The weight of certain moments lingers, pressing against the edges of memory like a storm cloud that never truly clears. It’s not just the memory of events, but the way they seem to shape everything that comes after, as if the air you breathe still holds the echoes of something dark. I’ve learned to recognize those moments—not just in the lives of my clients, but in my own.
I was born into darkness, a generational curse so woven into the fabric of my life that it took decades to untangle. The pattern was undeniable: my biological father nearly died at the age of two, I was abandoned at the same age, and then my own son was stolen from me when he was two. A rhythm of heartbreak, tragedy, and loss that felt like it was stitched into our DNA. I carried that curse like a chain, a weight that refused to let me rise. It wasn’t until my biological father passed, just days before my 35th birthday, that the heaviness lifted. It was as though the curse was tethered to his existence, as though his death was its death, too.
But not all darkness is so simple, so contained. Some of it clings in ways that feel alive, sentient. I’ve seen it in my work as a psychic, in the faces of clients who carry their own invisible storms. One in particular has haunted me lately, though years have passed since I last heard from her. Sue. Her story was chaos personified, a tangled web of grief, obsession, and the kind of darkness that seeps into everything it touches.
Sue believed she was cursed, surrounded by malevolent forces that sought to destroy her. Maybe she was right, in part. There was something undeniably heavy about her energy, something that seemed to infect the spaces and people around her. Her husband’s death, the cursed property she couldn’t sell, her fixation on a man named Gregg—all of it painted a picture of a life consumed by shadows. She was convinced that Gregg was ensnared by a witch, a Muslim woman whose beauty clinic and powerful influence made her an easy scapegoat for Sue’s unraveling mind. Sue monitored their every move, watched their lives through a lens of paranoia and fear, convinced that dark magic was at play.
And yet, the more I worked with Sue, the more I saw the darkness creeping into my own life. Lightbulbs flickering out, the acrid smell of something burning that couldn’t be found, even a house fire—these were not mere coincidences. My health suffered, my husband’s health faltered, and we lost pets during that time. It was as though whatever was attached to Sue had found its way to me. I cleansed and prayed, but the lingering presence was undeniable, whispering that maybe, just maybe, her paranoia wasn’t entirely unfounded.
But Sue’s story wasn’t just about curses. It was about obsession, the kind that blinds you to your own unraveling. She spiraled after her mother’s death, left alone in a condo that now carried the weight of two losses—her mother’s and her husband’s. The readings came constantly, each one more desperate than the last. I tried to help, to balance the line between spiritual guidance and acknowledging the mental health issues that underpinned so much of her suffering. And then, one day, she was gone. No more readings. No more frantic messages. Just silence.
I’ve thought of her often over the past few days, wondering if she’s okay, if she’s found peace. I don’t know why she’s on my mind so strongly, but the memories are vivid, as if her energy is still reaching for me, tugging at the edges of my thoughts.
The truth about this work is that it’s never just about the readings. It’s about navigating the spaces where the spiritual and the psychological overlap, where curses and mental illness blur together into something neither entirely explainable nor entirely ignorable. Some clients bring light, some bring shadows, and some, like Sue, bring storms so fierce they leave marks long after they’ve passed.
As I sit here tonight, the scent of strawberry and chocolate cake mingling with the comforting weight of my dogs curled at my feet, I’m reminded of why I continue to do this work. It’s not about answers or solutions; it’s about connection, about being a lifeline for those lost in their own darkness. And maybe, just maybe, it’s about understanding my own.
Tomorrow, the readings will continue. The new couch arrives on Monday, big enough for all eight dogs and Anthony and me to lounge together, watching movies and playing Donkey Kong. Life goes on, even under the shadow of lingering curses and unresolved memories. And that’s the lesson, isn’t it? That even with scars, even with storms, we keep living.
Until the next entry, good night.