I’ve never believed in psychics. Cinderella of course I am sure about to this day, right down to her glass slipper. But that’s Disney; Disney is real, psychics are not. Part of me thinks the reason I don’t believe in psychics is because I was raised religious. For some reason in my mind Christianity and the psychic network never really mixed, but maybe someone told me that when I was younger and it stuck: like no sex before marriage and no eating thirty minutes before you swim. I was never curious either; one of those people who would walk by and see a sign and it would peak their interest. I never daydreamed about having my fortune or palm read, never thought that maybe someone else could predict my future, never worried about the life line on my hand.
People I know believed in psychics, more so as I got older. I remember passing by shops in obscure little towns or at carnivals and imagining myself inside of a back room or tent, palm open, glass ball on the table, having a lady with a scarf and long blue fingernails tell me things I didn’t want to know. I just knew if I went in there she would uncover the tarot card of death, tell me I only had a year or so left, and that would be that. I thought maybe I would be cursed if I entered and accepted the help she might give me, the guidance she might offer. I thought knowing your future wasn’t fair. I don’t know why I thought this.
Last spring when my friend came to visit she had a psychic reading done. It was in Salem, Massachusetts, town of the witches, tourist trap for the enthusiastic believer of magic. But my friend had always wanted to get a reading and what better place then there, where psychics flock to make a buck or two on the naïve new comers coming from the witch museum, looking for an experience. What I didn’t expect was for her to come out crying, to be moved, to change in a small way. The psychic knew things, things he couldn’t possibly have known. Still I was skeptical, I made excuses, and I questioned this phenomenon.
Then in class last semester, my friend began writing a book on psychics and it peaked my interest. The psychic had contacted her father who had died and even told her who she would marry. She married him last summer. I was intrigued. The more chapters I read the less skeptical I became. Hmmm, I thought, maybe it really is possible for someone to see into the future. But the semester ended in December and so did my interest. That is, until this afternoon.
This afternoon was like any other, cold and sunny. I went down stairs and out onto Charles St to meet my friend Jenna and her mom for coffee and shopping. I only planned to stay with them an hour or so, carrying my grocery bags to go to Whole foods with afterward. I met them at a clothing store first and when we walked outside we saw the sign for the palm readings and Jenna showed interest in getting one. I smiled a little, thinking how this shop was right across the street from my apartment and that somehow I had never noticed it, despite its large sign and close proximity. We walked up the stairs to the tiny shop with gems and crystals and little scented soaps on a table for sale. The psychic was upstairs when we went in, but a man watching the shop called her down for us. We talked of nothing as we waited for her to come down, a tiny woman with beautiful brown eyes and dark hair, tan skin and small features. She smiled and gave us the pricing on the readings. Then we went to get cash.
I wasn’t sold on the idea as we went to the ATM, still too nervous to fully accept doing something like this myself. I took out the money anyway—just in case. I had Jenna go first, to test it out, and her mother go second. They both said it was great and told me things about their reading, so I decided to go in.
A lot has happened in my life, yes, I will say this. A short life thus far in my twenty-five years, I have had my share of turmoil and tragedy. A couple of weeks ago my life turned to complete shit, I lost a little faith in people, and maybe a little faith in myself. I began to question everything and with each day my anxiety has grown. I haven’t been able to sleep. I haven’t been able to find myself again. I’ve been broken, depressed, and not present anywhere but in my own mind. My thoughts whipping around like an inner tube coming full circle at the end of each day, or even the end of each afternoon. Maybe that’s why I decided to go. Because I felt I had nothing else to lose. So what if she told me I was gonna die? At least then I could plan for it.
I walked into the room and sat down in the chair across from her, nervous and skeptical.
“This is the first time I’ve done anything like this.” I said, sure she was a fake.
“That’s okay,” she said, looking into my eyes, reading my expressions.
Normally a person of many facial expressions I decided then and there to shut them off. I would give her nothing, nothing except my full name and date of birth. Then she looked at my palms and at me. She started out with some general statements about how I’m such a positive person, about how I’m too trusting at times. I thought, yea yea, that could be any one lady. But then something happened, something I still don’t fully believe all these hours later. She started saying things that she couldn’t possibly have known about. Things about my life now, about the past three weeks, about everything that’s happened and how it will turn out later, when things settle down. She talked about my love life, my health, my friendships, and my career. She told me things that left me with my mouth open, physically open in shock and disbelief. How could she have known I am a writer? That I’m writing this book? How could she have known everything else, about my family and my friends and the immense hurt I have been feeling lately and where all that came from?
I walked out of there feeling a little bit better. Maybe none of it was true and it was all a lucky guess and I’m the same as when I went in; sad and uncertain. But maybe she was right, about all of it. Maybe everything she said will happen. I don’t want to tell you what it is. I’m not sure why. I feel like it’s the same as making a wish on your birthday; if you tell everyone what it is it won’t come true. So I’ll blow out the candles and see if I end up where she said that I would. Then I’ll get back to you.
People I know believed in psychics, more so as I got older. I remember passing by shops in obscure little towns or at carnivals and imagining myself inside of a back room or tent, palm open, glass ball on the table, having a lady with a scarf and long blue fingernails tell me things I didn’t want to know. I just knew if I went in there she would uncover the tarot card of death, tell me I only had a year or so left, and that would be that. I thought maybe I would be cursed if I entered and accepted the help she might give me, the guidance she might offer. I thought knowing your future wasn’t fair. I don’t know why I thought this.
Last spring when my friend came to visit she had a psychic reading done. It was in Salem, Massachusetts, town of the witches, tourist trap for the enthusiastic believer of magic. But my friend had always wanted to get a reading and what better place then there, where psychics flock to make a buck or two on the naïve new comers coming from the witch museum, looking for an experience. What I didn’t expect was for her to come out crying, to be moved, to change in a small way. The psychic knew things, things he couldn’t possibly have known. Still I was skeptical, I made excuses, and I questioned this phenomenon.
Then in class last semester, my friend began writing a book on psychics and it peaked my interest. The psychic had contacted her father who had died and even told her who she would marry. She married him last summer. I was intrigued. The more chapters I read the less skeptical I became. Hmmm, I thought, maybe it really is possible for someone to see into the future. But the semester ended in December and so did my interest. That is, until this afternoon.
This afternoon was like any other, cold and sunny. I went down stairs and out onto Charles St to meet my friend Jenna and her mom for coffee and shopping. I only planned to stay with them an hour or so, carrying my grocery bags to go to Whole foods with afterward. I met them at a clothing store first and when we walked outside we saw the sign for the palm readings and Jenna showed interest in getting one. I smiled a little, thinking how this shop was right across the street from my apartment and that somehow I had never noticed it, despite its large sign and close proximity. We walked up the stairs to the tiny shop with gems and crystals and little scented soaps on a table for sale. The psychic was upstairs when we went in, but a man watching the shop called her down for us. We talked of nothing as we waited for her to come down, a tiny woman with beautiful brown eyes and dark hair, tan skin and small features. She smiled and gave us the pricing on the readings. Then we went to get cash.
I wasn’t sold on the idea as we went to the ATM, still too nervous to fully accept doing something like this myself. I took out the money anyway—just in case. I had Jenna go first, to test it out, and her mother go second. They both said it was great and told me things about their reading, so I decided to go in.
A lot has happened in my life, yes, I will say this. A short life thus far in my twenty-five years, I have had my share of turmoil and tragedy. A couple of weeks ago my life turned to complete shit, I lost a little faith in people, and maybe a little faith in myself. I began to question everything and with each day my anxiety has grown. I haven’t been able to sleep. I haven’t been able to find myself again. I’ve been broken, depressed, and not present anywhere but in my own mind. My thoughts whipping around like an inner tube coming full circle at the end of each day, or even the end of each afternoon. Maybe that’s why I decided to go. Because I felt I had nothing else to lose. So what if she told me I was gonna die? At least then I could plan for it.
I walked into the room and sat down in the chair across from her, nervous and skeptical.
“This is the first time I’ve done anything like this.” I said, sure she was a fake.
“That’s okay,” she said, looking into my eyes, reading my expressions.
Normally a person of many facial expressions I decided then and there to shut them off. I would give her nothing, nothing except my full name and date of birth. Then she looked at my palms and at me. She started out with some general statements about how I’m such a positive person, about how I’m too trusting at times. I thought, yea yea, that could be any one lady. But then something happened, something I still don’t fully believe all these hours later. She started saying things that she couldn’t possibly have known about. Things about my life now, about the past three weeks, about everything that’s happened and how it will turn out later, when things settle down. She talked about my love life, my health, my friendships, and my career. She told me things that left me with my mouth open, physically open in shock and disbelief. How could she have known I am a writer? That I’m writing this book? How could she have known everything else, about my family and my friends and the immense hurt I have been feeling lately and where all that came from?
I walked out of there feeling a little bit better. Maybe none of it was true and it was all a lucky guess and I’m the same as when I went in; sad and uncertain. But maybe she was right, about all of it. Maybe everything she said will happen. I don’t want to tell you what it is. I’m not sure why. I feel like it’s the same as making a wish on your birthday; if you tell everyone what it is it won’t come true. So I’ll blow out the candles and see if I end up where she said that I would. Then I’ll get back to you.
"How could she have known I am a writer? That I’m writing this book?"
ReplyDeleteGirl, you're asking this question in a blog about you being a writer writing this book O_o I don't know fancy English words, so I'm gonna call it an oxymoron. Or an anemanepina. Those are the fanciest words I know, and I'm sure one of them has a meaning that describes what I'm trying to say.
Good luck with your book, btw :)
Gosh, this post was really old!!
ReplyDelete