It's Complex: Spirits
Love Like Ghosts
Fall in the Northeast was a beauty I once took for granted. By October, my favorite month, ordinary green forests come alive as they shed their old skin, revealing vibrant layers of red, fiery orange, and soft yellow leaves. The temperature drops to perfection, allowing me to live in my favorite sweatshirts and crewnecks without the burden of a winter coat. But it’s not just the beauty of fall that draws me to October; it’s the one month when it’s socially acceptable to lean into the supernatural side of the world. Haunted houses serve as fantastic bonding experiences with friends, scary movies provide a fun night in, spiritual podcasts make my commute interesting, and Halloween offers a great weekend to cap it all off.
As far back as I can remember, I've been fascinated by death and what comes after. While most kids grew up watching American Pickers with their dads, mine and I loved Paranormal State and Ghost Adventures. I was further drawn to people’s stories of Near-Death Experiences on TV. My family, Italian and Irish immigrants, raised me as a Catholic. My siblings and I briefly attended a Catholic school before continuing with Confraternity of Christian Doctrine (CCD) classes up to Confirmation. But even at nine, I felt cognitive dissonance over a God who supposedly loved all His children yet condemned some to Hell for loving the "wrong" person. Rather than shaking my belief, this pushed me to search for my own truth.
This personal relationship with spirituality became a crutch during turbulent years that poisoned my family. By twelve, I’d been to more funerals than school dances and had to accept death as a familiar companion. When my parents separated and divorced, my earliest memories of my mom’s traumatic outbursts during her Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) episodes began. Our new home, once light and warm, felt heavy and dark. Emotions seemed to charge the space—love and rage alike—as if the walls soaked up and reflected back everything we felt.
I developed an unshakable feeling of being watched in rooms that once felt safe. Objects, like toys in our basement, would switch on without anyone close by. My sister once awoke to see a man staring out her window, assuming it was our dad—who had moved out by then. My mom claimed to feel her bed compress as if someone were sitting on its edge. I had recurring nightmares: walking in from school to a figure sitting on the steps waiting for me, running out the door only to scream for help from an empty neighborhood. By fourteen, I was terrified to be home alone.
One afternoon, my family left to get haircuts, promising a quick return. Hours went by, and I watched the sun fall with growing anxiety. I called everyone, but no one picked up. As I watched TV with our dog to feel safer, the energy in the room shifted, making me feel watched. Finally, I spoke aloud: “Listen, I’m just trying to watch TV. I’ll leave you alone if you leave me alone.”
Not a second passed before three loud bangs hit the sliding glass door in the kitchen. I leapt up, expecting my brother to be on the deck—only to find no one there. I checked the perimeter, braving the thought of finding no one. That prospect was somehow scarier than a human intruder. Eventually, I sat outside with my dog until my family returned. To this day, I sometimes hear clear, urgent footsteps moving toward—yes, you guessed it—my room.
No one had died in our home or on the property; it felt like whatever was in the house fed on my family’s negativity. I watched this force sink its teeth into each of us, piece by piece. My mom’s untreated BPD, mixed with alcoholism, created a perfect storm of oppression. Spirituality became my weapon in this battle of good versus evil, literally and metaphorically. The house became a lightning rod for signs from both darkness and light.
One of my favorite winks from God came shortly after another family member’s death. While mowing the lawn, I saw a reflection in the grass—a fragile set of wooden rosary beads, with a metal crucifix shining through. Although logic said someone could have dropped them, their location made it unlikely. These weren’t like the plastic beads handed out by the church; their appearance struck me as a message. I didn’t know why then, but I felt I’d need to keep them close. God seemed to know I’d need a spiritual mother while my biological mother began slipping away.
A few weeks ago, I was visited by another ghost, this time in the form of a voicemail. It’s been over two years since I’ve heard my mother’s voice—the same amount of time I’ve been no-contact. By the time I cut ties, her alcoholism was reaching its endgame, and I could no longer be on that train. Each unexpected family call felt like preparation for her death. The fear of walking in one day to find her gone haunted me even before it could happen.
The inevitable call finally came: she was hospitalized, her life in God’s hands. She survived but at a significant cost. She was diagnosed with Wernicke-Korsakoff Syndrome, a brain disorder caused by chronic alcohol abuse and malnutrition. Like dementia, it brings slow cognitive decline, memory loss, and confabulation. It was not caught early enough for much reversal. Her retirement is now spent in assisted living instead of the beach house she once dreamed of.
Hearing her clear, healthy voice in that voicemail brought my grief to the surface. Recorded back when I was in college, her tone was cheerful, filled with love: “Hey, just wanted to check in and see what you’re up to. I know you’re probably out having fun with your friends, so stay safe and make amazing memories. Love you, bye.” Part of me still craves the love only a mother can give, but she was always two sides of the same coin: passionately loving and fiercely rageful.
Listening to each message felt like watching a timeline unfold, as her voice grew from cheerful to lonely to sad. One of the last messages mentioned her excitement about a “picnic” with a nurse who had leftovers from a family party. They were just eating on a bench outside, but to her, it was a grand event. I felt overwhelming sadness over the simplicity of her joy, realizing that her highlight of the week was eating outside instead of in her room. Guilt overwhelmed me; I felt I’d failed as a daughter by allowing her to live alone in that facility.
In my sorrow, I prayed, “I’m so sorry, God. Please forgive me.” Immediately, I was overcome with the feeling that my heart was heard. Only God understands the millions of moments that have shaped me into who I am and the many reasons leading to my decision of no-contact. Even when words fail, I know He sees my intentions, delivering what I need: empathy and love.
When I became aware of my CPTSD symptoms, I struggled to reconcile parts of my personality that felt like survival responses. My toxic independence wasn’t confidence but fear. My people-pleasing wasn’t empathy but control. My inability to settle down wasn’t high standards but a fear of abandonment. All of my favorite qualities were shaped by my darkest experiences. “If I let go of the pain,” I wondered, “what will be left of me?”
My spirituality is why I’m still here today. I believe I was born with a strong connection to the other side, beginning at birth in the ICU rather than in my mother’s arms. Others may find my ghost stories unsettling, but I find comfort in what they reveal about our greater existence. Choosing to turn my suffering into healing provided me a purpose I did not create for myself. There is a knowing that everything is working according to God’s plan, including my suffering. Just as fall sheds its leaves, I’ve learned to let go of the pain that once defined me and admire the beauty that it truly is.