Messenger Between Worlds

by Kristy Robinett

  A week before I’d woken up sick and decided to call into work late. As I was taking a shower, the bathroom door wildly swung open and the shower curtain ripped from the hooks.

  “Why are you here?” he demanded, his hands on his hips, making his already large frame even larger.

  I grabbed the shower curtain and covered myself with it, the water still pouring down on top of me. I was too frightened to move, turn the water off, grab a towel, or step out of the shower. His scowl spoke volumes—I had interrupted his plans. I told him that I had woken up ill and was just getting ready to go into work, albeit late, but my excuse didn’t make him budge; instead, he accused me of ruining his day. I could feel his temper growing as he swatted at a picture hanging on the wall. It crashed to the floor, shattering. He stormed out. I could hear his heavy footsteps descend the staircase, and then the tears erupted. Once again, I had somehow written myself into yet another soap opera. Carefully, I stepped out of the shower hoping that I didn’t cut my foot on the glass, quickly got dressed, and ran downstairs to grab my shoes and keys to leave. A large bouquet of roses in my favorite color of soft peach sat on the table. I could hear giggles, as if mocking me, coming from the basement. I was hurt and angry, but it wasn’t for me—it was because now my children were involved. Instead of walking out the front door, I stormed down the basement steps to see his married girlfriend sitting on his lap. They looked at me, grinned at one another, and began to kiss. I couldn’t take much more and started screaming and a fight of words ensued. They both chased me upstairs, calling me names, saying that I was an awful person, and tag teaming me with emotional and verbal abuse until I was locked out of the house without shoes or keys, only my cell phone, which I used to dial 911.

  The officer was a young man in his thirties. He listened to me with kind eyes and told me to wait while he spoke to the others. Just a few minutes went by, and then he walked me back into the home to gather clothes and toys for the kids, my clothes, and the keys. He instructed my husband and his girlfriend to stay away from the home so as to not cause any domestic dispute. After seeing the mess in the bathroom, he told me that I should go seek help at a women’s shelter. I was stunned. I thought I was tough enough, and I didn’t need help from anybody else. I thought I could handle it all by myself. My divorce attorney told me that in no way, shape, or form could I move out—even if my life was at stake—and so I asked the kids’ father to keep them for longer periods of time, and when I didn’t have them I stayed at the local women’s shelter, my girlfriend’s couch, and, once in a great while, at my mom and dad’s house. But during the divorce proceedings, which lasted longer than the entire marriage, I mostly slept in the marital home, with the bedroom door locked and a nightstand up against it for extra protection. I knew that I had Alto and Tallie to help if I needed them.

  I was embarrassed to discuss it with my family, friends, or coworkers and kept it under wraps for as long as I could out of pure embarrassment. I mean, I’m a psychic so I should be able to see my future with clarity, right? It isn’t so much that I can’t see my future, but the fact that I don’t particularly want to know my future. I would much rather be guided on to the right path than have my life written out for me. How boring would that be? And, although my guides, family, and friends tried to show me the right path, I was the stubborn one who put the blinders on.

  Looking back, that time in my life feels surreal. It was a bandage that I tried to glue on my wounds that still bled for the kids’ father. I wanted to prove that I could be happy, but in the end I made everybody miserable. I do, however, believe that everybody we involve ourselves with comes with a lesson. Before that relationship, I hadn’t traveled at all, but during it I learned to love to explore, to travel, and to be spontaneous. I also began to trust and listen to my guides and family and friends when they send through a forewarning and not get defensive. Message received.

  [contents]

  sixteen

  Faithless

  Looking out the second-floor bedroom window onto the lonely street, I begged for answers to nobody in particular—or was it to everybody? A bit of glass-half-empty, glass-half-filled was the table tennis game going on in my head, and it was feeling more like dodgeball and I was losing, emotionally beaten. Even the sun couldn’t warm the sadness that surrounded my soul, and it didn’t help that the landscape I stared at was just as abandoned as I felt, every single home across the street either left to be burned down or home to someone who had lost everything and ached only to have a roof over their head, even if just for one night.

  I was always so good at giving people advice at work, so much that I had gotten a great job working in the human resources department where my office was constantly busy with employees seeking advice. I also was still writing my Santa letters that helped kids (and adults) believe in themselves. And yet I had so much melancholy, but was it around me? Or within me? How was I supposed to give hope and support to my employees and the kids when I myself felt hopeless? I despised hypocrites and the last thing that I wanted was to be one. My cell phone chimed just as I was about to tear into another round of emotional dodgeball.

  “It’s over,” I said numbly. There was no need to fake a cheery greeting to a best friend.

  “Which is why we are cel-e-brating!” Kay sang. “I’ll be picking you up in ten minutes, so change out of your fuzzy PJ bottoms and that ugly concert shirt and, for cripes sakes, Kristy, put some makeup on.”

  “Whaaa … ” I tried replying, but realized she hung up. I rolled my eyes at the receiver, wishing that I could just spend the rest of the day, night, and maybe the next lifetime of days and nights in my own cloud of despair. It was starting to feel comfortable. Okay, probably not. And just to make it clear, I was wearing yoga pants, not fuzzy PJ bottoms.

  Life was funny, not in a ha-ha way, but in a philosophical hmmm kind of way. Nobody likes change, especially a drastic change such as a breakup, divorce, loss of job, or loss of loved one. It could be the worst partner or the worst job, but knowing that you are waking up next to someone or heading to a job, any job, can sometimes be a comfort, until you are forced into a different route and realize that maybe it wasn’t good after all.

  I realized through my own trials and tribulations that I had lost my dream and I had lost faith. I had given up on a college scholarship, forgotten how to feel pretty, and lost the love that I had for myself. I was only half of the person that I had been and less than half of the person that I wanted to be. My dreams had to change due to life circumstances, and when life threw a curveball, they had to change again, but that didn’t mean that I had to sacrifice or even postpone them. Yet I did. Life changes continue to occur, but figuring out ways to get through them and grow is the biggest test. I’ve found that setting goals, being grateful for what I have and what I believe I’m worthy of receiving, and taking action helps me stay positive even during the toughest times. Sure, there were many times that I wanted to put on those fuzzy PJ bottoms and beat myself up—we all have those days—but even the fuzzy PJs can’t soften the emotional bruises. Releasing the old habits that anchor you to the past gives you the power to move forward to live in the now and set goals for the future.

  “You know what you should do?” Kay asked, munching on a chocolate-chip cookie. Kay knew me better than I knew myself on most days, and even though she told me to get dressed up, she took me to my favorite place—a bookstore.

  “Run away from home?” I replied, pouring more sugar into my vanilla latte.

  Kay grabbed the sugar container and set it on the table next to us, like a mother scolding a child. “No, you should go see a psychic.”

  I answered with a roll of the eyes. “Really? For a psychic to tell me that my life sucks and the future looks even dimmer. No thank you.”

  “So cynical. Where is my positive Kristy?”

  The conversation quickly changed to who I was predicting to be voted off Survivor, but I co
uldn’t stop thinking that maybe Kay was right. I had lost my faith. Faith isn’t easy to have when it keeps getting squished, but it lightens the darkened paths by bringing you sunbeams from heaven. We each create our individual time of transformation by taking charge of the creations and releasing the shackles from the spirit and soul. I was about to find the flame to light my lanterns.

  [contents]

  seventeen

  True Self

  I was lost. I was twice divorced, not even thirty years old, and wandering on an empty, lonely path. Kay’s words that I should see a psychic kept going through my head. Even though I knew I had abilities, I was extremely skeptical of others. Still, something told me to do it, so I made the appointment on a Tuesday for Saturday morning. Each day I thought about canceling the appointment, but didn’t. I even drove to the center that Saturday morning and pulled in, then pulled out. I drove around and pulled back in.

  Iinitially, I wasn’t sure what drew me to the metaphysical shop. Okay, that was a lie. Deep down I did know, but saying it made me want to choke. It was pure desperation. I had passed the metaphysical shop numerous times, as it was just minutes from my home, but on that dull gray November day, it was as if a magnet were pulling me in.

  Parking as far from the storefront as possible, I glanced around before exiting the safe haven of my car, afraid that someone I knew might see me. My hands shook as I opened the entrance door. Wind chimes jingled and as I stepped inside, I was taken aback by the smell of incense. I was greeted by a black cat who sat straight up on the counter as if awaiting my arrival. Its harvest moon–colored eyes met mine, and he stretched out his front paws and sprawled out on the glass. A smooth and friendly male voice called from a storeroom in the back, “Be right there.”

  Glancing around the store, I didn’t see any voodoo dolls or satanic-looking items. That was a relief. Having absolutely no idea what to expect, I had pictured crystal balls, pentagrams, hundreds of lit candles, and a chanting coven. Instead I saw a well-lit room displaying different types of stones, crystals, and jewelry. On one shelf were several books from well-known psychics such as Sylvia Browne and John Edward, all sharing their own stories or giving suggestions on how to build one’s intuition. On another shelf sat a large display of tarot card decks. The bright cards looked friendly and not as sinister as my imagination had drawn from movies and television shows. The butterflies in my stomach slowly began to settle down.

  “Sorry about that,” a man said as he walked quickly to the counter. “What can I help you with?”

  Our eyes met and he smiled. He didn’t look like a psychic, or at least what I believed a psychic would look like. He appeared to be in his late fifties, about six-foot-one, and was wearing blue jeans and a black polo shirt with the store’s name and a picture of a moon imprinted upon it. It seemed all of my initial impressions were amiss.

  “I’m not sure,” I said a bit shyly. “A reading?”

  “Have you ever had a reading before?” he said, leading me to the back of the store.

  “No, I haven’t. In fact I’m so nervous right now that I feel like I’m being taken to the gas chamber!” I confessed with a quick laugh.

  “Don’t worry,” he reassured me, as he opened the door to a small office. “We will be gentle.”

  We? Puzzled, I gazed around, but only saw the two of us. Well, not including the cat, but I decided to keep quiet and sat in the chair that he pulled out for me. The room was decorated in a soothing aloe green with bright white trim. The walls displayed pictures of what I assumed to be family and friends, along with several drawings of angels.

  “My name is Josh,” he said, sitting down across a round table from me.

  On the table sat a tape recorder, tapes, and several different stones. One looked like a rose quartz, one was an amethyst, and another stone was flat and brown. Josh grabbed a tape, wrote the date on it—November 8—and put it into the player and hit Record. He grabbed the murky brown stone and began stroking it between his index finger and thumb. His hands looked worn from years of hard physical work.

  “I’m a psychic medium,” he began. “I connect with the world of Spirit and tune into your energy. The messages I receive for you come directly from Spirit. We all have free choice, which means that what I tell you today doesn’t necessarily mean that it will happen. You have choice to change the path. Understand?”

  I nodded silently.

  “First thing I need you to do is to tell me your full name, and then take a deep breath in and breathe out.”

  “Kristy Sue.” I hesitated, thinking what last name to use. The divorce had muddled up my mind. I felt like I lacked an identity. I finally decided upon my maiden name. “Schiller. Kristy Sue Schiller,” I firmly stated, and, as instructed, breathed in deeply through my nose and out through my mouth.

  The psychic closed his eyes for a few seconds and began. “The first thing I see is … ”

  He quickly opened his eyes and looked long and hard at me, saying nothing. My heart felt as if it stopped and the feeling of wanting to bolt boiled within me, but doing that would have been rude, so I waited.

  “Kristy, do you see things? I mean … do you see spirits? Angels? Do strange things happen to you? Lights flashing on and off? Pictures falling? Shadows from the corner of your eye?”

  And so it was finally brought to light by an expert, along with his spirit guides and my own guides talking together, that I, too, was psychic … or a spiritual intuitive as I honestly prefer to call it.

  It was a relief to finally put a name to it. I knew that I was different. I had always been able to read people’s emotions and body language and was often awakened at night by unexplained things: loud noises, whispers, shadows, and cold air. The phone would ring and I would know who was calling even before they said anything. I knew when there would be snow days before the weatherman called it, and I baffled classmates and teachers for knowing when a pop quiz would happen.

  Since I was a small child, I was drawn to cemeteries, where I would wander around gravestones until I found one I liked. Then I’d sit down and have a conversation in my head. I had no idea that those conversations were actually with the spirits of the deceased. I laughed at the thought. I always thought I was just talking to myself. I wasn’t quite certain which was crazier.

  Many times I felt guilty for seeing spirits. Was I evil? I wasn’t even allowed to look at my horoscope in the Sunday newspaper without censure, so trying to explain to my parents that I not only saw, but also spoke to, their dead parents was taboo. I was certain that wasn’t going to be accepted very well.

  Before ending the session, Josh asked me if I was interested in a job. A job doing readings? I wondered. I had a job, but with the divorce and lack of money, another paycheck would come in handy. I decided to hold off on giving him an answer, but I was quite tempted. I had never formally read for anybody, but it was an intriguing idea.

  That cold November day changed my life. The real reason that I went to get a reading was because on that date, my second divorce had become final and I felt lost. The reassurance that there was something better to come was calling out to me a bit more strongly than the full bottle of Valium on my nightstand. I was seeking guidance because it seemed nobody else could offer that to me. I wanted a light at the end of the tunnel, and hoped it wasn’t a train waiting to meet me head-on. I received more guidance than I could’ve imagined by finally admitting to myself who and what I was.

  After my session, I drove back to Jason’s house where the kids and I were still living. I hadn’t any clue how we were going to move out. I lost thousands of dollars during those few months of marriage and depleted my retirement fund to pay someone to take my house off of my hands. I was homeless and living with an incredibly abusive and sick individual who wanted me to suffer for whatever reason his bipolar mind had concocted. The kids and I were still sleeping in one bedroom, with the door locked and h
eavy furniture in front of it. It was the safest haven I could come up with except for the few times I had to escape to a friend’s couch or to the women’s shelter. I was told that if I left the marital house, I would lose everything.

  I was getting more and more physically sick until one day I went to the doctor, who diagnosed me with pancreatitis and ordered my gallbladder to be removed immediately. Jason came to the hospital after being missing on some excursion for a week and promised to never leave me again, but I knew it was another falsehood; the divorce papers were already drawn up (after the mandatory waiting period) for our final signatures. As I recovered, I came up with a plan to begin a healthier life. So I called my realtor friend and asked her to set me up with a rental. I didn’t care where—I just needed out. And I signed up for a community theater audition. It was time to find my true self, so I needed to immerse myself in what I loved doing. I loved the kids. I loved theater, and we needed a happy and safe environment. I put actions into motion and finally felt the negativity of not just that marriage, but the first marriage gradually start to drip off of me.

  That Monday evening I showed up, with Micaela in tow, at the local theater to audition for The Man Who Came to Dinner. I had checked out the script and had done my research. I was a nervous wreck and twice walked out the door and back to my car. I was given a number—13, my lucky number—and had my photograph taken and was herded into the seats to await my turn. They were cold readings, and even though I had read the script, it did little to quell my nerves. I chatted a bit with the other actors and began to be even more intimidated as they shared their experiences in LA, Chicago, and New York. They all had professional pictures with them, along with their résumés, some of which listed local commercials and brief walk-ons for shows like Friends, CSI, and House. All I had was a Polaroid, and the last production I was in was in 1988.