2:49 PM - Monday, Feb. 07, 2005
I'm not supposed to communicate with you.
Yesterday was my dad's 57th birthday. I spent the afternoon up at my parents house celebrating. I can't tell you exactly how the time flew by so fast but it did. And I didn't even watch one second of the Super Bowl. I didn't miss out on anything. I'm sure the commercials were good. I'm pretty certain they cleaned up the halftime act this year. And I'm certain that the best team won, but I couldn't even tell you who was playing whom. It's not that I'm not a football fan. It's more that... well... I'm not a pro-football fan. Every athlete on a pro team is so good that most pro games aren't that fun to watch. But that's just my humble opinion.
I spent a good portion of the weekend playing The Sims 2. I desperately wanted a set of parents to have twins, and no matter what cheat code I looked up online, my family would NOT have twins. So I basically went to some Sims 2 hack site and got the hack for it. Now my families only have twins. Ha ha ha! Just what I wanted, no?
I have been having some very strange dreams lately. The most recent dream consisted of my cat Ashley coming back to life. She came back into my existence by crawling out from underneath my bed. And along with her she brought two other cats that needed a loving home. Yet, when Ashley came back to me she was small like a kitten, and OH so adorably cute. Also making an appearance in the dream was my Grandpa W. In the dream, Grandpa was around his late 30s to early 40s and he had reddish hair. I've never known my Grandpa at that age, and I've definitely never known him to have red hair. I asked my dad if he had red hair when he was in his 30s or 40s and he said that he did have reddish hair. So the only conclusion that I can come up with is that my Grandpa's trying to talk to me again. He's telling me that Ashley is okay and that he's taking care of her for me.
When I told my mother about the dream, she thought I was strange. I said, "If you can believe in a heaven where people go after death, then why can't you believe that the dead sometimes talk to us in our dreams?" But I don't expect anyone to understand it, nor to believe me. It doesn't matter. All that matters is that I believe it.
I've had far too many ESP type experiences to not trust in my ability to communicate with the dead. While I can't solve murder mysteries, or place my hand on somebody and know all about them and their future, I'm more out of tune with my ability.
My ESP experiences always happen when I'm inbetween the state of consciousness and sleep. Sometimes they feel as real as if I were completely awake during the experience, but most of the time they are a little fuzzy image wise. The words are very strong though. I seem to know when somebody has died, when somebody's about to come over, when somebody's about to phone me, when somebody very close to me is in trouble emotionally or physically... Sometimes I even see images of a person who is going to enter into the life of one of my loved ones, a person who is going to have a major impact on their life. I've been known to read minds in my sleep, to answer things that people are thinking and not saying outloud. It used to scare me. It used to scare people who were close to me. Anymore, I've come to accept it. That's why, to see my Grandpa at a young age looking as he would years before I was even born doesn't phase me.
Earlier in the year I was out of tune with this ability. I couldn't even remember my dreams. Lately, ever since the death of Ashley, I've been experiencing them frequently. I wonder if I have to be at a certain emotional level in order to connect with whomever or whatever is trying to communicate with me. I do not know. I don't know if I want to know.
On to other matters of importance in my life. I didn't make it to work today until 11:00. I'm not in trouble. I didn't think I would be. And even if I had been, I don't think I'd care. Sure, if they came out and fired me I would most likely cry. I wouldn't cry because of the humiliation of the experience, or from the fact of being fired from a job. I'd cry because I'm sensitive like that. I'd cry because then I'd fear my future even more. I'd cry because the one who would be firing me is my very own father - and that would only mean one thing. That I have failed him. (Even though I'm quite certain I'm already a failure in his eyes, this would just bring the fact home like a sucker punch to the gut.)
Perhaps being fired from this job would be the best thing in the world for me. It's not like I have any friends here. It's not like I'm treated as an equal opportunist or that I'd ever pave my way to a higher position anyhow. To them I will always be the boss's daughter. To them I will always be a peon. To them I will always have the intelligence of a buffoon on cocaine. To them I will always be just a "receptionist." And while being a receptionist is an important job for any company, with the receptionist being the hub of that company, I have always been more than just a receptionist. I have always done more than some idle book work. I've always done more than answer the phones. And while I may not have the mind of an accountant, being that I consider myself far more creative than those with a logical mindset... it doesn't mean that I'm stupid. What saddens me most, however, is that the more I'm surrounded by people treating me as if I have mush between my ears, the more I actually start to think that maybe I am stupid. Maybe I don't have what it takes to be anything else other than somebody who gets pissed on all the time. You know... just maybe.
My dad just called me back to bring him his books. You know how I'm not supposed to be communicating with him during the day anymore? I said, as I handed him his books, "You know, I'm not supposed to be communicating with you during the day." He laughed. I knew that would get a chuckle out of him.
Anyhow, back to work here. Duty calls.
