I'm not sure how anyone can separate medium experience from ghost and spiritual experiences. I consider them one and the same. I am thirty-four, and I have been experiencing medium/visitations for as long as I can remember. My earliest memory is of my great grandmother, whom I'd never met, rocking beside my bed at night. As early as I can remember, I would have prophetic dreams of my family, some of strangers I'd never know, and horrible premonitions.
My earliest memory of a visitation, as I call them, was when my sisters and me were lost on a beach. We'd vacationed at Tybee Island in Savannah, Georgia, and my sisters decided to go walking on the beach. My oldest sister ran into a party, and decided to stay. The next to the oldest decided to wait where she was for my older sister, and I, in my headstrong way, decided to find my way back by myself (I was all of 10). Little did I know, the condos on the beach all looked the same, and I didn't know which one was mine. Having walked a good distance, I decided to turn back and go back to my sister. All of a sudden there was sand everywhere, and wind, and I couldn't see two inches in front of my face, and I couldn't hear anything, and I just started screaming my sister's name, "Daniece! Daniece!" Out of nowhere this man appears, taller than my step-father, I remember thinking (and my step-father was greater than six feet), and he asks me if I am looking for my sister. "Yes," I say through tears and sand and salt. And he lays a hand on me, but I'm not afraid. And I remember asking myself why I'm not afraid - this strange man near me on the beach. But, I'm unafraid.
We begin walking, and the further we walk, the clearer I begin to see Daniece, and I yell "Daniece! Daniece!" Still sand, still wind, still loud. And he tells me "She can't hear you..." And he walks me until we are together, and Daniece tells him "Thank you," and we hug, and we cry and cry. The sand is gone, the wind is gone - it's still loud (it IS the ocean). When we look up from our hug, the man is gone. He isn't walking up or down the beach; he isn't walking through the parking lots to any of the condos; he isn't walking into the water. He's the real nowhere man. Totally freaked, we got the hell out of there.
We would be 30 before we ever spoke of that night again.
My earliest premonition was when I was in elementary school, maybe 3rd or 4th grade, and my heart began racing so fast I couldn't breathe. Instinctively, I knew something was wrong, and I knew it didn't have anything to do with me. I was sitting in class, learning multiplication. I began to go down a list of names of people I knew and loved, and when I got to my mother's name (that, of course, being "mom"), my heart began to race uncontrollably. In that instant that I spoke her name, I knew she'd been in a car accident.
This continued on for years, sometimes stronger, sometimes quiet - so quiet I'd feel empty and almost blind without it. When I was twelve, I went on vacation with a friend of mine to New Orleans to The World's Fair. I couldn't sleep, and my heart was racing. In the way to which I'd grown accustomed, I went through the names of those I knew and loved until I reached my sister's name, and in that moment, I knew she was being raped. A week later, when I returned home, my mother told me the truth of my intuition.
The first intuitive dream I remember having was after I had given birth to my son. His father and I had separated and divorced, and we had joint custody. My son was with his father for the weekend, and I dreamt that my son was walking along a highway (six years old) and I picked him up and put him in the car. I asked him why he was walking alone on the highway, and where was his father, to which he replied "at the stadium..." My son pulled up his shirt and showed me a wound on his back where he said he'd fallen from the bleachers. I took my son, in the dream, to the "stadium" - bleachers and bright lights - and showed his father his wound, and gave him a sound cussing.
The following Sunday, back in the real world, when my ex-husband arrived home with my son, I turned my son around and lifted his shirt and exposed a wound on his back. My ex-husband, knowing of my intuitive experiences, didn't seem shocked at all. I asked how the wound got there. They had been at a rodeo, he said - stadium, bright lights - and my son had fallen from the bleachers. "I had a dream," I told him. His response was, "Yeah, you were always weird like that..."
In the past few years, my senses have taken a different turn, perhaps a more advanced one. I feel entities. I don't call them ghosts because I'm unsure if they were people who were ever once alive, or just entities who never had a body. I ran into a man in my hallway one night. I couldn't sleep, and I'd gotten up to go to the bathroom. When I came down the hallway I was talking to myself about how frustrated I was not to be able to sleep, and I ran smack into a figure. I backed up, unafraid but very confused. He seemed as shocked as I did. He ran into my living room, where my children were sleeping on a sleeper sofa for the Friday night movie night, and so I ran after him - you know, going to protect the babies. But, when I got there, he was gone.
I wonder if there is anything I'm supposed to be doing with this ability. I don't mean in the making money way, or exploitation way. I have tried to ignore my so-called "gifts," tried religion to make it go away, tried business to be preoccupied, but it's with me all the time. I'm not a believer in Heaven or Hell, or in an Afterlife, or Satan, or ghosts, or entities, or demons, or aliens, etc; nor am I non-believer. The only reason any of those subjects interest me is because of the experiences I've had.
This begs the question: Why me? I hate to squander such a thing. Is there something I'm supposed to be doing that would be helpful to, say, the entities that visit me? Am I supposed to hone these skills and do something with them?
What y'all think?
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Not a lot of people have the privilege to see an Angel.
When I realized what this man was in my story, the man was gone, poof like that.
You wrote a nice story, thanks for sharing it with us.