My Dear One,

Do you believe in apparitions?  Creatures that haunt and torment?  Or perhaps creatures with no ill-intent, just tormented souls, looking to right past wrongs?  If I were a ghost, the latter is the kind of ghost I would be.  I wouldn’t have come to this realization by myself, but someone who knows me well declared that I would be the kind of ghost who would silently travel around, quietly putting everything in order.  This seems appropriate, as well as very telling; doing for others what I can’t always seem to do for myself.

I believe in neither type of apparition.  Even if they did exist, there is nothing about them which would be disturbing.  They cannot possibly be as terrifying as the demons my imagination has created, the ones which dwell in the recesses of my mind.  Eager to haunt me when I set them free … eager to plague my innermost thoughts … eager to plant doubts wherever they roam.  There are several demons who have set up shop in this closet, but the king of them all is the most intimidating one.  The one I can’t shake … the one whose shape and presence is a very familiar one … the one whose voice whispers to me in the dark hours of night.  He has a name.

Guilt.

He exists in several incarnations, and is wily enough to have convinced me of his reality in all his configurations, no matter what shape he decides to take.  Guilt in all its forms, real as well as imagined.  It’s bad enough when the feelings of guilt are deserved and brought upon oneself through behaviors resulting from a lack of self-control, but just as worse when guilt takes the form of self-reproach. When the offenses are imagined, and then believed.  When one self-flagellates religiously and dutifully, unable to let go of imaginary misdemeanors, for which one has already been indicted, tried and convicted by the judge and jury called self.  This type of weighty guilt does not just exist; it is usually created in someone by another, most often in childhood through some sort of abuse.  When one is grown in the soil of constant guilt, it becomes easy in adulthood to do things which prove the truth you were taught.  That you are guilty, that you are unworthy, that no matter what you do, you are already damned.  This leads to self-sabotage all across the board.  It is a vicious cycle, and one which is extremely difficult to unlearn.

Context is important when making such bold statements, isn’t it?  I will let you peek into a few pages of my private journal, in the hopes of furthering your understanding in this regard.

May 2018

A dream.  A horrifying violent dream.  I’m in bed, almost alone in the dark room.  But I’m not alone; I have a companion.  At the foot of the bed, a baby rests.  A baby fawn.  Tiny and beautifully formed, curled up in a circle, asleep.  I am starring in the dream, but also watching as if viewing a movie.  There is a silent narrative, which tells me this fawn is my pet, my much-loved precious little companion.  Velvety-soft brown fur, the sweetest of white spots, body lifting and falling with each little breath. 

Suddenly, the door to my bedroom opens.  Two men enter before I can even find a voice to cry out.  One stays at the door, armed with a rifle.  The other comes around the bed, and sits down beside me.  He doesn’t say anything, but I know in my heart he is here to take my fawn away from me.  The Grim Reaper … I know it.  I am experiencing intense helplessness.  Around my waist is a gun … I am armed and prepared, but no, I am paralyzed.  I cannot reach the gun, I cannot prevent the man from taking my beloved fawn.  All I can do is move.  In one last attempt to save her, I sit up straight in the bed. 

The man at the door raises his rifle, and shoots me in the back.

June 2018 

No dream this time, but a real experience.  It was noon today.  From inside the house, I could hear an intense forced crying sound coming from outside.  I had never heard crying exactly like this.  Like a child’s cry … but yet not.  Too hard to explain the cry in words.  But instantly I knew it was a distress call, and it was coming from some kind of animal.  I stepped outside, and determined the cry to be coming from my neighbor’s property.  There are fifteen acres of ground on her side.  There is no direct route to her property, as a tree line separates the two parcels.  I ran down the driveway, and then cut through a small opening.  After crossing over, I started walking towards the sound.  A small grouping of large blue spruce is ahead.  I could see through them somewhat, and as I drew closer, I saw a doe with her head bent down in the low-lying branches.  Almost as soon as I saw her, she saw me.  Going into full-protection mother mode, she began stomping her foot at me and huffing loudly.  She ran away from the spruces, hoping to entice me to follow, or to drive me away.  I was upset at her distress, but I couldn’t leave and ease her mind; I had to know what was making that sound.  The cry was still desperately loud.  As I walked around the spruces, there was a small clearing in the branches, and my eyes came upon the smallest fawn I have ever seen, lying on the ground.  The size of a very small dog, but all legs and neck.  Clearly agitated, and not able to get up, it was easy to see the fawn was helpless. 

I instantly ran away, back towards the house.  I knew what I had to do.  Once back inside, I found the number of the local wildlife rehabilitation center.  I had contacted them about a decade ago, when I found baby warbling vireos on the ground – they had fallen out of the nest.  Sadly, they died before I could get them to the center.  I called and, after listening to what I had to say, was advised to bring the fawn in immediately.  I grabbed a large blanket and cardboard box, threw it in my car, backed it out of the garage and parked it near the opening to my neighbor’s property.  I returned to the fawn and the mother, who quickly left the scene.  I had mentally prepared myself somehow in this short time, because I knew I had to lift the fawn with my hands, and I wasn’t sure if there would be some gaping wound underneath that I would be sliding my hands into.  I spoke soothingly to her, running my hands as comfortingly as I could down her side, and then slid my hands underneath her small body and lifted her, carefully supporting her neck.  She cried while I moved her; it was heartbreaking.  There were no wounds that I could see; whatever was causing her such pain was invisible to my eye.  I lowered her gently into the box, took her back to the car, where I transported her to the center. 

When I arrived, the reaction was not good.  I was told the little fawn was barely alive.  There were some measures they were going to attempt to try to save her, but the diagnosis was bleak. 

She didn’t make it.

I wanted that beautiful fawn to be saved.  It made me want to rail at someone because she couldn’t be.  And as always, I then channeled the blame on to the easy victim, a familiar habit from years of practice.  I railed at myself … why didn’t I find her earlier?  How long had she been lying there crying before I finally heard her?  Why wasn’t I outside instead of inside?  Why hadn’t I been paying more attention?    

As long as I live, I will never forget the feeling of holding that sweet little baby in my hands.  Velvety-soft brown fur, the sweetest of white spots, body lifting and falling with each little breath.  So young, so vulnerable, so helpless … the impression of that experience will forever be etched on my heart, leaving me feeling as vulnerable and as helpless as that little baby, but in a different way.  Because no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t save her.

I didn’t know it, but her fate was out of my hands long before I ever heard her cry for help.

I could not save the fawn.

I could not save my mother.

Guilt does not look good on you; grace looks good on you.  I repeat these words of beauty like a mantra.  I have said them so many times, I should have them engraved on a piece of jewelry and wear them close to my heart.  Words of the heart, given in love, from one I love, to this suffering soul.  Over and over, these words roll off my tongue, hopeful that someday, I can finally believe them.

Do you struggle with demons, my dear one?  I would give you advice I cannot heed:  do not let them win.

All my love,

Your Never Sleeping Beauty

One need not be a chamber to be haunted.  ~Emily Dickinson