I was often punished for telling the truth. I remember being scorned for writing out conversations between myself and my spirits friends on window sills and behind doors. When I was 12, my mother and my aunt placed me in traditional therapy in order to help me to open up and undo a bit of my sensitivity. In a session with my therapist, I talked about the spirits who spoke to me. A few days later, the doctor met with my mother and suggested I be medicated for my visions and what I was hearing. The psychologist explained that I was showing the early stages of schizophrenia. My mother opted out of medicating me, but there was still a sense of mystery left within my aunt surrounding my sensitivity and psychic abilities.

After that tough year, I decided to keep my experiences to myself. I decided to hide my gifts and play along in conversations as best as I could.  I felt cursed. I no longer wanted to be medically examined and I lost trust in many of the adults around me. I respected my elders to the best of my ability but I remained quiet about my experiences. Cemeteries and empty churches were my resting grounds. I found peace and understanding within as I sat and contemplated my life and mind. After I gained some stability, I promised myself that I would once again reveal the real me when I became an independent adult.