of Woman In Hiding, A True Tale of Backdoor Abuse, Dark Secrets & Other Evil Deeds
By Kathleen Hoy Foley
By Kathleen Hoy Foley
Recently Phil and I went to see a psychic medium. In the world of concrete thinking this sounds like a nutty thing to do, especially when you’re serious about it. It’s right up there with seeking out snake charmers, sun worshipers, and an assorted array of belly-button contemplators in search of yourself, The Divine, and the path to wholeness, peace and happiness, which somehow always includes permanent weight loss for me. The fact that I’ve already pulled off permanent weight loss somehow totally eludes me. That I’ve achieved wholeness also escapes me when this quest to obtain what I clearly already have descends on me like a blinding snowstorm and propels me into the blizzard searching for shadows dancing on snowdrifts.
What better place to go than the internet to dig up a psychic capable of divining my path as if I’d lost it, which I hadn’t, but occasionally my brain falls out of my head and I forget stuff.
It didn’t take long to find Mrs. Psychic who, via a heartfelt post on her website, promised that I had connected with her not by coincidence, but had been drawn to her psychically and spiritually because there was something I needed to learn. SOLD! Did I bother to consider that ‘Mrs. Psychic From The Internet’ was not speaking personally and directly to me but to every Googler landing at her site? No, of course not. I simply anointed her an authority because she said nice things and I like to hear nice things. Mrs. Psychic made me feel good.
So there I was, arranging a reading at an hourly rate that should’ve included tickets to a Broadway play, but how could I concern myself with the material when I was going to interact with The Divine and everybody knows that interacting with The Divine is priceless?
Never did I question the possibility that Mrs. Psychic who knew nothing about me other than what she would be able to glean from the air, would not be able to glean bupkis from the air. Unless you count what I was blabbing on about from across the great divide of her massive desk with the NO HUGS sign glaring up at me from beneath the plate glass protecting its mahogany top, lest I should fall into a hypnotic trance and inadvertently try to pull her into a sweaty embrace.
Never mind about ‘no hugs’ warnings. I’d already stuffed the air with comments about our indie press, breaking the cardinal rule for visiting a psychic: DO NOT BE A BLABBERMOUTH. Still I waited in great anticipation for Mrs. Psychic to unleash the storm of her paranormal gifts. I waited for colossal woo-woo—a powwow with a consortium of master spirit guides; clairvoyant direction; paranormal confirmation of my karmic path; not to mention, a coherent, encouraging shout-out from a passed relative who’s since gained serious spirit status in the great beyond…Greetings Kathleen, you’re doing a fine job.
After that I wanted Phil and I to go out to lunch and celebrate all that wacky woo-woo, because that’s what connecting with spirits is: wacky and woo-woo…
Okay. Admission time. I know wacky and woo-woo…intimately. As Phil says, why is it that the only relatives that talk to you are the dead ones? Ahhh...because they want to tell their stories is my only answer. And I just happen to be a story teller. Certainly Mrs. Psychic would intuit this.
Half an hour into the session I would’ve settled for being alerted that an evil spell had been cast upon my sorry self and I needed to grind up chicken bones and toss the dust over my left shoulder at midnight under the shine of a full moon.
Fifty seven minutes into the longest hour ever recorded, I was practically begging for any shred of woo-woo. How about a prediction for tomorrow’s weather? July in New Jersey is notoriously hot and humid. Mrs. Psychic had fate on her side.
There was no woo-woo. Instead we got a dry, long-winded business plan that could’ve been typed up by a robot in a cubicle and delivered “To Occupant” by means of third class mail. But there’s a good side to this saga. There would be none of that emotional overload that accompanies woo-woo. Whew. I would escape this reading-turned-lecture without any mention of the dastardly abuses of the Woman In Hiding variety.
Two minutes to go. I’m reaching for my handbag watching the clock on the wall slog away the last seconds. One minute and I’m out of here.
“There’s something about births that’s not making sense,” Mrs. Psychic utters.
Is she kidding? She brings this up now; just as I’m about to execute my getaway?
And so it is that the rush of tears that live always in the truth of Woman In Hiding surface instantly as I tell my story. When Mrs. Psychic divulges that she too is a rape victim, the NO HUGS warning suddenly seems more like a heartbreaking symptom.
As for the strange woo-woo. Mrs. Psychic reveals that her very close friend is also a ‘woman in hiding’. Her life devastated by being impregnated by rape. By being hunted down and stalked by the predator adoptee when ‘no contact’ fell on deaf, arrogant ears.
And there was Woman In Hiding, A True Tale of Backdoor Abuse, Dark Secrets & Other Evil Deeds reaching out its numinous hand in its unforeseen and inexplicable way to two women victimized by sexual violence.
Woo. Woo. Woo.
What better place to go than the internet to dig up a psychic capable of divining my path as if I’d lost it, which I hadn’t, but occasionally my brain falls out of my head and I forget stuff.
It didn’t take long to find Mrs. Psychic who, via a heartfelt post on her website, promised that I had connected with her not by coincidence, but had been drawn to her psychically and spiritually because there was something I needed to learn. SOLD! Did I bother to consider that ‘Mrs. Psychic From The Internet’ was not speaking personally and directly to me but to every Googler landing at her site? No, of course not. I simply anointed her an authority because she said nice things and I like to hear nice things. Mrs. Psychic made me feel good.
So there I was, arranging a reading at an hourly rate that should’ve included tickets to a Broadway play, but how could I concern myself with the material when I was going to interact with The Divine and everybody knows that interacting with The Divine is priceless?
Never did I question the possibility that Mrs. Psychic who knew nothing about me other than what she would be able to glean from the air, would not be able to glean bupkis from the air. Unless you count what I was blabbing on about from across the great divide of her massive desk with the NO HUGS sign glaring up at me from beneath the plate glass protecting its mahogany top, lest I should fall into a hypnotic trance and inadvertently try to pull her into a sweaty embrace.
Never mind about ‘no hugs’ warnings. I’d already stuffed the air with comments about our indie press, breaking the cardinal rule for visiting a psychic: DO NOT BE A BLABBERMOUTH. Still I waited in great anticipation for Mrs. Psychic to unleash the storm of her paranormal gifts. I waited for colossal woo-woo—a powwow with a consortium of master spirit guides; clairvoyant direction; paranormal confirmation of my karmic path; not to mention, a coherent, encouraging shout-out from a passed relative who’s since gained serious spirit status in the great beyond…Greetings Kathleen, you’re doing a fine job.
After that I wanted Phil and I to go out to lunch and celebrate all that wacky woo-woo, because that’s what connecting with spirits is: wacky and woo-woo…
Okay. Admission time. I know wacky and woo-woo…intimately. As Phil says, why is it that the only relatives that talk to you are the dead ones? Ahhh...because they want to tell their stories is my only answer. And I just happen to be a story teller. Certainly Mrs. Psychic would intuit this.
Half an hour into the session I would’ve settled for being alerted that an evil spell had been cast upon my sorry self and I needed to grind up chicken bones and toss the dust over my left shoulder at midnight under the shine of a full moon.
Fifty seven minutes into the longest hour ever recorded, I was practically begging for any shred of woo-woo. How about a prediction for tomorrow’s weather? July in New Jersey is notoriously hot and humid. Mrs. Psychic had fate on her side.
There was no woo-woo. Instead we got a dry, long-winded business plan that could’ve been typed up by a robot in a cubicle and delivered “To Occupant” by means of third class mail. But there’s a good side to this saga. There would be none of that emotional overload that accompanies woo-woo. Whew. I would escape this reading-turned-lecture without any mention of the dastardly abuses of the Woman In Hiding variety.
Two minutes to go. I’m reaching for my handbag watching the clock on the wall slog away the last seconds. One minute and I’m out of here.
“There’s something about births that’s not making sense,” Mrs. Psychic utters.
Is she kidding? She brings this up now; just as I’m about to execute my getaway?
And so it is that the rush of tears that live always in the truth of Woman In Hiding surface instantly as I tell my story. When Mrs. Psychic divulges that she too is a rape victim, the NO HUGS warning suddenly seems more like a heartbreaking symptom.
As for the strange woo-woo. Mrs. Psychic reveals that her very close friend is also a ‘woman in hiding’. Her life devastated by being impregnated by rape. By being hunted down and stalked by the predator adoptee when ‘no contact’ fell on deaf, arrogant ears.
And there was Woman In Hiding, A True Tale of Backdoor Abuse, Dark Secrets & Other Evil Deeds reaching out its numinous hand in its unforeseen and inexplicable way to two women victimized by sexual violence.
Woo. Woo. Woo.
RSS Feed
