Life Goes On
Brittany and Kevin got divorced after five years of marriage, not long after Mima died. He neglected her due to a preoccupation with video games, and she reacted with infidelity. Both share responsibility. Kevin kept the house, and Brittany moved back in with me in December of 2010.
I thought having Britt move back in at twenty-five would be like having a roommate, but let’s just say those were tumultuous times.
For the first couple of years, there seemed to be a revolving door of boyfriends coming and going—that I could adjust to. But I also discovered that while Britt had been married, she’d developed a drug and alcohol problem—mostly alcohol, but marijuana and hydrocodone also entered into it.
From the perspective of the paranormal, I feel compelled to discuss Brittany’s drug and alcohol problem to some extent—because the abuse of drugs and alcohol can seriously alter the psychic reception of those with that gift. The doctors have told us that alcohol could be a deadly mixture with the prescription drugs she was already taking to alleviate the depression and anxiety caused by her PTSD. She has been in and out of Alcoholics Anonymous, and at times it seemed to work. There were a couple of periods of sobriety (lasting two to ten months), but for the most part the disease of alcoholism seemed to be winning. However, as I write this, she is doing quite well and has been sober for some time.
I believe in miracles, and I firmly believe God has something in mind for Brittany that she can’t find in mood-altering drugs or alcohol.
A Friend Indeed
After Brittany moved back in with me, she became friends with my next-door neighbor Tracy—a single mom with two teenaged kids. Tracy was thirteen years older than Britt, but they quickly became great pals—or more like big sister/little sister. Tracy knew about Britt’s experiences with the paranormal and was totally sympathetic, having had more than a few experiences in her own time. In fact, she and her children claimed to have seen spirits in their condo. Tracy considered herself Pagan and a seeker of ultimate truth just as Brittany did.
Tracy was by far the best next-door neighbor I’ve ever had. She would do anything in the world for you, and because of that, you wanted to return the favor. We’d loan each other things like in a fifties sitcom. If her car wouldn’t start, I’d help her get it started. She was a computer genius, so if Britt’s computer went down, Tracy could fix it. I gave her much of my mom’s old furniture when Mima died.
Brittany looked up to Tracy like a big sister and would take her good advice, even when the same advice from her mother and me usually fell on deaf ears. Tracy talked her out of several wild adventures that would have caused heartache for everyone involved, not just herself. She even helped Brittany get a good job working for the supermarket where Tracy had worked for a number of years.
At one point in 2014 when Britt and I were having a rough go of it due primarily to her problems with alcohol, Tracy offered to let Britt move in with her as long as she paid very modest rent and did not drink alcohol. That arrangement didn’t last, though. Brittany kept sneaking beer in, and after a couple of weeks, Tracy kicked her out. However, their friendship endured. Britt said she understood why Tracy had to send her back to live with me. There were rules, and she had broken them.
I had the greatest admiration for Tracy, because she worked two or three low-paying jobs at a time to support her kids and put them through school—all the while attending junior college to learn computer technology.
But Tracy was not in the best health. She suffered from sickle cell anemia, fibromyalgia, and a thyroid disorder. Once, she described to me all the medications they had her on. I wondered at the time if she should be mixing all those drugs together.
It was New Year’s Eve of 2014, and Tracy hadn’t shown up for a party where her boyfriend had expected to meet her. But he just figured she had found something better to do, so didn’t think much else about it. He called her later that night but got no answer. Tracy’s friend Carol Humphrey (owner of Mystical Heart New Age Book Store) called Tracy several times during New Year’s Day but also never got an answer. So that evening around seven p.m., Carol came and rang Tracy’s doorbell. There was no reply, but Tracy’s car was in her designated space out front.
Carol and Tracy had keys to each other’s homes in case of emergencies, but Carol came and got Brittany before she went in. They called Tracy but were answered only with silence. All the lights in the condo were on. Carol went upstairs to check Tracy’s bedroom, while Britt said she’d check in the kitchen. Britt noticed the front burner to the stove was on with a half-full milk bottle precariously close by. Then her eyes shifted to the floor where she saw Tracy’s lifeless body.
Britt and Carol called 911 then came back to my condo. They were both very upset, but Britt was almost hysterical. I tried to console her, saying maybe the paramedics could revive Tracy and not to give up. But they said they were sure she was not breathing and was turning a bluish color.
By this time, both Tracy’s kids had left home and were living elsewhere. But Dillon and Kristin Newell (the children of Tracy and her first husband), along with several carloads of their friends, were quick to come home when Brittany called them with the bad news. For the rest of the evening, my little condo was meeting place central for paramedics and policemen investigating the scene and family and friends coming to pay their respects. Tracy was forty-two years old when she had her fatal heart attack—a truly sad fate for one with such a big heart.
When Tracy died that cold January 1, Brittany had just completed ten months of sobriety. She seemed on the verge of getting her life back together. I was so proud of her, I had sent out Christmas cards to family and friends with a little note attached bragging about how well I thought she had adjusted. Her dramatic recuperation, spiritually and emotionally, was due in no small part to Tracy’s positive influence. However, finding Tracy dead on her kitchen floor on New Year’s Day just seemed to cause Brittany to go into a tailspin. It wasn’t long before she was drinking again and getting involved with old friends that seemed to have a penchant for getting themselves and her into trouble.
After Tracy died, Brittany started having nightmares again—particularly about finding Tracy’s body (the autopsy said she had probably been dead for twelve hours or so when Britt found her), but also about her possession that had happened almost exactly fourteen years earlier.
Britt’s nightmares are always related in some way to the possession. They cause her to remember it, and that memory causes bouts of PTSD, which is in turn caused by the possession. Then the PTSD causes her destructive behavior. It’s a vicious circle of negativity.
Brittany wrote the following narrative in the spring of 2014, before Tracy died, and during her longest period of sobriety up to that date:
Britt’s Narrative about Her Sobriety
To be honest, it’s followed me to this very day [the demonic entity]. It whispers that I’m nothing and nobody will ever love me—that my parents hate me, etc. I fight them on a daily basis, and normally I win. I was never diagnosed by any psychiatrist or psychotherapist with schizophrenia or for having any hallucinations.
This shit is real; this is my life. I can’t do anything without hearing and seeing all the evil in this world.
I used drugs and alcohol to cope with this bitter situation, but it made it worse. I am happy to say for the first time in a long time, I’m without drugs and alcohol.
But after finding Tracy’s lifeless body, she did go back to drinking. The nightmares led to more drinking and drugs, which led to widespread association with unsavory characters, which eventually led to involvement with law enforcement. During the seven years she lived back with me, Britt was on probation twice—both times resulting from domestic disputes with boyfriends that caused physical fights.
In fact, trouble has followed Brittany around like a hungry, stray cat since the possession in 2001. Besides her discipline problems in high school, her troublesome marriage to Kevin, and the seemingly never-ending trail of bad boy relationships, she has totaled more cars than anyone I have ever known—three. Once she even charged her car into a house, making the six o’clock news on local TV. Her big Impala, which I’d picked because cops drive them, looked like a sardine can a T-Rex stepped on; a wall nearly collapsed on the house.
But she escaped all accidents unharmed, so perhaps Maggie was also on hand during her two later serious accidents. No physical sightings of an angel after those last crashes, but you can’t help but wonder if God has something important planned for Brittany.
He Takes Off His Hat to No Man
One of the most recent boyfriends was a young man named Rick. When Brittany started dating him, Rick had a full-time job in the cafeteria of a nursing home near our condo. He was living with his mother nearby. He seemed like a nice guy, a good speaker, and very intelligent. Britt told me he not only had a literary blog he wrote on the internet, but also sporadically published a small magazine reviewing movies when he could afford to put it out. I genuinely liked him at first.
After they’d been an item for a month or so, Rick had an argument with his stepfather and he kicked Rick out of the house. He didn’t have enough money saved up for all the deposits on his own apartment yet, so he was basically homeless. Britt begged and pleaded for me to let him stay with us for just a few days till he could get his own place. Old softie that I am, I folded and told them he could stay a couple of days till he could find a permanent home. Well, a couple of days turned into a couple of weeks and still no progress on finding a home for Rick. But it wasn’t really all that bad an arrangement. Although he wasn’t paying me rent, every day he would bring home hot food that the nursing home had left over—so I guess that was compensation of a sort.
But then Rick got into an argument with his boss for refusing to remove his baseball hat inside the building and lost his job. He spent the next two weeks unemployed but going on numerous interviews. Finally, he landed two part-time jobs at two different restaurants—with a combined income of less than he had made at the nursing home.
But the better I got to know Rick, the more erratic he seemed. I observed that he was more than a little short tempered with Brittany, but I tried to stay out of their ups and downs. He was also extremely opinionated about politics, with political inclinations the opposite of my own. If I sensed the conversation headed down a political lane, I tried to change the subject. Mood swings were also just a part of the package.
I learned that Rick had been under the care of a psychiatrist for a number of years. He was supposed to be taking several prescriptions, but because of his dire financial straits could no longer afford the office visits needed to get his prescriptions.
Finally, after two months of living in my home for free, I confronted Rick about seeking more gainful employment so he could get his own place. I didn’t lose my temper or criticize him in any way. His part-time jobs proved he was at least trying. But he seemed perfectly content working part-time and wasn’t seriously looking for anything else. I tried to point out to Rick that he was going to have to be the breadwinner in his relationship with Brittany. She had no job and her work history left much to be desired. I told him he couldn’t expect her to be their major source of income. I attempted to broach these realities as I would with a friend and as delicately as possible. However he reacted very negatively, blew up like a raging volcano, and cursed me like I’ve never been cursed by anyone before or since. He went berserk, screaming and yelling at the top of his lungs. I then firmly told Rick to pack his things and get out of my house. He stormed upstairs and shared his rage with Brittany.
I heard them arguing, making up, and then arguing again. At one point I did hear Brittany tell Rick he shouldn’t have spoken to me the way he did. But after all was said and done, she took his side and moved out with him.
This episode left me more than a little depressed, but I took some consolation from reading my old Bible, front to back, cover to cover, like you’d read a novel. I’d always told myself I’d do this someday, and now seemed like a good time. I had always wanted to see what exactly was in there, and not just take some priest, minister, or rabbi’s word for it. I also started wearing a little cross given to me by the Greek Orthodox priest I’d talked to about performing an exorcism on Brittany years before. Father Nicholas gave it to me in my darkest hour, but I put it in a drawer where it languished for fourteen years. I found it and wear it to this day.
The newly liberated couple found a room to rent in a nearby home owned by a friend of Rick’s. I saw very little of either of them for several months. I was seriously concerned, but parents of adult children often have to step aside and let the universe operate on autopilot. I had to believe there was a higher power manning the controls.