When I was in 8th grade in the early 90’s I was a pretty content individual. I was involved in multiple after school activities. But, what I loved the most of all was coming home to watch the MMC (Mickey Mouse Club). I absolutely adored The Party, which was a musical pop group formed by members of the MMC. One of the members was DeeDee Mango. Most people now know of her due to her role in the Broadway Musical titled “Wicked”. I had a best friend at the time of whom I could talk to about my ghostly experiences. All was as good as can be in my world.
One day as I was flipping through a magazine I came upon a short article about The Premiere of the Doors movie starring Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison. I still to this day have NO IDEA what caused me to become so intrigued about this. The Doors music was entirely different from anything I was listening to at the time. Though I do recall a ride home from preschool when “Light My Fire” came on the radio. I had never heard of the song before. And yet I sang along to it. My mother glancing at me with a questionable look asking how I knew it. She never listened to them either. She would more so blast the Carpenters, Patsy Cline and Love music of the 50’s. My memory remembers a woman’s voice singing along with Jim. That It confused me a bit back then when I began listening to The Doors as to where the woman’s voice went. Did I imagine it?? I now realize her to be one of my main guides, as I have heard that voice a few times in the past 6 years. Either as I was in a transformative state or in my slumber.
I watched the movie (The Doors) and I fell in love. I fell in love with his experiences, his thoughts, his trials and tribulation’s. Not his appearance. I have had to explain this on multiple occasions, as most fall for his physical self. I am what is titled to be a “Sapiosexual”… a body does nothing much for me. I Digress, I began to purchase every book on him. Read about him. Wrote essays on him in school whenever I had the chance. After i submitted my essay I entered into a heated debate with one of my teacher’s who told me I was romanticizing him. I thought he was ludicrous. I felt an instant connection due to Jim’s experiences. Just like he would tape his brother’s mouth shut at night to amuse himself, I would sing morbid melody’s made up on the spot to one of my sister’s who always had a reaction. It was a cry for help really. Where as my other sibling’s mostly just ignored the things I would speak about; she would call me crazy. It was bits of revenge for not giving me support and causing me to feel even worse. This one time we were heading to a bridal shop to get dress fittings for my Sister N’s wedding. N called Shotgun instantly. B stopped in her tracks knowing she was getting in the back with me. She called out, “I’m not getting in the back with that psycho!” I gave her a sinister smile as she took a seat next to me. Halfway through the car ride I began signing her a ditty in a tone only she could hear about a Knife. I won’t go into details, But I wasn’t threatening to hurt her with one, more so to cut my own self. The morbidity started early and I now see it in my birth chart. I’m never phasing out of it. I will come back to this point in time, since I fast forwarded to give an example of one way In which I related to him. Eventually, a whole wall of mine in my bedroom was dedicated to him and the band.
I slowly felt drawn to want to join the army. I can’t recall why this was. Because honestly, I had wanted to be a writer since I was 12. That was my one and only dream. I wrote every single day. Any chance I got, really. I knew deep within that was what I was meant to do. Around this time I had found my father’s name badge that he had taken from his own Vietnam war jacket. I asked him if he still had his jacket, but he had thrown them out. One day I was speaking with a friends father about my desire to go into the army and about my father’s name badge but lack of jacket. He opened up his coat closet and drew out his own war jacket. He gestured for me to take it. I sat in surprise. A moment of silence. I asked him if he was sure. It just seemed so strange to me that this man would hand over something he had held onto, that was a major part of history, for so long to a young girl he barely knew. He also had 3 of his own kids that he could have passed it to. I took it home and sewed my Dad’s name badge onto it. The jacket fit me perfectly which was also strange now that I think of it. Keep in mind as you read this that I am against war. I don’t have one bone in my body that wants to hurt other’s. Though I do have a violent placement in my chart. I didn’t pay attention in History class until they began teaching about the Egyptians… Felt like home! Point of the matter is, learning about the wars bored me to tears. In one ear and out the other. My father and my Uncle never spoke about their experiences. I’m not sure about my Uncle, but my father now suffers from PTSD.
Fast forward a few months after I began wearing the jacket. By this point I was starting to feel depressed. I felt drawn to knives. I began placing the largest one I could find in the house under my pillow at night. I felt like I had to protect myself but I didn’t know why or from whom. Periodically, my Mother would find it and put it back in the kitchen. I would just take it back and place it under my pillow. It went on this way for quite some time. I began writing very morbid things in my journal. My thoughts were mostly filled with emotional visions of chaos, pain and anger. Spirits became more active in my life and within my environment. Especially, during the hours when no one else was home or in the very early morning. If you have not yet, you may want to read my post titled, “Spirituality… It’s seriously not a trend.” to gain a bit of backstory. I truly didn’t have much support with my family growing up when it came to my spirit interactions and I definitely wouldn’t at this specific time period, so I barely told them anything. Things got worse. Not only would I hear the sounds of little kids giggling and playing on the steps that connected our upstairs dining room to our downstairs living space, But I would hear the screams of men in the middle of the night. There was nothing I could say. There was nothing that I could do. There was no one to turn to.
One day I felt compelled to draw lines and arrows on the dining room wall. Then I forgot about it. That night as we sat down to eat dinner my father glanced at the wall in scrutiny saying, “What the hell is that?”. He got up to get a closer look. I felt instantly ashamed. I had no answer for him. My sister N just giggled. It wasn’t funny. It was NEVER funny. I just wanted the insanity to end. I had no idea why I felt so low. I began to think about and eventually attempt suicide on multiple occasions. Always behind everyone’s back. I swallowed whole bottles of Tylenol, Advil… it wouldn’t do anything but put me to sleep. In the middle of the night I would wake up with sharp shooting pains in my stomach. After about 4 of those attempts, I went into my mother’s cabinet and grabbed a prescription. I didn’t know what it was or what it was for. I didn’t give a damn either. I wanted OUT. It ended up being a medication for something minor. Little did I realize at the time that I wouldn’t find anything to achieve my desired result, since my Father was newly sober and there would be nothing in the house. I got to the point where I took the knife that was under my pillow, this was at my lowest point of all, I was sitting in the bathroom crying in silence and was about to stab myself in the heart. My mother got in some how, shook her head and took it from me. She couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me either and just thought it was “teenage hormones”… because teens are known to act nuts apparently /Sarcasm. Lol
A few weeks later I was at my lowest point. I played sick and stayed home from school. I hid in my closet when I realized that my father was home. Waiting patiently for him to leave and go to work, without the realization that he no longer worked where he had for the past 30 years. Many things were kept from me for some reason. So I patiently waited in my closet for probably over an hour until I could no longer sit there. I then walked out into the kitchen to be greeted by my father who asked me why I was home. I responded, “I’m sick… I don’t feel well.” a Half-Truth. He told me he was going to take me to the family doctor. We arrived and the doctor took my temperature and blood pressure. He asked me what was going on because he found nothing wrong with me. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. My own personal internal volcano exploded into the physical. I told him about my feelings, my thoughts, my suicide attempts. I was seriously frustrated beyond all measure that nothing took my pain away, took my confusion away, took my life away. He opened the door and told my father to come into the room. He was of Great concern for my well being. He asked my father where my mother was and to call her to come to the office. I felt my Dad’s energy go into “Oh shit” mode as he made the call.
She arrived at the office and he relayed everything to my parent’s because I didn’t want to. I had tried to tell whoever would listen about the things I was experiencing on multiple occasions and wasn’t taken seriously. He lectured them a bit, only because he was extremely worried about what I had told him. I surmise that this particular office visit wasn’t what he came by often. He told them about Eugenia Hospital in PA, which has actually been shut down since I think 2006? It was a private mental institution for Teens and Adults. I immediately wanted to go. I felt comfortable to the fact that I would be around other’s that I could actually speak to and not be dismissed.
Because this is a long post I will break this up into two parts… Part two, you will venture into the hospital with me.
Thank you for reading!
Blessed Be to You and Yours!
RJ Worrell
The Wicked Light 