Are Psychics Real? pt. 1

This is a two-part piece on Psychics, psychologists, and movies. Please read both parts.

The biggest faker I met was a woman named Billie. Told by a fellow student of dance, "You must see her. She will help."

I was, suffering is the best word for it, at this time. I'd just turned twenty and had moved across the country to chase a career in dance. I had stars in my eyes and my heart was filled with dreams, not that I considered myself to be a fantastic dancer, but I knew enough to consider I needed better teachers, and had discovered them in Los Angeles. If I got solid training, I'd grow, develop better technique, and maybe get the chance to dance in a company or in musicals or somewhere. To dance and move with the music, in my world felt wonderful.

With the move from Minnesota to Los Angeles a breakup with a boyfriend had to happen. There were several late-night long-distance calls to cry and argue. Finally, we agreed it was over. Or so I thought and I breathed into my new life.

It was a Friday afternoon; my roommates were gone for a weekend camping trip, and I had the place to myself. I settled in for a night of soaking blistered feet and rubbing sore leg muscles. A knock disrupted my activity and my old boyfriend stood behind the screen door in the sunlight. He was crying, I let him in, we sat on the couch and he said he came to kill me and then shoot himself. He pulled out a small revolver from his bag and set it on my lap.

I froze. I don't remember much about that night except that I knew the only one who would die that night was me. The sun came up and he retrieved the gun, put it away, and left.

The next few weeks were a blur. I gained weight, it seemed I couldn't stop myself from eating, and I couldn't tell anyone what happened. Not that I didn't want to, I didn't have the language to speak.

Where could I turn? I’d tried my father and my older sister, but all I did was cry. They were helpless, befuddled, and inept. I thought about seeing a priest, but in my heart of heart, I knew they wouldn’t be able to serve me any better.

I was new to Los Angeles, I didn’t have any close friends. I enrolled in dance classes and tried to talk to others but got a cool reception in return. I heard about Billie, a psychic in the valley who helped people going through difficult times. I made an appointment and drove from the beach to the valley to see her.

She was tiny and looked like a woman from an old television show. She wore a prairie print dress and a small strand of fake pearls. She asked me if I wanted to know about my past lives. I said no, what I wanted was to see if I would ever get past this part, and if I would make it because it looked like I was a failure and would fail forever. (I was depressed, I see that now, but had no words to express that in 1973.)

Billie the psychic smiled and told me that I was going to meet a man with a beard, and he would help me. (The cynic in me thought, right, every guy has a beard, duh!) but I smiled and nodded. She then rattled off about my past lives, that I’d been a nun in France, worked with Ptolemy in Egypt, and assisted Joseph Smith in Salt Lake.

Curious. I didn’t ask for past lives and yet she went there.

I liked that part about the guy with a beard. I rallied briefly but then fell deeper into depression. I moved back home with my father to lick my wounds and cry. That was the darkest I believe I’d ever been. I would cry and watch TV, sometimes eat sometimes not. My father found a therapist for me to see and I went three times. He was a kind older gentleman. He’d listen, although I didn’t speak much, then the hour would end and he’d tell me to come back next week. At one point my father showed me how much it cost for a session: $50.00. Remember this was 1973. It would be almost $300.00 today. That was pricy. I think it was used as a strategy. If I knew how much it cost I might at least try to talk.

Looking back at my younger self, I didn’t want to misuse my father’s money, I didn’t want it to go to waste. ROI is in full swing. But there were mixed emotions I was dealing with at the doctor’s office. I hated his tacky office, how shabby it was, that he sat like a lump. How often he looked at his watch during our sessions. I felt I bored him, and wasted his time and my father’s money, so when I came home from my third session, I said I wasn’t going back.

I still wanted to hide and in darker moments die.

One cold winter day I decided to see a movie. ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” was playing at the local theater. I was frightened to go alone, I was embarrassed buying a single ticket, and I sat in the last row, so no one was behind me.

In case you forgot or haven’t seen the movie here is a short blurb In the autumn of 1963, Randal McMurphy is on a work farm for the rape of a 15-year-old girl. He pretends insanity in order to get himself transferred to a mental institution and avoid hard labor. A wonderful cast of characters filled the story. Nurse Ratched, is a passive-aggressive control freak who runs the ward, with a stuttering young man, a deaf-mute Native American, a repressed homosexual, and a bi-polar to name a few. McMurphy makes a profound difference to the other patients, he runs poker games, plays basketball with them, and gives the head nurse a significant amount of sass and back talk.

It was the perfect movie for me to see, given that all of my family thought I was crazy or some such thing. The ending had to do with the deaf-mute Native American picking up an attached sink and throwing it out a barred window to make his escape.

I sat in the theatre struck with the thought that if that guy can pull himself out of his circumstances, I can. I had to face all the things from which I was hiding. time to face my flaws, my stupidity, naiveté, gullibility, and build strength; both mentally and physically.

Which brings me back to psychics. Are they real or a con job?

I have experienced both. That is for part two