Cheryl Anne, of insightbeyondsight.net, will be joining Suzanne and I as a guest on tomorrow nights show, and it should make for a helluva interesting show! Cheryl Anne has so many talents, including being a Medium, Psychic, Paranormal Investigator, Psychic Detective, and a Medical Intuitive, so we are gonna have load of great questions to ask, and of course we will be happy to take your questions as well, so hope you can give us a call, or just listen in tomorrow night on Psychically Correct..10pmEST, in case you forgot, lol!
Archive for January, 2009
Every January over all the years I’ve been reading, has sucked for my clients and for me.
Don’t know why, January is just a rough month.
Maybe it’s the come down from the holidays.
Maybe it’s that men and women alike usually take stock in January, and are often disappointed with how little has been accomplished in their lives to date.
Maybe horrific incidents happen more often in January, that take years to get over if ever.
This is a combination I see every January, and I feel it keenly myself.
January is the month my son Sean was due.
I miscarried, and while I have the comfort of his presence around me quite a bit, it doesn’t lessen the empty arms that have longed to hold him all these years..and never had the chance.
Being a medium doesn’t stop me from being human, and so, while I know I shall be with Sean in a relatively short period of time….our time and theirs work differently.
I am still human.
All the knowledge of the Other Side doesn’t prevent that, nor is it supposed to.
January 28th marks the date my twin brother, David committed suicide.
I hadn’t seen him in eight years.
It wasn’t that we weren’t close, it’s that….there was a bit of a religious divide.
David turned his back on what we knew growing up.
We both saw angels, talked with our dead grandparents and spirit guides.
We knew what awaited us at death, and we also knew the dire consequences of suicide.
Simply put, if you commit suicide…and are not mentally ill or chemically compromised, you get to repeat class.
You immediately enter another womb.
You are not reunited with your loved ones on the Other Side.
Worse yet, you get to live the same circumstances in your next life.
That David was mentally compromised; bipolar in fact, doesn’t help me much.
He’s still gone.
He doesn’t check in often, and you lose the little twin things that defined you in the world.
David and I obviously were fraternal twins, but we also did the sort of things most twins do.
We had our own language when we were learning to talk.
We got sick at the same time, no matter where we were in the world.
When I arrived for the funeral, I noted we both had the same bizarre magazine addiction; as a matter of fact, he subscribed to a great deal of the same magazines I did.
I suppose I bear a grudge against any sort of religion for what it took from me.
Religion dictates your behavior, when I know that you are the only judge of what you do here on Earth.
God plays his part, but he cannot be the harshest judge of you, I, or anyone else.
We are most harsh with ourselves, and that is why we are the ultimate judge and jury when we arrive on the Other Side.
Perhaps it was safer for my twin to believe in the concrete’s that religion offers.
I found it truly astounding that he would even think of killing himself, much less do it.
This stems from my mother, who is mentally ill and tried to commit suicide so many times in front of our eyes.
David and I were both active participants in preventing that from happening.
It was a normal day, really.
I worked, I came home, and was stunned when a police officer arrived at my door.
He told me to get in contact with my father, whom I detest.
My father answered on the first ring, and said “Your fool brother went and killed himself”
You can imagine the shock, I’m sure.
Anyone who has suffered through a sudden and severe loss of a loved one can.
We had been planning to meet in the summer, David and I.
Eight years apart was eight years too long.
In place of a reunion, I received the privilege of being the only person allowed to view David in his casket.
My mother couldn’t bear it.
And my father was far too concerned with what David might have left him in his will.
So concerned about this was my father, that as they carried my brother’s body away from our home..the one we grew up in.
That he was inquiring if he could have David’s car, and wondering aloud to the paramedics what David might have left him.
Any questions remaining on why I despise my father…why I wandered so far from home at the tender age of 16?
I thought not.
It was perhaps the strongest and weakest moment of my life, the funeral.
I had to be strong.
I could not cry.
My mother was in total disarray, and I could not let weakness invade me, as I was to be her pillar, as I had been so many times before.
Taps was the worst.
My brother was a proud Marine.
I had heard him many times talk about how much being a Marine meant to him.
I had listened to him bitch and moan about basic training, but underlying that was the pride of being a Marine.
It defined him, in his own mind.
He was the best of the best.
He got a 21 gun salute.
I stood strong and bit my lip while these things he’d dreamed of played out.
He wanted a military burial, and he got one.
I stayed strong in the daylight hours.
Shaking hands, mingling, thanking those who had come….all things my mother was incapable of doing, so paralyzed was she with grief.
It was on our way home that I asked Brian to stop at the cemetery.
It was a usual Missouri night in January.
Cold, sleeting, and miserable.
I walked to his grave, unseen in the nasty weather by Brian and my oldest son.
I threw myself on the grave, and I cried until there were literally no tears left.
Then I gathered my composure, and went back home.
With me I carried his pride and joy..his dog tags.
I took the coat..which he had hung up in his closet right before he took his own life.
I wear it still.
They say time heals all wounds.
I believe time can fade some wounds, can make them disappear from time to time.
But those wounds can and do reopen, no matter how many years pass.
Once reopened, the wounds tug, pull and cause pain just as they did when incurred.
So it is, I suffer now, in silence as is my wont.
I don’t speak of these things to my family, nor my close friend, nor do I cry.
It seems very appropriate to suffer in silence.
That’s pretty much tonight’s show in a nutshell, Suzanne and I are going to talk about whatever our hearts desire..I know Suzanne has some pretty good questions to ask a psychic (me) who was talking to her dead grandma from age four, so should be a good one! Don’t forget to call in with your questions and/or comments!
Will try and get my butt up out of a semi depressed state and blog a bit more…January is a rough month for me, will probably blog as to the reason this week!
1. You eat out, but every restaurant you go to, has the ONE thing you will eat. Thus, you order the exact same meal at every restaurant, because you don’t want to try something new, you want what you KNOW is good.
2. You buy a certain set of colored clothing, but only those colors will do, so that when you look into your closet, only five or six colors are represented. You never go out on a limb and try something new, not even if someone tells you that you look fabulous in this color.
3. You aren’t obsessive compulsive, but you sure do love things done a certain way…YOUR WAY. For instance, once when my son was mowing the lawn, my husband had to tell me to lighten up because he wasn’t mowing it using MY route. (I’m a Scorpio, fixed sign).
4. Even at home, if you aren’t cooking, you might not be eating. I have a good example here. I steadfastly refused to even try a little bite of my husband’s Swedish Meatballs for TEN YEARS. When I finally tried it, after long and hard thought (ten years worth) I loved it, apologized to hubby, but that still didn’t stop my suspicious views of food that is not prepared by my hand (as hubby will attest to).
5. You even perform personal hygiene in a fixed way. I myself would always, for some inexplicable reason, wash myself over not once, but twice in the shower. This was not, as one might be led to believe, because I stank to high heaven, but because it’s something I’d done since childhood. My husband pointed it out, and I finally stopped doing it…so I guess we fixed signs can change, huh?
These are merely five examples, but I must say, there are some fixed signs that aren’t so…fixed.
Generally, in astrology the five fixed signs are Scorpio, Leo, Aquarius, and Taurus.
However, having used astrology quite liberally with my five sons, who all fit their respective signs, ascendants, moons, and so forth, I hit a brick wall with my Taurus husband.
He simply does not fit any astrological description I have ever run across, nor does numerology, tarot, Native American Medicine, or even palmistry describe him. I believe this is because in previous incarnations, he didn’t spend lots of time among us on earth, so that kinda explains the otherworldly patience and devious streak that runs very liberally through his nature.
He is the only anomaly I have ever found in literally countless thousands I have used my skills on, but I suspect there are many others out there, so if you happen to be a fixed sign, and don’t exhibit the same..er, symptoms..well, more power to you, lol!
We will be welcoming our guest David James to Psychically Correct tomorrow night at 10pmEST…and this isn’t just any show with any topic.
As I said recently, we will be grilling David like a hamburger on a hot summer day….we, along with so many others want to know about the MAN behind the brilliant psychic, and well…doesn’t everyone want that?
So tune in to find out more about Mr Enigma aka David James, and do feel free to call in with your psychic questions, or just comments about the show!
Talk to you tomorrow night…I hope
I’m going to have to give up on one of my New Years resolutions based on a dream I had the other night.
Not only do I do dream interpretation for clients, but I kinda do it for myself.
I don’t tend to be hardcore about it, if it seems interesting or confusing, I’ll decode it for myself and try to make sense of it, but I don’t keep a dream journal or anything.
I’m not exactly a morning person…and the idea of keeping a journal and paper beside the bed so I can spring up and relate that night’s dream about giving a purple nurple to one of my acquaintances leaves little to be desired, to my mind.
But this dream you couldn’t really misinterpret.
Not that you care, but gonna relay it anyhow, heh heh.
I was sitting in my living room with a plate of those yummy cupcakes with cream filling, twinkies, and fat and calorie laden chips on my lap. To my left, on the arm of the chair I was sitting in was a carton of cigarettes, which I found odd, because I NEVER smoke in my house…try to be considerate of the lungs of those around me.
Anyhoo, I’m sitting there looking confusedly at the plate of goodies on my lap (I’m dieting..again) and wondering what the fuck is going on, when my husband, who was perched in his usual spot on the sofa across from me, suddenly spoke up and forbad me to smoke.
I was incensed, but then I took another look at the arrangement of junk food, and the placement in particular of the carton of smokes.
It hit me even in the dream.
I can eat all the junk food I want…and live.
I cannot continue to smoke, and live.
Now, I’m both a psychic and a medium, so I know what is waiting for me on the Other Side…. which seems attractive on days when I struggle to make a living for my family, in these tight economic times.
However, I know I have a darned purpose, and I’m killing myself with the smokes, day by day, so, shit.
I’m gonna finish off this carton, and then you are gonna see some grumpy damned posts.
I would prefer to live, and I hope I can win this particular battle.
I’ve tried to stop more than once, with less than stellar results…after all, I am smoking now.
Wish me luck.
According to my dream?
My life might just depend upon it.
David James is next week’s guest on Psychically Correct.
Unfortunately, what I felt was my best line on last night’s radio show “We’re gonna grill David James next week like prime rib” was incorrectly stated.
I discovered this when, beaming, I walked out and told my husband, Brian, what I felt was a truly brilliant moment of hilarity.
He frowned a bit, then smiled and said “You never grill prime rib.”
As Brian is a chef, I’m inclined to believe him.
Therefore, next Tuesday, at 10pmEST, on Psychically Correct.
Suzanne and I will be grilling David James like a hamburger on a hot summer day.
Next week, we shall see if YOU approve as well…
Stay tuned after next week’s shows for more corrections…I’m sure I will need to make them.
I can only speak for myself on this one, but as a rule, I find most of my colleagues don’t imbibe liquor, nor do they take drugs, so I guess it might be a across the board thing.
Then again, I’m not so sure it’s a psychic/medium thing for me so much as it is a Native American/German ancestry thing..got a bit of Irish and Scot mixed in, but they don’t seem to offset my body recognizing liquor for the poison it is.
As you can imagine, me being a stubborn person, in my mid twenties, I sure did try to like alcohol, but it never worked out, as evidenced by some of the incidents I had with it, which I shall relay below….but with a warning. Those with weak stomachs, pacemakers, or sitting down for a meal might want to avoid the below passages.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
One incident that stands out, was me standing drunk in a bathtub, with Brian perched on the edge of a toilet, watching me whilst giggling like a schoolgirl.
He was giggling, not so much because he was drunk, but more because in my alcohol induced haze, I had decided to shave my pubic hair with a razor.
Now, I’ve never claimed to be the most intelligent person, and this certainly proves that I might be a few sandwiches short of a picnic.
I cannot imagine anything dumber than being drunk and holding a razor to your nether regions, but there I was, laughing at my own chutzpah.
I don’t really recall if I did the deed fully, but I do know I didn’t do myself a life altering injury, which is somewhat a miracle within itself.
The main problem I’ve always experienced with alcohol is that my body wants to reject it as soon as it passes my lips.
By reject, of course I mean vomit.
So it was on one lovely summer evening, Brian and I again drunk, that I wound up not only showering five times in a row, but also changing clothes five times in a row.
I was persistent, you see.
Whatever came up, so to speak, came up, and I’d drink on til I got some effect from my investment.
Brian was so sloshed, he had not a clue that I was even disappearing to shower, much less noticing that I’d changed clothing five times.
I’m not much of a club goer, hell, I’ve never been into clubs.
Perhaps because on the one occasion I went, with a couple friends, I wound up drinking.
Now by this point, I really should have known better, as I was pretty aware of what drinking did to me.
Did I mention I can be a stubborn fool?
Well, on this sad occasion, I couldn’t even make it ten feet from the table without projectile vomiting, which my two friends found hilarious; club management not so much.
Then there was the time I drank and then took Dramamine.
Not for a high, I don’t even remember WHY I took the Dramamine, to be honest.
I know that less than a hour after taking Dramamine with vodka, I passed out.
When Brian woke me because he had to go take a piss, I believed only a few minutes had passed.
Turns out Brian had spent four hours with me passed out, head on his lap.
I’m sure his frustration level was pretty high, because I was in no condition to do him any “special favors” when I awoke.
I promise my male readers I made up for it later.
I think the same rule generally applies to drugs with psychics/mediums.
Mind you, I’ve not exactly asked my peers if they smoke pot, but that’s not something you generally ask of other people, at least in the psychic world.
I would imagine it carries the same taboo that alcohol does.
In fact, some psychics I know don’t eat on working days, or eat certain diets to enhance their abilities, so I’m fairly sure potheads and psychics who practice professionally don’t mix.
I myself have only tried pot three times.
Three gut wrenching, horrific, god let me die now times.
The first time, I had no idea what to expect.
Brian was very well experienced with pot from his youth, so he thought it might be fun to see what I’d get up to.
What I got up to was lying on him for intervals groaning, in between trips to the bathroom to vomit.
Moron that I am, I tried it again with Brian, with the same result.
But surely the most humiliating experience, the one that put me off pot for life, was when we smoked some while playing cards at a friend’s house.
I had been drinking as well, which is probably why I took the risk at all.
It didn’t pay off.
Brian and our friends found a trail of vomit with me at the end of it, retching pitifully (served me right).
One friend who had decided not to follow the disgusting trail I’d left, gawked at my emergence, and promptly asked if I had pissed myself.
Yes, indeed I had.
It was a simple choice.
For whatever reason they didn’t have a wastebasket in their bathroom for me to heave into.
So, it was hit toilet with vomit, and piss myself.
Or piss myself and shoot vomit everywhere, in their well decorated bathroom.
Brian and I did the walk of shame out the door, and I never darkened their doorstep again.
We never did socialize with those friends again, which I’m deeply grateful for, and they, I would imagine, even more grateful.
I find the hardest thing to do as a fairly accurate psychic and medium with a great many beloved clients is to get across while I am a passable psychic and medium, I am still a human being.
I’m fairly certain this little blog will drive that point home.
Obviously I do not drink, nor smoke anything but your average cigarette.
I find that recall of what ludicrous things I do when sober is precious and not to be sneezed at.
You don’t get that kind of recall when you are passed out, nor out of your wits with drinks or drugs.
Life is messy enough, without adding drugs or drink to the mix.
It is a lesson I had to learn the hard way.
But it’s a lesson I won’t forget.
It all started innocently enough.
I got up, stretched, and then wandered off into the brush to see if a bit of meat remained on the bones of my latest kill.
Unfortunately, despite me having camouflaged my kill, the remains were gone, so I figured I’d have to kill again, that or beg.
Begging seemed the easier course, so off I set through a neighborhood, hoping that one lady would take pity on me and give me a few scraps.
Apparently, the lady had taken pity on me, but not exactly in the way I’d been hoping for.
When I arrived at her back porch, there were men waiting for me.
I didn’t even try to escape, they seemed nice enough to me.
Then again, among my peers, I’m regarded as a dunce for being so trusting.
I’d never been in a truck before, so the experience was both frightening and exhilarating.
Where we were bound, I wasn’t thinking about.
I was just trying to lean at the right times, and not wind up face first in the glass on the back of the truck windows.
When we finally stopped a lady I didn’t know affectionately rubbed my head, and murmured to me soothingly.
Then the bitch put me in a cage.
I don’t really keep track of time, but I know it wasn’t that long before a couple of people came in and had a good look at me.
They reached through the cage, and I tried my best to be friendly, thinking they didn’t look so bad, and might set me free.
They left very shortly after they arrived.
Then the bitch who put me in the damn cage came back and carried me out.
I try my best to be polite, so I didn’t beat the shit out of her…but I considered it.
Lo and behold, the same couple I thought might set me free was there waiting for me.
The lady was pretty cool, trying to make sure I was comfortable without being too clingy.
Next thing I knew, she was carrying me into a cool breeze….outside at last!
She then proceeded to get into another truck with me, and I explored that truck a little bit.
You’d think I would be terrified, but I’m a laid back guy, I kinda take life as it comes.
But even for a laid back guy, the next part was kinda hard to take.
I had decided on a nap in the back of the truck..it had been a weird and long day already, and I was fairly sure I’d need my rest for whatever the hell was coming next.
My awakening didn’t go as smooth as I would’ve wished for.
The lady who had been so nice was dragging me out from under the front seat and taking me into a place that smelled very antiseptic where a lot of people were looking at me.
I hate that shit.
She took me into a room, letting me go again.
Soon enough, ANOTHER friggin lady came in, and this one….well she seemed nice at first.
The kind lady left, and I was left with the one who seemed pretty cool at first glance.
Until she shoved a test stick up my ass, gave me some shots, and opened my mouth and poked around..for what I didn’t know.
You can imagine I was becoming a bit indignant at this display of very churlish behavior.
Just when I was mounting a cunning response, the chick put a needle in my damn foot, and I began to feel very, very sleepy.
When I woke up, I felt something was missing somehow, and I didn’t feel myself at all.
The bitch who stuck the needle in my damn foot was back and looking me over pretty good, but no more needles were involved, so I let her be and took stock of myself.
My first and most alarming discovery was the hair on my balls was shaved off, and there seemed to be a incision mark there.
This would account for me feeling something was missing; but as I had no way to know what…and how to get it back, most importantly, I let that issue go and just tried to feel something other than woozy and drugged out.
In my drugged haze, I didn’t fully realize when the kind lady came back and cradled me gently in her arms.
I kinda noticed when I was back in a truck headed for God knows where, but I couldn’t be bothered to care, I was literally just trying not to shit myself.
I thought the worst that could happen had happened.
So I was most definitely not prepared for the outcry that arrived me when we got to this lady’s house.
It looked nice and comfortable as she sat down, still cradling me.
Til she yelled, then two kids and a big guy came up.
It was the cage all over again.
Or maybe I wish it was the cage, so no one would jockey over who got to hold me next, and scream liberally while doing so.
Things settled down after awhile, and I was able to sleep and dream I’d wake up and this would all be a bizarre nightmare.
Unfortunately when I woke up, I found I was right where I’d been when I drifted off.
It’s been five days now.
I can’t complain, other than the initial ballbuster of a day (literally speaking).
They serve me great food, play with me, and they even let me sleep with them.
I’m still a little wary of the youngest ones…they tend to try and pick me up and run around like crazed demons.
But the older ones are ok..they tend to play the best, and that chick serves up some fine food, did I mention that?
I think I’ll do fine here.
Was it worth that horrible day?
You know what?
Yeah, I think it was.
Picture of me settling down for the night
Four days to go, and Psychically Correct is back on the air! Suzanne and I are raring to go, and we’ll be discussing the differences between obsession and love….so don’t miss it, know I’m early in posting our topic, but what the hell, not quite frothing at the mouth, but pretty darn happy to be back on air, and taking your calls and questions!
Don’t forget, if you have a question, you can submit it to me via email at firstname.lastname@example.org, and I’ll post the answer on my blog….so ask away, I’m ready for just about anything!
OR, you can just call the hell in and ask me whatever is on your mind…your choice, and best of all FREE!
Happy New Year!!!!