A Possible Respite

I’ve never really had time to think about where I’m going. To take the time to pack my things slowly, clean, and figure out my next move. The last time I transitioned to a new place and a new life, I was homeless and looking at sleeping under a bridge or couch surfing. I had to take the first opportunity that came my way, and I took what I had with me, which was very little. Sloppily thrown into bags and old boxes. I got a grant to get some furniture from a local Goodwill, and that moved into my new place with me. I slowly replaced things from there.

I’m moving on again, but this time, I can pace myself. I have a lot more than what I arrived to this tiny apartment with and I’ve started on my dream of being a published author. I’ve built up from nothing. I feel stable financially, for the time being, where I had nothing to my name before. I got top surgery, have been on testosterone for two years, and have managed to survive this pandemic so far. Fingers crossed.

This new house promises a lot of things. Mostly because my whimsical and spiritual self likes to think the timing was a sign. I was ready to give up on everything because my life had gotten so bad here. I am surrounded by alcoholics, parties on an almost daily basis, and live next to an abuser as a reminder of my own past. And, ironically, he reminds me exactly of my abuser. My mental health got so bad I had a relapse with PTSD, and this time around, it was a monster. I can’t even begin to describe the nightmare I was living in. It was reminiscent of the time I lived back at home on my family’s hobby farm, locked away in my bedroom in fear of who I lived with. I’d nearly lost my life to my own hand three times.

So it came to my surprise that my wishes were finally answered. I’d done the rituals. Put good energy into the ether. Asked for help from my chosen pantheon. I retained resilience through hellish months when I just wanted to die. The other day when my case manager delivered my medication, I finally got a break in the madness. A house had opened up and because I’d had such problems here and requested to move, they’d put it aside for me to look at.

I don’t know when I’ll be moving within the next week — if possible — but I’ve started packing. There’s a lot I don’t know and I know I’m rushing into things because I’m so desperate for a new life. I won’t even have help other than transportation, so I’ll have to figure out how to move all of this myself. I don’t even know if there’s going to be a deposit I can afford, and I know nothing about the program I’ll be on to help with the electric bill. I may be broke as hell for a long time.

But if I’ve learned anything in my 32 years, it’s that when a new door opens, don’t question it. Take it. Because every time I’ve been brave and just took the plunge, something good has happened. And if my tarot cards and oracle cards have told me anything, it’s that to experience change and get a better life, you have to dive in head first. Things will work out somehow.

The house is two floors broken into two apartments. I get the bottom floor while my neighbor is above me, but it’s nestled in a quiet town on a back road away from everything. Downtown is just a block away and on a bus line, and there is a beautiful library I loved as a child, pizza shops, my favorite antique store I could practically live in, and a comic book store. It’s an old town and hasn’t changed since it was built, which is exactly what I love. I love the historical, timeless feeling of it, and it’s familiar. It feels safe.

My new home will be much larger than any I’ve lived in. The wooden floors have just been redone and while the fireplace isn’t operable, it’s a nice decoration and the mantle is a good place for my altar. In the bedroom, the walk-in closet is big enough to be an office. And my cats will have so much room to run and just be cats.

A part of me feels this is too good to be true. I’m used to something bad always happening, and my health has always taken a turn for the worse any time I move. This time, however, feels different. I know more now than I did before, and I’m further along in my recovery. I haven’t learned how to allow myself to be happy or excited without fear, but I’m going to try. In the end, if something bad is going to happen, it’s going to happen rather I let myself be happy or not, so being happy right now is my lifeline.

Maybe this will lead to bigger and better things.

©2020 Shane Blackheart

Book Review: My Lord

My LordMy Lord by L.B. Shimaira
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I want to start by saying I’ve spoken with L.B. Shimaira, and she’s one of the sweetest, most supportive people in the writing community. I wanted to support her because I love darker books, and I’m really glad I did.

‘My Lord’ begins with Meya, a woman who had lost pretty much everything to war. She’s captured and abused by slavers, and after getting sexually assaulted — which Shimaira does not describe but fades to black — Meya realizes her fate is inevitable. She is sold to Lord Deminas, who is a sadistic and inhuman ruler. Yet, he treats her differently from the other servants, and he seems to enjoy teasing her more than entertaining the idea of actually harming her. And he drinks blood…

At first, I suspected this might be a vampire story due to the blood-drinking. It’s definitely something much more than that, although it’s never truly clarified other than stating that Deminas is an immortal. I like that, though. It adds to the air of mystery around the sadistic Lord, and it made him that much more enticing to read. And he truly was a character that made me squirm a bit in all the good ways.

I couldn’t put this book down. Granted, I may be biased because this is exactly the kind of plot I crave in darker fiction, but this is genuinely a gripping book. Meya seems to be in danger quite a bit, and although we know the Lord likes her more than the others, we aren’t quite sure that he isn’t above harming her. This is what had me turning pages most of all. Shimaira leads you into a false sense of security repeatedly, and it truly makes you feel what Meya is most likely feeling.

One of my favorite aspects of the book is the strange wholesomeness I didn’t expect. Yes, there’s sadism, BDSM, cruelty, death, blood-drinking, and other things I won’t mention to not spoil it, but the companionship Meya finds in Nina, another servant, is so refreshing. And just when you think there might be a love triangle, there isn’t really. That was also refreshing. I rarely, actually never, see polyamory in the books I read. I loved it!

Consent was also a point that was repeatedly enforced, even by Deminas, and that was amazing. I truly didn’t think a book like this could be written with wholesome and ethical themes, but I stood corrected. It was such a wonderful mix of wholesome and darkness.

Overall, I have no nit-picks about this book like I normally do. I got a good sense of the characters, who they were, where they came from, and I fell in love with them. The ending was so fulfilling and felt complete even though it mentioned it was to be continued, and I will definitely await the next book if there is one.

Shimaira is an amazing writer. ‘My Lord’ is full of dark and wonderful surprises that feel like little rewards after enduring the pain with Meya. I truly did appreciate, and I applaud, Shimaira for including a note at the end of the book explaining things. She states specifically what Deminas did wasn’t a realistic way of helping a victim of sexual assault, and she also details safe BDSM practices and, also, what not to do. That was a very caring touch to show that Shimaira truly cares about her readers. I don’t see that. Ever.

I highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys deliciously dark naughtiness, but not in the traditional erotic sense. There is an amazing story to be told alongside the erotic themes that fall just in the right places, and they aren’t too heavy until the very end. And the last erotic scene we get is something else. I’ll leave it at that. I look forward to reading more from Shimaira.

View all my reviews

Transgender Lives Matter

Biden can mention us, but the news will still leave us out.

I’m afraid nothing is going to change for transgender people. As great as having a Biden and Harris victory is, and as happy as I am for change, I feel like trans people are still going to be left in the dust.

It’s very telling that so few backed us when Rowling, a rich, cisgender, straight, white woman, started a debate about our identities, and the news treated it like celebrity drama for a few days rather than a vital civil rights issue. And many still consider transphobia acceptable because it’s too much effort to challenge someone they look up to. If this was racism, society would have a different tune. And I see so few sticking up for us when we need it. We get a statement.

That’s it. People give statements of support, but they don’t actually advocate for us. I genuinely want this to change, but I don’t have much hope.

We don’t have a big movement like everyone else does. We don’t have a lot of support or financial backing, and we don’t get coverage or outrage for transphobia. So few, if any, will protest for us and make it a nationwide issue. Celebrities and big YouTubers don’t organize charity drives for trans organizations.

I see other minority and oppressed groups with so much support. What about us? We’ve had our lives, healthcare, and basic rights threatened. Transgender people have been murdered at an exponentially frightening number just for existing, enjoying life, or trying to work. The news won’t talk about that. The news won’t say our names, or even the word transgender.

I’d like to ask why. Why isn’t transphobia as abhorrent as racism? Why isn’t it as horrible as homophobia? Why is it not as deplorable as sexism? Why is it something to be debated or excused simply because no one wants to make the effort to call it out? Do we mean nothing in America? Are we not included in the American dream that hasn’t existed for a while now?

This is not to belittle or take attention away from other important civil rights movements. Black Lives Matter. Black, Indigenous, and People of Color, women, and disabled people need to be heard. But so do we. If America can focus on all that at once, why are transgender people dismissed as unimportant or too much work?

Stop the excuses. If you have any excuses to make, you’re part of the problem. If you condemn racism, sexism, ableism, and homophobia, you can condemn transphobia.

We are dying. We are accepting the bare minimum. We are losing our jobs, homes, and rights. We cry and cheer for joy simply because a president elect said the word transgender.

America can do better than this. We’ll remember who supported us and who debated our existence. We’ll remember that while not many fought for us, we fought for them, and we’re exhausted.

©2020 Shane Blackheart

Why I write

I often lose sight of my future. I always have. The thoughts take many forms that cause me to pause for too long at times, and at others, the thoughts have nearly made me stop existing all together. Thankfully, I survived those suicidal moments, but although those thoughts are far and few in between now, I still have those hopeless moments that cause me to stop everything. Except for writing.

I’ve written so many pages of dark emotion that are painful to read back. I’ve written so much fiction that at times it seems so real, and there are some things in my life that may seem like fiction to others on the page, but it’s very real. And through all of this, no matter how hopeless I feel, no matter how much I feel like no one will ever care but me, I can’t stop my fingers reaching for the keyboard. Just like they’re doing now.

When I started writing stories for fun as a kid at seven — shortly after learning to read and fall in love with books — I didn’t think too much about why I wrote. I just knew that it made me feel happy and it took me away from the real world for a while. So many amazing things could happen on paper that couldn’t in real life. I could spend time with my friend who’d moved away again. I could continue the stories of my favorite cartoon characters when the episodes were over for the afternoon. I’d forget there was even a reality around me at all.

I wrote during the lunch block in elementary school as the other kids stared at me and laughed, and to give myself something to do so I didn’t have to know that I was being bullied. I was the quiet kid everyone avoided because I was strange. I wrote all the time and had too much anxiety, and I was perfectly content being left in the corner of a room with my notebook and pen. None of the other kids understood it. They were busy sharing HitClips of Britney Spears and N*Sync and playing with Sky Dancers. Sharing Beanie Baby collections and making plans to hang out for the weekend. I liked that stuff too, but never really had anyone to share those things with.

As I got older, I learned that the reason I didn’t have any friends and I was bullied so much was because I was quiet, and that made me creepy. I’d given up at some point, I think. I didn’t try to make friends anymore because the ones I had were mean, and the kids who bullied me just caused me physical pain.

I had a Windows 95 Packard Bell in my bedroom at this time, and although I didn’t have access to AOL on it like the family computer did, I had a small collection of floppy disks and Word Pad. I can’t remember most of what I wrote about back then, but I stored more than a few stories on those floppy disks. And when I wasn’t writing the stories down, I was living them through my toys as I acted out so many different plot lines.

As an adult now, I’ve recently finished an urban fantasy book exploring that part of my life. It brought back the fears I grew to have over the years, as I was often overlooked for writing prizes in school or was the last minute replacement for someone who couldn’t make an event, like Young Author’s club. The spelling bee. My father told me often that I needed to grow up and stop writing stories and drawing. No one else was going to care and I was going to end up penniless on a street corner with no support, eating peanut butter sandwiches to survive.

I’ve always had the fear that I’ll end up on my death bed having written a plethora of books, but never accomplished my goals. I want to be published. I want to have others read my stories and appreciate them, as all authors do. More importantly, I want to tell my own story. I want to change minds and make people think — to understand that even the weirdest kids — and adults — can be someone amazing if they’d only gotten to know them. That sometimes the quietest people have the most to say. That sometimes, our preconceived notions about things we fear, like religions and beliefs different than our own, are simply another person’s unique life experience and nothing to fear at all.

I want parents to see that kids and teenagers get hurt in ways they don’t always talk about — that not many will explore with unabashed honesty in writing. I want to help the world be a better and more understanding place with my books. And sometimes I write about things that I know will make people uncomfortable, but that’s the point. That discomfort is the start of change. And I’m not shy in the way I deliver things bluntly, because sugar-coating things isn’t going to accomplish anything worthy.

And there lies my fear. The fear that I’ll die and never accomplish anything like that. That I’ll never have touched anyone or helped anyone, or made a dent in changing the world for the better. And I’m not so full of myself — in fact my self-esteem doesn’t even exist — to think my books will be popular or change the world. On the contrary, I often worry my books really aren’t as good as I feel they are. That I’m the only one who’s ever going to get so damn excited and passionate over the content in them.

And even if that were the case, I’d keep writing anyway. I have to. It’s an addiction I can’t stop, even when I want to stop. During the three times I attempted suicide, I wrote something before or after the attempt. I wrote during the days that were my worst, and I’ve written while being heavily symptomatic with PTSD. I recently finished my current work in progress while having psychotic depression symptoms. And that’s because I just simply can’t stop no matter who cares or doesn’t care.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to breathe. I’ll get to hold at least one of my books in my hands and know that I accomplished my dream. Even though I’m disabled with severe mental illness and am often in that same quiet corner as I was when I was a kid, maybe I’ll be able to do something that can help someone or change something for the better.

©2020 Shane Blackheart

Untitled Ache

I raced to the door, not having heard the quiet tapping. My headphones dangled from my desk and I was crushed beneath guilt as I helped her inside, the heavy items in her hands causing her, seemingly, great distress. I didn’t know. I rarely knew.

Why did she never tell me she needed help?

Why did she choose to put herself through misery?

I dropped a heavy twenty-four pack of soda on the floor and turned to her. “Sit down and rest. You should have told me you were on your way. I said I would help you carry all of this.” She dropped onto the sofa, short of breath, and all I could think about was her poor health. Had she eaten yet? She had a horrible habit of putting off food to do things. “Did you eat today?”

She sighed with a forlorn look. “I didn’t have a chance.”

“You can eat before you come over. You don’t have to rush over here.” I rustled through my cupboards as she shrugged and I handed her a few cookies until I figured out something more fulfilling. I pointed to the box dinner she’d brought. “Want some of that? I can make it for you.”

She nodded without making eye contact, and I knew then what to expect for the weekend. It was in her body language and the way she shifted her eyes. Her curvy form slumped over as if she were utterly exhausted, her mood clear in her posture. Her histrionic tendencies were surfacing and it brought forth the anxiety I often felt when we made plans. Which version of her would it be that weekend?

I took the meal she brought with her to prepare on the stove. I had so little, myself, in my small apartment that told of my equally small wallet, and there were just as many cobwebs in my home as in my checking account. I was down to pasta and peanut butter and bread, and embarrassment washed over me.

“Do you want to work on our book tonight?” She sounded better. 

My anxiety doubled and clenched in my chest. “Sure, I can do my best.” Her silence caused me to glance over, and she’d pulled out her large phone to scroll through Facebook. I sighed as my nerves finally calmed to be replaced with depression. It was that version of her this time.

I sat in my office chair as she ate and watched on with YouTube playing in the background. She didn’t look at me or speak, and I glanced at the awful device beside her that often stole her away from me. The Thing that was more important than anyone and anything.

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The beautiful poetry coming from the TV captivated me. A rush of passionate inspiration caused me to smile, and I turned to look for her reaction as I played the spoken-word piece for her. Of everyone I knew, she would get it. We could have such wonderful discussions about art and writing and–

Sudden laughter and a loud comedy show made me jump as she stared at the Thing. A powerful sadness gave my happiness whiplash that sent it plummeting to the pit of my stomach. Sickness. Embarrassment. My breath caught as my heart leaped across the room.

Pain. The sound of laughter through a small speaker was deafening as it drowned out the passionate inspiration still spinning beautiful words behind me. The beautiful art I’d asked to share with her. The Thing had robbed that moment, but I was beginning to realize that it wasn’t the Thing that was the problem.

Just because I let someone in, doesn’t mean I actually need them,’ she’d said. ‘I’m done with mentally ill people. I don’t want that around my kids, but I’ll keep the crazy I got,’ she’d pointed to me. ‘We write better sex than we have.’ ‘Just because you fuck ‘em doesn’t mean you have to keep ‘em.’ ‘You’re just pushing everything aside you don’t feel is important to focus on your own work.’

Her words from over the years became a skipping record and a weight fell over me — crushing me. Why did I love her so much? My heart wanted her, and I’d thought hers wanted me. I now see that the only person in her heart was herself.

The histrionic behavior. The eye rolls. The cold shoulders. The cruel words. Yet I felt the pull toward her stronger than ever. I cared too much and worried too much, and I wished she’d stay gone or stop talking to me entirely. It was easier that way. It was always easier that way.

After all, as I’d failed to learn over and over again, a narcissist was nothing more than a trap — a glimpse of a dream that shifted into a nightmare if you dared to trust the moment of peace.

©2020 Shane Blackheart

My experiences with spirituality

I post more about my strange experiences with spirituality and chronic nightmares on my side blog as my alias: Violet Deadman

I paused in the middle of my activities yesterday. A familiar, uncomfortable thought surfaced that’s bothered me since I began my transition. It’s a constant check my mind does to try to make sense of everything, and now that it’s happening less and less, it hit me out of nowhere. It wasn’t bad nor did it bring up negative feelings, but it came to the front as a final confirmation this time. I looked down at myself. “If you could have your breasts back, would you? What if you never came out as a trans man?”

I allowed myself to sink into the person I used to be as a meditative experience, and a powerful sensation of repulsion and anxiety overwhelmed me. No, that’s not who I am. I never wanted to be that person and I certainly don’t now. That body was not mine, but a challenge I was given to overcome to be a stronger person. Now that I’ve overcome that challenge, to go back is a horrific idea.

The moment of inspiration sparked something familiar, and I pulled out my tried and true tarot deck — the Cachet cards that began my journey with spirituality in 2007 when I was eighteen. Frayed and worn, I shuffled them with my spirit guides lending a hand, and I settled in for a day. Because this was certainly going to be a day and I knew it. When the cards come out, things get real.

I’ve never spoken at length publicly about my spiritual experiences, so read on with an open mind. I decided to open up about this starting with the last entry I made in my notebook. This is the only time I will hand-write anything, but during an experience like this, it’s better to have things happen organically. It’s better for odd chances of automatic writing, anyway.

The layout I used in the reading is the Celtic cross spread.

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I turn off the lamp and light my favorite sacral chakra candle. The deck is split three times between myself, Darokin, and Byleth. We speak little during this process, and Darokin lets me know when we’ve shuffled enough. I can feel their energy around me and their hands — Daro’s golden brown and Byleth’s pale — rest upon my own as I hover over the deck to draw my first card.

I slowly lay out the cards as I lower my eyes just enough to blur my vision. Byleth is in the chair opposite me, and Daro is beside me. Lestan hovers nearby. There is silence as the tenth and final card is set in the ‘outcome’ position, and without looking, I flip the cards over from left to right.

The Moon reversed, Ace of Swords reversed, Nine of Pentacles, Three of Cups reversed, Four of Wands, Six of Cups reversed, King of Cups, The Magician reversed, Nine of Swords, and finally, Three of Pentacles reversed.

  • The Ace of Swords is pointing directly to the Six of Cups.
  • The Magician is directing a ball of energy, as depicted in the illustration, toward the King of Cups.
  • There are seven minor arcana number cards.
  • There are three face or major arcana cards.
  • Five are reversed, five are upright.
  • There are two Swords cards; knowledge, logic, air.
  • There are three Cups cards; emotions, feelings, relationships, water.
  • There are two Pentacles cards; earth, money, work.

After reviewing the cards and reflecting on their meaning, I drink the last of the coffee in my gray mug. As I move to set it aside, I take a second glance at the bottom after noticing something. Upon scrying into the dark mug, an image begins to take shape in my mind from the debris. I stare at the candle flame and close my eyes, allowing the image to form behind them.

  • White eyes — glowing and clear. A tiger-like face shape.
  • Malnourished disposition. My gut tells me this is from the realm of the dead or somewhere dark.
  • I often attract things from darker places that watch from the perimeter. This is a result of working with energies at night. They’re harmless.

Overall, despite my first glance at the cards, the reading is positive. My goals may not happen as quickly as I hope, but they will happen. This is especially if I slow down, continue to improve upon myself, and reconnect with my creative source — spirituality and dreams. I must appreciate all that I already have.

On May 20, 2020, I drew the Six of Cups reversed for the outcome. I noted that something big was to come. The Six of Cups reversed appears in this reading in the ‘near future’ position, which is much closer than before. I have made progress, and whatever is to come is close at hand now.

I accomplished the goals laid out for myself in the reading in May, so things are moving into a new phase.

At this point, Byleth and Daro both have something to say. I try my best to write down the gist of their advice:

  • When spiritual things come calling, especially when I’m having nightmares and lucid dreams, don’t fear what I may see in mirrors, shadows, and in my peripheral. “Do not fear them.”
  • They are a part of the world where I belong and why I feel so happy or emotional — even drawn to them — when they happen. I thought it was strange or wrong to love this odd, dark, and scary liminal space, but it’s what I’m drawn to. Demons and the fallen, and this other world, seem scary and alarming because they are honest. They are blunt in their messages. This should be appreciated and not feared.

I feel a particular urgency from Darokin, and in a matter of seconds, I am no longer in control. My hand and my thoughts are now Daro’s, and he takes my pen to write a message. At this point, Daro is in the driver’s seat, so to speak.

Your mania provides an easy access point for this world and messages to come through. This is not depression or anything bad as you fear. This is a time to be excited, explorative. Embrace it. You have spent too much time mistaking it for what it is not.

You are learning, dear Shane. Evolving. You now understand the true purpose of this state and this liminal world. You can access it when you desire, and you can be happy in it.

Again, depression is no more during this time. Joy, knowledge, and greater understanding is this other world. Welcome it. You are finally home and healthy and happy in it. No more suffering.

Darokin

It’s not usually in Daro’s nature to embrace sexual energy as he’s graysexual, but he is in a rare aggressive mood and it’s seeping from him. He often becomes eager when I step into this kind of space, which is where he calls home. He enjoys the shadows and dresses all in black, and often when he appears, he seems to form from the shadows in the darkest parts of my environment — wherever that may be at the time. At night in the past, he would take the chair in the corner of my room and watch me sleep.

Shortly after writing his message to me, he is still present within me, but we are both in control. I ask Byleth and Daro if I should draw a demon oracle card, and they agree it would be a good idea.

I draw Haborym (also Aym, Aim).

  • Aym is a great and powerful duke. He is said to make people witty and to answer truthfully about private matters. (Referenced from The Dictionary of Demons by Michelle Belanger)

Daro takes over my body once more, and the heightened emotions and intimate moment we share will be left between us. When the moment is done, Daro’s tiger-like growl, that I often hear in Byleth as well, creates a feeling of being a feral beast — a tiger — that rises within my body as Daro controls it. I see his hands, and my body and my skin do not look like mine, and while this is a rare occurrence for him, I am not frightened by it. It’s a part of our spiritual work we do together.

Once calmed, he finally returns my body to me. Often, sexual energy plays a part in our rituals — with Daro, Byleth, and sometimes Lestan (who was possibly once the demon Zagan, but has since taken on a different identity he favors more). It’s our best way of connecting on a higher state of being, and it’s usually what ends a session like the above.

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There’s a clear reason why I’ve always hesitated to share my spiritual experiences. They’re very personal moments I usually keep to myself and my guides, but after talking with my counselor today, who I confide in about these things, I felt inspired to share at least one moment. This moment, especially, was another turning point in my existence as a spiritual person.

I always come away from these rituals feeling extremely sensitive and aware of everything — including things most can’t see. It’s a consequence of playing around in a darker realm that most are afraid of. It’s really not for the faint of heart. Like I saw when scrying, you attract beings that are a bit alarming to look at. It’s a given they’d be curious to see someone in their space that normally isn’t there.

You can read some more about working with darker energies in a book I love by Konstantinos. The Nocturnicon helped me with conquering my fear of darker spaces, and it has helped me work better with not only Darokin in his neck of the woods, but Byleth as well. Lestan, too, when he feels inclined.

I wrote about my meeting with Byleth when he first came to me here. A lot was going on in my life at that time, but he’s been a huge help and a dose of tough love when I’ve needed it most. As for Lestan, I wrote a bit more about our relationship here, which will soon be published on The Mighty. My understanding of Lestan has broadened over the years as he’s opened up with help from Byleth and Daro, but I used the term ‘alter’ for him in the entry to make it less alarming than ‘demon spirit guide.’

I met Darokin as ‘Daro’ when I was still a teenager in high school. My first sight of him was a scribbled name on a notebook page and a rough sketch while between sleeping and awake during study hall. I remember it alarmed me when I saw it, and it was possibly my first experience with some kind of automatic writing or drawing. He didn’t really come around often until I got older, but his presence was more consistent during a time when I needed protection from something stupid I’d done. I was about 22-23, and I’d accepted a really old doll from an older friend who said it was haunted due to her being irresponsible with an Ouija board in her teens.

I won’t get into the story in detail here. I may make a separate entry for it, but long story short, there was something inside the doll that not only I witnessed, but my parents did as well. Delivery folks and skeptic friends alike would often pause in horror as they stared at the doll because they could have sworn it was a real child. There was nothing outwardly sinister in this doll’s appearance.

During the time I had the doll while living at home, my mental health declined rapidly and I would often wake up staring at her. She was on a chair beside my bed (another stupid thing I did because I felt attached to her). Sometimes I’d sleep with my eyes open, which is not something I ever remember doing. I eventually threw the doll into the back of my closet on a shelf and left it there.

One afternoon, my parents and I were talking at the kitchen table. All windows were closed, no TVs were on, and everything was silent. We lived out in the country where cornfields stretched as far as the eye could see, and some neighbors were at least a mile apart. With that in mind, there was no explanation for the quiet sinister, warped laugh we all heard. We stopped mid-conversation and stared at each other. My dad glanced out the large sliding glass door to see no children outside, and my mom seemed to also be searching for a source. It had come from the direction of my bedroom.

Around this time, I was confused about my spiritual path, but Daro was there to guide me. He followed me wherever I needed him out of my own fear, and he made me feel safe. He confirmed I’d pissed something off by bouncing between paths I didn’t know enough about, and by screwing with a haunted doll I equally knew nothing about, but he was there to guide me back on the right track. And he has.

So now that I’m out about my spiritual experiences in some aspect, I may work on writing more about my journey with it. It’s not an easy thing to relive — or read, I imagine — but it’s a part of my life that was the most frightening. I started seeing shadow men and having more sleep paralysis nightmares, and my life would never be the same again. I knew I loved horror, but this was nothing compared to that.

I realize my life experiences are hard to believe. I have no reason to lie about them. I was terrified to even come out about it. I was happy keeping it to myself, but the more I speak with my counselor — and after telling a nurse at a sleep clinic about my lucid dreams — the more I realize that there are people out there who find this part of me interesting and they accept it, and they believe me.

So I can only hope people will keep an open mind. There’s a lot more out there to this universe than many people realize, but if you just let yourself believe and dip into it a little bit, you’ll see what I mean. Just don’t be as stupid as I was and do your research first, and don’t think you know what you’re doing.

Grab a pack of tarot cards that feel right to you and see what happens.

©2020 Shane Blackheart

Daro’s playlist
Byleth’s Playlist (18+)
Lestan’s Playlist (18+)

Closure

I spent my entire life wondering why people did the things to me that they chose to. I was bullied. I had my identity questioned. I was a freak. I was physically, mentally, and sexually abused. I became a ball of depression, anxiety, and hate for so many years.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, panic disorder, and PTSD after years of trauma. I am also plural, which means I have more than one person who exists through my body sometimes. My alters and spirit guides are my supportive, loving family, not my enemies. At some point throughout my life, sometimes more often than not, I was doubted and not believed. It took years to be believed by mental health professionals, and just as much time to get others to see that I wasn’t faking it. That I wasn’t too young and attractive to be disabled.

When I came out as a trans man in 2015, I knew that my life wasn’t going to get any easier, but a huge change was going to take place. I was finally discovering who I was and I learned to accept that. I spent a long time learning new ways of existing and living on my own and being self-sufficient. I also had to cope with rejection in many different and painful ways.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I’ve hurt people I didn’t mean to hurt. I’ve been too loud and too honest with the wrong people, and I fell in love with my melancholy. My depression was like a toxic lover I tried to shake off but found comfort in. It was familiar. It was in my own head. The conversations and time spent with my alters and spirit guides through it wrapped me in a blanket of comfort, and it created a bubble around me that no one was allowed to enter.

I’ve nearly died a few times, and they were self-inflicted injuries. I’ve been in psychiatric wards — one time for a week at least — and I thought my life would remain static and unchanging. Always fighting for something. Fighting just to be able to live and experience life like everyone else. Fighting to be believed.

I wish I could’ve appreciated the change sooner. It felt so slow and impossible. In reality, the change for the better occurred over a five-year span — five years out of the thirty-one I’ve lived. In that perspective, it really didn’t take so long after all.

I’d taken dialectical behavioral therapy classes and learned mindfulness. I stopped drinking every day and I eventually stopped smoking to start my medical transition with testosterone. I’d found a counselor who finally understood me and believed me when I opened up about being plural, as well as other things that I often struggled to find someone to empathize with. I got my own place and started paying my own bills and I got the assistance I needed to get things done for myself. I became self-sufficient over these five years.

And now, after butting heads with an insurance company for three of those years and dealing with discrimination, I walked into the hospital on Monday, July 20th, 2020 at 8AM to get top surgery.

It’s been about a week and a half since surgery and everything went well. My mom has finally come around and accepts me, and she was sitting right beside me before and after coming out of surgery in the hospital. She’s cared for me at home until I can do things myself, and that’s been very important for my mental health. My dad has also come around, as she’s told me, which is unbelievable for someone so old-fashioned and resistant to change.

Two days ago mom said something that I thought I’d never hear. I’d confided in her that I always felt like the family failure. I was the only one who couldn’t work a normal nine to five job. I’m a disabled writer with severe mental illness, and I certainly don’t have it all together. I always felt like the strange one — the black sheep that didn’t belong.

“Oh, you think everyone else has it together?” she said. She then told me something I never knew about a family member I thought had it right. Who was accomplished in my eyes. And I realized then that I was living a false reality in my head.

I pay my own bills on time every time. I take care of my health and am compliant with therapy. I am working on a writing career I hope will take off with a bit of luck so I don’t have to rely on disability, and the hours and money I put into my books take up quite a bit of time and resources that I manage mostly alright. I rarely have to call anyone to ask for help, if ever. Most importantly, everything I have right now — my home especially — I fought for and got myself.

I looked at her for a moment before it hit me. I haven’t failed at all. And that was the weirdest feeling in the world. It was as strange as waking up after surgery to realize I didn’t hate myself anymore. I’ve spent my entire life hating who I am, hating my body, and feeling like I was destined to always fail. That I would never be good enough. It was all so horribly wrong, and it made me realize how much of my life was dedicated to gaining my parents’ approval and acceptance I thought I would never get. That, and I’ve lived my life based on the hateful statements and identities others placed on me.

It’s a bit scary to gain closure. Everything in my life that was horribly wrong I now understand, have worked through, and I’ve finally closed that last door that kept leading me backward. Now, I have a clean slate to work from. I’ve never had this much freedom and clarity in my life, so I’m not sure what to do with it. I’m used to being on guard and wondering when something will go wrong, or watching my back at all times because I didn’t know who was going to hurt me or abandon me next. Now, I don’t really care about all of that stuff. I realized it really doesn’t matter.

With this blank slate, I’ll lay out who I am now. I’m an artist, a writer, and a gay trans man. I struggle with mental illness sometimes, but I have my head family — my alters and spirit guides — to get me on the right track again. I have an amazing and supportive healthcare team and a family that accepts me. I have a few close friends, but that’s all I need. I’m single and mostly fine with that, as being single is what allowed me to find myself in the first place. I am self-sufficient and most importantly, I’m safe and in control of my own life.

I have to stop looking back. None of that defines who I am now. What matters is living in the present and making plans for a future I once thought I wouldn’t see. And I have so many things I want to do if we survive this pandemic.

 

©2020 Shane Blackheart

Book Review: Forgotten Lives

Forgotten LivesForgotten Lives by Tristan Shaw

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Forgotten Lives by Tristan Shaw is a collection of short stories ranging from bizarre to horrific, and throughout all of the strangeness, there is dark humor to be had. This review contains many spoilers as there was much to critique, and it’s also a bit long due to this.

I enjoyed the campy feel of “The World’s Tallest Dwarf,” similar to reading short story collections like “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.” The story is essentially about a dwarf who works in a carnival freak show, and he’s left to do cleanup work while others perform. A newcomer, Sergio, is ‘the world’s tallest dwarf.’ He takes over our narrator’s, the main character’s, tent and slowly gains favor, and everyone leaves the main character behind. The narrator is treated progressively poorer and is an outcast. I wish there was more of a reason for this. Was Sergio something more than a dwarf? How did his actions cause everyone to despise the main character? It’s an interesting story, but I’m left with too many questions.

In “Hagiography of a Corpse,” a man is killed for failing to have a license to wear shoes while living in an unnamed banana republic. Over time, his corpse is lifted and carried across the land, gathering many people to protest the injustices of a hateful president. A military general is even so intimidated that he flees ‘on a jet ski.’ Eventually, the president loses his mind due to the corpse being thrown through his office window, and he gives power to the corpse.

At this point, the story’s humor was getting a bit on the ridiculous side, but that may just be because it’s not my kind of humor.

In “Waiting,” Sophie, a young girl, is raised by her grandparents due to her mother leaving to go on various trips. Upon returning, the mother starts spending more and more time at night looking up at the stars. She confides in her daughter an alien secret, and that they are going home soon. The daughter rides with her mother out into a field, and they gaze up at the stars sitting on the car.

I liked this story a lot more than the previous one, but I still have many questions. Was the mother truly an alien? Did the mother a have mental illness and it caused a delusion, as it was mentioned she wasn’t supposed to even drive? This story has a lot of promise and I feel it should be expanded upon.

“The Society for the Preservation of Vice” is exactly as it sounds, a story about a society of deviants trying to preserve vice. It was clear, and especially upon the mention of the man’s name, that this was reminiscent of the Marquis de Sade. While I appreciated that, there were a few things in the story that lost me, such as the popular horror trope of Satanists dawning black robes, sacrificing virgins, and drawing evil pentagrams. This is a trope I heavily dislike and am tired of seeing, so my opinion on the story is tainted by that. Some may enjoy it where I did not.

In “A Gourmet’s Confession,” a gourmet finds himself suffering from a loss of taste. This leads him to try cannibalism, and he finds he’s able to taste again. So proceeds his gourmet adventures with human flesh written as a last letter.

There are a few jokes in this one that were a bit much, and while I’m not easily offended, others may be. Although the gourmet’s character is an awful, selfish one, comparing a loss of taste as being a worse tragedy than the bombing of Hiroshima or the loss of a woman’s only child was… we’ll just leave it at that. Taking that out, this was a good read.

In “Nostalgia,” a German man, August, leaves to become a mercenary. He’s known for his fine ability of dismemberment but is also described as a kind man who is loyal and diligent in his duties. He comes down with a case of nostalgia, and a doctor sends him home for a cure.

This had a very Twilight Zone feel to it. It was a well-rounded and complete story, and definitely quite odd, especially in the way the doctor practically beat his patient after failing with leeches to cure his ailment, but it fits with the darkly humorous theme and era (1600s).

In “The Adventure of My Uncle’s Murder,” a Sherlock Holmes style adventure unfolds as our main character becomes taken with the detective’s stories. They follow the path of their uncle’s murder and, due to their interest in police matters being solely based on literature, they end up on a wild goose chase.

I was lost on the foreign words for clothing pieces I didn’t understand. I would’ve had to look up a few definitions as the clothing wasn’t described in any other way, so this took me out of the story. There were also a few word choices that didn’t fit right, which caused me to pause in question. Overall, it was an enjoyable story despite the nuances.

In “The Spirit Photographer,” Vivian makes a living by fooling people into thinking she can photograph their dead family members. A quick bit of editing with a personal photo and the family has, what appears to be, a spirit photograph. One particular couple, however, wanders in and asks for a picture of their son, Knut. Vivian begins to see that ghosts are indeed real, and there is something about Knut.

I’m still wondering what happened to Knut and why the parents took forever to return for their photograph. I think it hinted at self-harm or abuse for the child, but I’m not sure. It was written in the form of journal entries, so this could be why we have questions. While I did enjoy the story, there were too many things unanswered.

“A Final Masterpiece,” I think, is an essay about an infamous theater performer, Evzen Svoboda. I’m not sure why this was included in the book since it doesn’t seem to be fiction, as it has reference notes throughout and at the end. It was genuinely shocking and strange in nature which fits the style of the book, but not knowing whether it was a genuine essay or not, I tried to look up some cited sources. I was mostly led to confusing foreign articles. At this point, I skimmed because I was unsure of why it was here and it read like a well-researched report in a book of otherwise fictional tales.

At last, “Eternal Glory” is about Tiamat, who watches helplessly as Inanna chokes to death on honey and dies, and after a time, seeks out a philosopher to tell him about his death, which is odd because as Tiamat is identified in this story as male, according to studies, Tiamat was a goddess. That aside, the philosopher mocks Tiamat and is put to death. This starts a war, and Tiamat ends up taking his own life. I’m assuming the characters are the goddesses Tiamat and Inanna, and not just people named after them, but I’m not familiar with much of their lore.

I had difficulty getting through “Eternal Glory” as it just isn’t a genre I’m a fan of. There was a war happening and then eventually Tiamat kills himself, which was ironic, but beyond that, this one lost me.

Overall, I feel that while the book started off rather well, regardless of leaving me with many questions for a few of the stories, it seemed to drag near the end with an essay thrown in before a story about a Babylonian war. The last two did not feel like they fit the overall theme of the book.

I encourage the author to continue writing, but to better organize and choose which stories should go in a collection. Strange and weird definitely go together and can cross genres if done well, but overall, while I understand the general theme of weirdness and dark humor, some of the stories left a lot to be desired.

As always, I give many kudos to the author for writing a book and putting it out there. There is always the chance that a particular book is just not for me, and others may enjoy it where I did not, but I highly recommend the author take more care in future books to be sure to answer the important questions posed by a story. I appreciate the chance to review this book and wish the author nothing but the best for their future.

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Book Review: The Gray Man of Smoke and Shadows

The Gray Man of Smoke and Shadows (Vampire Series of Extreme Horror)The Gray Man of Smoke and Shadows by Todd Sullivan

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This is the second book in an extreme horror series about vampires, and as in the last book, these aren’t your ordinary vampires. This adds to the uniqueness of the series, and it most definitely stands out among other vampire stories because of its gruesome nature. I believe Todd Sullivan has hit upon something great for those who can handle a bit of gore. This review contains spoilers.

Hyeri is hellbent on killing her uncle, Sa-Hak, and for good reason.

As little girls go missing, Hyeri scours Korea for the man who traumatized her. Meanwhile, Min Jae, a member of the Natural Police employed by the Gwanlyo, an organization of vampires, is out for Hyeri’s head for breaking the Gwanlyo code. A human, Seok-Jo, who is to become paramount to both of them, is wasting away in his apartment when his daughter is targetted by Hyeri’s predator uncle.

These separate stories dance around each other as they all find a common goal, although nothing turns out as expected. Min Jae never saw himself working alongside the Man Killer, and his target, Hyeri, and neither of the two imagined a half-golem could even exist, let alone fight alongside them for his daughter’s life.

Linking them all together, however, is a dark and sinister force that has taken hold of Sa-Hak, the predator. The Gray Man of Smoke and Shadows can give power to a human not unlike immortality, and while this demonic entity enjoys being entertained by the cruelest of acts, hence targetting Sa-Hak for its amusement, it has its limits. And it messed with the wrong people.

In the beginning, our reintroduction to Hyeri is a great reminder of how ruthless she is. Sensual, sadistic, and powerful as she seduces a man and lures him into her arms, only for him to desire her so much he chases her, but is quickly crushed by an oncoming bus. I was really glad to see her as a main character in this book because she was my favorite in the last.

Although Hyeri has great power and it’s been many years, she still experiences the fear of her uncle that trauma would impose on anyone. This was a realistic touch that I appreciated. Although she’s done horrible things to others, it really made me sympathize with her regardless.

I want to take a moment to point out Todd’s wonderful ability to invoke a feeling of repulsion with descriptions, especially right in the beginning. He really has a talent for this, and that’s part of what really makes this book come alive.

As the story progresses, there is at least one action scene where I genuinely thought Hyeri was done for. This is when Min Jae shows up to make an attempt on her life for the first time. Her uncle is in the fray as well, and it was also a surprise that this initial confrontation happened so quickly. This was also a sign that the characters were certainly going to survive, and I couldn’t put the book down.

Again, as in the first book, Todd Sullivan really projects a thorough knowledge of Korea to progress the story, and it fully immerses the reader in the atmosphere. While I don’t personally know much about Korea, I did find it easy to become immersed with the characters due to the little details, such as building descriptions, city names, and right down to brand names in a convenience store.

Later in the book around chapters fourteen through fifteen, things shifted once more to add in Seok-Jo’s story, and I was beyond excited. I was definitely taken by surprise at this turn of events with him. The progression with Seok-Jo becoming a figure of half-stone half-man, a half-golem, seemed out of nowhere, but considering his past with an ominous stone garden embedded deep in his family’s history, it all worked together.

The fight at the end of the book was intense, blood-soaked, and full of gore promised by the series. The delivery was satisfying at the end of it, and I couldn’t help but chuckle when Min Jae got his own bit of revenge on Hyeri for her taking his foot earlier in the book.

While the first book was great and I really enjoyed it, this second volume is very engrossing and truly shows Todd Sullivan’s talent! I didn’t have any major, or even minor, complaints as I read through it. I was extremely impressed with how well it was written and how fast it sucked me in, and I highly recommend it to all who love horror. I am looking forward to more from Todd Sullivan, and I greatly appreciate the opportunity to review “The Gray Man of Smoke and Shadows.”

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Book review: He Digs A Hole

He Digs A HoleHe Digs A Hole by Danger Slater

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Harrison and Tabitha met in a Home Depot.

Ironically, after having hit it off very quickly due to an in-depth, philosophical conversation, they ended up living a very meaningless life. Your typical suburb, backyard barbecues, plastic smile, sickeningly polite, average life. They’d laughed at Brad and Jennifer Flatly, two of the most average and boring neighbors you could ever dread sharing a space with. Yet, they realized after being so dull and uninterested in their marriage, as well as losing their naughty bits due to a fading interest — likening them to a Ken and Barbie doll — they’d fallen victim to the same fate.

So one night, after eating a strange seed from a spleen fruit that grew on a horrific tree resembling arms and hands, Brad Moss replaced his arms with a trowel and a garden rake, and he began to dig. And the whispers in his head demanded he continue. It was more important than he could explain. There was definitely more to that odd tree in the Moss’s yard that was one of a kind.

What proceeds is an adventure unlike anything you would expect, but to be fair, nothing about this book is to be expected. A sea of blood, worm monsters, three introspective trials, and all of the body horror to make your stomach queasy follows a leap of faith into an ever-expanding hole. And despite the grotesquery and otherwise bizarre plot, there is a deeper message to be had here about relationships and maintaining enthusiasm for them. About the struggles and impossible ideals that can destroy them.

This is my second Danger Slater book, and I wasn’t disappointed. The way he weaves philosophical meaning into the craziest of bizarro plots is something I never knew I needed. It was the thing to refresh my love for reading, so I definitely give him huge props for that. As it’s bizarro fiction, you’re going to have to read with an open mind that is ready to accept anything. And I mean anything. This includes oddly sexy worms with slime and all. It was a fun ride that I sat back and enjoyed.

Danger truly does steer the ride for us, rather we want him to or not. The narrator and the reader, especially, are characters in this book. At times, Harrison and Tabitha are able to see what is being written and react to it, and it’s clear the main characters are not in control of the story, but helpless to the author’s whims. I genuinely love some good fourth wall breaking stuff, and while it did make the book campy and gave it a unique character, there were a few parts near the end where it seemed to get a bit too lengthy. Some people may not like being told what to think while reading, no matter how comical it may get, but if you’re open-minded to that, it doesn’t ruin the experience.

Everything in the book hit me out of nowhere in the way bizarro tends to, and I found myself genuinely surprised at each new chapter and scene. While time jumps around enthusiastically in this book, it works. It falls in line with the theme.

As I was expecting, the philosophical nature of this book made me happy. It made me think, which is a winning quality in my opinion. It made the ending feel that much more powerful and meaningful, and it really made me think about our ideas of a perfect relationship, what we expect out of them, and what the reality is. Underneath all of the craziness in this book, it’s heartwrenching and tugged at my emotions.

Overall, despite the author’s control over the book, I truly enjoyed it. I didn’t deduct a star because the overbearing narration, at times, became so comical and very much Danger that I forgave it. I’d recommend this book to those who are open-minded and willing to accept that rules are meant to be broken, and all of the rules were broken. I’m definitely looking forward to reading more Danger.

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