Ever since James' death, I've been addicted to psychics. I keep trying to find out why, the exact circumstances that led to his suicide. I keep trying to talk to him. So far, nothing.
I always ask about psychics in the area I'm in, and Island Park was no different. I was referred to a woman who does work for the police. She is the editor of a small local paper there, as well. She does not advertise and was a little discomfited that anyone even knew she had this gift, but agreed to meet with me.
In the first few minutes, we established that she had a definite "in" with the other side. She knew things that she simply could not have known. She didn't tell me anything new, but we made friends and she's a wonderful person and I told her if she heard from James, to get in touch with me LOL.
I don't know how many psychics I've been to. The most memorable one was a transvestite in Vegas, who was a good palm reader, a less competent psychic, but a scary looking guy. Let me tell you, he was the world's ugliest woman. I kept thinking, "if he's really psychic, he'll know what I'm thinking." I kept waiting for him to go all Bette Davis on me and come across the table with a knife. But he didn't kill me and it was another experience for my memoirs.
This psychic is something I allow myself as part of my grieving process. I've only been to one, three weeks after James' death, who comforted me. Where I felt better, almost euphoric, after. Of course it didn't last.
I've told God over and over in no uncertain terms I want to talk to my son. I've demanded and raged and shouted and cussed at Him. Silence. Well, I'll show Him.
I figure whatever gets me through the day is all good. Like most things in my life, it's entertaining for those around me, they don't know I'm dead serious. You can get away with a lot if you laugh while you do it.