Lydia Aswolf

In my life, I have seen people walk into the sea.

Just to find memories.

Plagued by constant misery.

Their eyes cast down, fixed upon the ground.

Their eyes cast down.

In my past, bittersweet, got no love between the sheets.

Taste of blood, broken dreams.

Lonely times indeed.

With eyes cast down, fixed upon the ground.

Eyes cast down.

Turn back, now it’s time for me to let go.

Way down, had to find a place to lay low.

I’ll keep my eyes fixed on the sun.

Keep your eyes fixed on the sun.

Some psychics bite.

They don’t bite strangers roaming around in some murky, dystopian dreamland someone came up with and turned into a best seller.

No, they sink their teeth into their own.

Whoever threatens their business, their money, or their reputation, they hunt.

Sometimes, they even eat themselves.

They see or hear of other psychics who are doing well, gaining the business, the money, the reputation.

Then they stalk them relentlessly.

After they pin their locations down, they set a trap.

Sometimes they ambush.

Results vary.

They might book a session and when time comes for feedback, proffer their figurative tenderizers.

After that, they eat.

Often, they ambush using well worn minions.

Otherwise known as clients.

Their clients.

People desperate for their approval, and their time.

Their clients will do anything; anything at all to gain free or low cost readings in return for a blistering review of a session with someone else.

So their clients book the session.

Leave nasty feedback.

Then stop payment on the credit card so the psychic they sabotaged doesn’t get paid.

Often, groups of cannibals roam together.

They stick together in little cliques, who send their minions after psychics who are doing well.

Showing them up.

Making them look bad.

But it’s not hard to make cannibals look bad.

They swap transcripts of live chat sessions.

They swap information with one another after phone sessions.

They keep notes in text psychic services.

All so they can repeat almost word for word what you were told by that other psychic.

The one in the clique.

Never mind that these conversations, whatever form they take, should be confidential.

They think it makes them look omnipotent.

We know it makes them look foolish.

These are the psychics who, if you book a session, will badmouth other psychics by name.

They can prove it, too.

Their minions will tell you all about that bad old psychic.

While the cannibals nod and smile approvingly.

They will tell you that only they can help you.

Some go so far as to tell you if they ever find out you went to someone else, you are done.

And they’ll know.

They are psychics, after all.

But not for long.

Never for long.

In the end, they always eat themselves.

Which is the thing, really.

We’ve realized all along what they never comprehend in the first place.

Paranoia, jealousy, and envy motivate them.

But envy, paranoia, and jealousy are cannibals, too.

She was late.

Unbelievably, incredibly late.

She snatched her luggage, ran out the airports sliding doors, stuffed the luggage in a taxi and told the driver to hit it.

It wasn’t the dignified entrance she had in mind for this conference.

But it would have to do.

She signed in at  the entrance quickly, hastily plastered her badge over her left breast, glanced at the map telling her what was where, and started out at a brisk trot.

We’ll call her Dr. Grand High Poobah. A doctor with so many letters behind her name, the alphabet trembles preemptively before she opens her mouth to introduce herself.

Dr. Grand High Poohbah should have looked at her map a little more closely.

She flings open the doors to the room where her colleagues are no doubt listening to the introductions.

If she’s lucky, that is.

She is due to present someone today, and, glancing at her watch as she enters the room, thinks surely she’s in time for that.

A woman comes up to her, asks her name, and reacts impressively as the alphabet quivers from the recital of all those letters behind Dr. Grand High Poohbahs name.

The woman eagerly ushers her up to the podium, which the good doctor was not expecting.

Startled, she puts on her professional face and introduces herself from the podium, squinting a little in the bright lights momentarily.

Her first impression is there are a lot of people sitting up straighter after she introduces herself.

Her second is that none of the people present look dressed for a doctors conference.

She glances at the woman who’s followed her up to the podium, then leans in her direction before quietly asking the woman where she is.

Dr. Grand High Poohbah has belatedly realized she must be in the wrong room.

She realizes correctly.

The woman informs her that this is the annual meeting of hypochondriacs supporting hypochondriacs convention.

It wasn’t her imagination, then.

The eager group in front of her did straighten in anticipation after she announced herself.

She has a decision in front of her as the people wait for her to speak again.

She takes her time about making it, as every good doctor does before prescribing, slicing, or dicing.

But we will get to the good doctor’s decision, and why she made it in a moment.

There is only one difference between our doctor and psychics and mediums.

This is likely a one time occurrence for the doctor.

It is a daily event for us.

If you happen to follow me or be a pal on Twitter, Facebook, or Goodreads, then you know this: I don’t talk about what I do.

All are social networks in my mind; not advertising forums.

I want to be social. I want to talk to people and not let what I do for a living get in the way.

But some days are harder than others.

I’ve been asked several times why I shut off comments on the blog.

Well, it’s simple.

Questions. Via my comments on this blog, on my contact Lydia link, or sent direct to my email address.

Questions: Direct message on Twitter. Sometimes asked right on the Twitter feed.

Questions. Infrequently asked in open threads on Facebook; frequently asked via email. Some people friend me for the explicit purpose of asking me questions.

Haven’t had any on Goodreads yet, but we’ll see. It’s a nice place to be because no one cares what you do; they care what you read.

But that never stopped anyone before.

Once, I was held hostage in a house.

You heard me.

They found out what I did (I had an office in town), invited me over for coffee, and proceeded to pepper me with questions for the next two or three hours.

Sure, I could have gotten up and stormed out; but these were neighbors we are talking about.

You have to live beside them.

My husband rescued me; based on his kill first and ask no questions whatsoever face, I escaped.

When I was a young psychic, starting out, I had a published phone number.

It didn’t take long for me to make that unpublished.

Not long at all.

Because of all those questions.

We’ve moved since, into a rural area where no one is here to ask what I do for a living.

But let’s get back to our good doctor’s quandary; see what she decides in a place I and my colleagues know well.

She stares unseeing at the crowd, who, truth be told, are rustling uncomfortably and wondering when they will get to ask the good doctor for advice and counsel only someone with her expertise can answer.

She sees clearly what will happen if she graciously obliges the large crowd in front of her.

Hours spent answering questions this one time and in this one place is a problem. But not the largest problem.

The biggest problem is that she gave her name and her credentials.

She has a website.

She has an office.

So, it won’t merely be hours of questioning; no, never just that.

If she gives this crowd what it wants, it will be phone calls.

Emails, Tweets, possibly physically showing up at her office.

Definitely calling her office.

All because she humored them this time.

Because she opened the door a crack.

Took one for the team.

Gave an inch.

Dr. Grand High Poohbah stands there a minute longer as the crowd starts to murmur.

Thinking about the time.

The time these well meaning people will take up with their calls, visits, emails, tweets, Facebook pleas for her advice.

For her time.

Dr. Grand High Poohbah knows herself well.

Knows if she answers one question, she’ll have to answer others. It would be fair no other way, and whatever else she might be, Dr. Grand High Poohbah is fair.

This will prevent her from dealing with patients who expect to give and receive equitably.

It has to be fair for her, too.

Dr. Grand High Poohbah has to keep a roof over her head.

She has a car payment to make.

A family to feed.

Her life to tend to.

Her life to live.

And so do I.

Sure, I have trophies.

Doesn’t everyone nowadays?

My trophies aren’t displayed ostentatiously over my fireplace.

They aren’t lurking on my night table.

Or squirreled away in my bathroom closet.

My trophies are stored in my head, where all good awards should reside.

I don’t want cold, sterile metal with my name engraved on it.

It’s knowing not that I won; but that we won.

The best rewards are shared.

Every one has a dream, and I’ve seen them all

But dreams are ethereal things.

As flimsy and insubstantial as words, which are cheap and easily uttered.

One can say anything.

It’s the follow up that counts.

Dreams are easy.

One can lay down, doze, and let it all unfold before their closed eyes.

Dreaming is the easiest thing in the world to do.

Meanwhile in the real world it takes three long years for the aspiring cop to get into the Police Academy.

She was expected to absorb a tremendous amount of legal information like a sponge, and she did.

She was put through an enormous amount of physical pain in training.

I believe they refer to it as fitness; I call it living hell.

But she graduated. The moment she got onstage, it was all worth it.

Took four years for the writer to maneuver her finances into being able to work part time and devote the rest of her time to writing.

The fifth year?

She started getting contracts for her work.

I believe she’s on her fifth book now; maybe sixth or seventh. All I know is I cheer mentally every time another contract comes through…and so does she.

The actress worked full time at her “other job” while putting in the extra hours, dedication, and determination to make it.

She did this by auditioning non stop in whatever spare scrap of time she had free.

She was told she was too fat, too short, her eyes were too close together and other things that don’t bear mentioning.

She got told this frequently for two long, grueling years.

Then she started getting work. Then better work. Then great work.

And I got to hear all about it.

Every once in awhile, I remember our initial conversations.

The ones where each wistfully and hesitantly admitted their dreams to someone at last.

Then heard they would come true.

Not without hard work and effort, of course.

Nothing worth having comes easy.

But it would be theirs for the taking, their dreams.

If only they had the courage to reach out.

Perhaps it helped to have someone else assure them they could grasp what they so desperately wanted.

I doubt it.

What mattered was seeing evidence their eyes could not deny when they were getting somewhere.

Finally getting somewhere.

Dreams matter most to those with the guts to go after them with a will and a way.

Trophies sit there; the ghosts of victories past.

In my line of business, my definition of a trophy consists of what my clients achieve every day.

Their rewards are my awards.

Here’s the thing: Psychics throw readings all the time.

That’s right; we throw readings. Wrong on purpose. Not connecting right. So sorry, don’t want to waste your money, etc, etc.

Why do we do it?

Well, lots of reasons.

Some people are entitled assholes who deserve perfection, and nothing less.

Like the woman who told me she dumped her boyfriend because he put the toilet paper on the roll wrong.

No joke.

No shit.

Lucky him.

Others want fairy tales.

Like the guy who told me he didn’t want me to tell him the truth; he just wanted best case scenarios.

Occasionally, they are mentally ill.

A woman who had underwent a nervous breakdown came to me once. She was in love with her therapist’s husband. The guy had answered the phone at his wife’s office, and then proceeded to take advantage of this poor woman in her time of desperate need…behind his wife’s back.

Why?

Because he could.

A select few are bitter harpies who opt to take their problems out on us rather than actually confront the people and issues in their own lives.

I used to deal with their type quite often; sometimes still do.

They generally call, email, text, get in live chat, or on the phone and rip us new assholes. This species is best located in places where psychics/mediums are rated for the services they provide.

To add insult to injury, after a verbal ass ripping, they then tell the world at large what a bad reading they had.

Lest I forget, psychic and mediums are often cheaper than sex phone lines. Sad, but true.

So people sometimes call hoping to get a little R&R from us; a Rise and Release, if you will.

On one memorable occasion, I told the gentlemen caller that I was certain he had two hands, lotion, and Kleenex. He was summarily invited to use their services and not mine. It wasn’t the first time I’d uttered those words. It won’t be the last.

And we get suicidal people. All the time.

Con artists going by the name of psychic might throw those calls; I don’t know.

But one might be surprised how many psychics and mediums keep important hotline numbers beside wherever it is they read.

I’ve talked a fair few down from the ledge, away from the pills, and out of the same room as a razor.

If a foul mouthed little troll like me has done it, can you imagine what the best among us have done?

People forget all too often that psychics/mediums are human.

In other words, for every person who’s rash, stupid, hurtful, or exhibits frighteningly harmful behavior towards others or themselves; there is a psychic equivalent.

A counterpart, in other words. One who doesn’t mean you, the consumer well.

Who you should walk away from.

But I digress.

The point here isn’t that we throw readings for people who would happily abuse us.

Nor is it that when served a steaming hot shit sandwich, we don’t have to eat it. Everyone does, from time to time. Psychics and mediums are by no means exempt.

But if we can avoid it, we will.

When we have the choice, we make it.

You should, too.