google this back at the house.'
I'd brought my laptop with me. I typed the name of the house and the name 'Walter', and facts popped up. Ooh. Walter was an early owner of the property, information not mentioned in the National Trust brochure, and fighting had taken place in the house during the English Civil War. Our gobs were smacked. 

More recently, Husband and I visited an acquaintance, Rosie, in her 1890’s home in Hampshire. Over tea we chatted about the history of the house and the resident ghost who paced her son's bedroom, disturbing his sleep so much he had to change rooms. They thought that this may be the Victorian maid who'd fallen down the stairs and died. We also chatted about our friend’s very much alive dogs. As we left the house Husband said:
'The maid was Edith. She was standing behind me when Rosie was talking and I had a sensation of darkness. When Rosie began to talk about the dogs, Edith faded away. She doesn't like dogs.'
Back to Google and I typed in our friend's address, the name ‘Edith’ and looked up the 1891 Census. Up popped Edith Clarke, maid of that house. Whatever you think – claptrap or gobbledy-gook – it's bloomin’ fascinating. 

There's more. Our local pub is haunted by a dog and Husband has seen and felt it several times. Son worked in the pub, and he grew accustomed to glimpsing people-shaped shadows flitting past the open door while he worked in the kitchen.

I'm a seriously sensitive person. I get funny over adverse comments about my fashion sense, but things that go bump in the night? My imagination may be bonkers, but my spook sensitivity's as dead as a zombie. Which is just as well. If I saw anything, I'd squeal like a little girl and run. 

I watch programmes such as Ghost Adventures and every other ghost show when Husband lets me. (I used to watch Most Haunted but Yvette Fielding and her fellow girl investigators screamed a lot, which totally ruined it.) The four American guys who host Ghost Adventures are fun and charismatic and don’t scream a lot. Mostly they respond: ‘Whoa, whoa, bro…(or dude)…when something happens. They take photographs and record voices. Scoff if you will. I like it. 

Which all convince me that at least one experience out of a hundred may be real. Blow me down – ghosts, phantoms, spirits, apparitions – possibly really exist. But I don't want to see one. Which is why I watch ghost shows. They can experience it. I can watch them experiencing it in the safety and warmth of my sitting room.
As to Husband, I relish listening to his latest experience, but hey – he can keep ‘em!

I'd love to hear about readers' spooky experiences - bring it on!

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CREATING MY ODYSSEY - : HOW DEPRESSION FOUND ITS WAY BACK TO WHERE I AM ...:                         Charles Watson                      https://www.sunshine behavioral...


Charles Watson


                      Charles Watson

Charles Watson is a freelance writer specializing in health and addiction. He has a background in journalism and an English degree from Central Michigan University. He is the head content writer for Sunshine Behavioral Health, and a lifelong health advocate.   While not writing and interviewing for the center, you can catch him at a local Detroit Tigers game (yes, even in 2018) or reading new material from his favorite author, Tim Ferris. Currently, he publishes content for and can be reached directly on Twitter at @charleswatson00 or at Google+

This is 'Holly's' story, as related to Charles - 

Meet "Holly," and try to take in her story.
'I grew up in a dysfunctional home.  My dad is an alcoholic who nagged my mom so much that I can barely recall a peaceful and relaxing day at home growing up. Since I am an only child, I had no one to talk to about my resentment for my dad and the guilt I had for not being able to stand up for my mom.  I was always crying myself to sleep but nobody knew how lonely I was.
“Have you ever experienced the kind of loneliness so strong that you can literally feel it seeping through your bones? I have, and It’s making me wonder if there’s any reason to go on.”  This is an entry in my journal when I was nine.  
Other kids were thinking about games and fun while I was writing such depressing thoughts on paper.

Hiding My Secret

I learned to live a double-life.  No one knew about my home situation and I learned early on how to be a “functional extrovert”.  
I “acted” friendly, outgoing, and sociable.  My acting must have been convincing since I was one of the most popular girls in high school and even in college.  While I socialize with everyone, I didn’t let anyone get too close, for fear that my secret family life would be discovered.
To compensate for having an alcoholic father and abused mother, I worked hard to live a perfect life on my own.  True enough, I graduated at the top of my class and eventually landed a job in a large firm where I flourished and became recognized.
Since I was living in another city and far from the drama at home, I felt much better.  I worked long hours and loved my job.  I was only 24 years old, but I have already achieved my goals – a nice apartment, car, money, and a high position in the company.
Whatever feelings of deep loneliness I have in my heart, I buried it by working like there’s no tomorrow.

My Depression Crept Back

My greatest fear was marrying a man just like my dad.  But I was too insecure to date good men because I was afraid they will abandon me as soon as they knew about my family situation.
I brought the curse to myself. I married a man who was verbally and physically abusive. He hated that I worked a lot and that I earned more than him, so he made sure to make a fuss whenever I got home from work.
After draining my energy, confidence, and hope in the three years that we were together, he abandoned me.  I was devastated.  The thought that an incompetent man couldn’t even stand to stay with me brought back the loneliness I felt before.
I was like a robot programmed to merely go to work and come home after the day is done. I could barely sleep.  I had no appetite.  I was living but it sure didn’t feel like it.  I felt exactly like my 9-year-old self who was writing in her journal about “loneliness that seeps through the bones”.
I kept to myself and no longer bothered to wear my “extrovert” mask.  I was irritable and yelled a lot.  My friends were concerned but I pushed them all back. I couldn’t stand being pitied.
There were days I could hardly force myself to get out of bed.  I was late for meetings. I missed deadlines.  My boss was concerned but I didn’t care.
My headaches seemed to not go away, and I couldn’t stop my eyes from shedding buckets of tears.  I hated the evenings because the darkness and silence seemed to suffocate me.  I was a mess.
I read about depression and its warning signs.  I knew my case was textbook.  I was afraid, desperate, and panic-stricken.  I knew deep in my heart that I needed help.

Finding the Will to Fight Back

I was fortunate to have a friend who didn’t let go of me, even when I was the worst friend anyone could have.  She found me a good counselor who helped me deal with my sadness and emptiness.
I was hesitant at first, but I realized after a couple of counseling sessions that talking helps.  I poured my soul out to a complete stranger.  It was refreshing to let go, take off my mask, and not care about what other people thought of me.
I told the therapist about my alcoholic dad, my deep-seated insecurities about not being enough, my hellish marriage – everything.  I cried, shouted, cursed during sessions and it was cathartic.
It has been three months since I first went to counseling and I am feeling a lot better.  Although there are still times when I feel empty, I force myself to get out of bed and write.
I have always loved writing since I was a little girl.  I have several notebooks filled with thoughts I had when my parents were fighting or when I felt sad and alone.
I knew that writing is therapeutic even without my counselor telling me.  Jotting my feelings down on paper serves as an effective way to release all the overwhelming emotions I keep inside.
I write everything since nobody will read it anyway.  When the emotions are too intense, I even burn what I wrote and think that I am being freed from those emotions as the pages slowly turn to ashes.
I know that I am far from being completely free from the shackles of depression since it fought hard to stay with me, but I try to remind myself every day that I have come a long way.  I give myself a hug every morning and greet my reflection in the mirror with a smile.  Little things help.  Little things matter.
If you can relate to my story because you also stared depression in the face, know that there is hope, and help is available.
Give yourself a tight hug, close your eyes, and whisper, “It’s okay. You can do this.” '
Charles would like to thank "Holly" for the time she gave in discussing her past for this article, and I would like to thanks Charles for the opportunity to share "Holly's" experience.