May the Road Rise up to Meet You - A Teaser for Father's Day

It's been awhile since I posted and with good reason... there have been many changes of late both good and very, very bad. 

"All things happen for a reason" has been my motto and I can see the benefit of it now. I really wasn't to clear on it before, it was just something I felt would eventually make sense - losing my job and being home these last several months unable to find another job - these were things that weren't making sense. They were making stress. However I kept thinking, there must be a reason. And there was - I was meant to be home.

My Mom passed in later April, not two years since my father's passing. Life will never be the same again. 

It was one thing to live without Dad. He had been very sick and when he passed you knew it was a good thing - there would be no more suffering. My Mom, as always, was there to make sure all was right and looked after. Mom was strong, despite having cancer herself. She was living with it and doing well.

Unfortunately, just when we thought Mom was going to have some time to enjoy life we learned that there was another path she had to take. The battle was on and she fought hard to stay here. In the end, as with my Dad, there was relief to know that there would be no more pain. 

Her journey, one her family took with her, was over. She carried on without us... until we meet again.

Despite the darkness of the last few months, there have still been a few drops of sunshine falling in through the cracks acting as a reminder that again, all things happen for a reason.

Change is inevitable and we must carry on.

To that end, I have been writing again. My plans for my own business are coming together. 

Below is a teaser for something I am working on. It will be the only teaser I post to my blog, the rest I will work on in private, with an editor and some very wonderful friends :) In the end... there will be a book - no wait, a novel :) I am over the moon for that!

Please feel free to let me know what you think.

Mom & Dad

 My parents were my biggest fans - always encouraging my writing - Dad especially. 

Happy Father's Dad - where ever you are. This is for you.

(***Oh yes... if you encounter an error of spelling or grammar. Don't worry, it will be fixed***)


 ***

In the Hollow of his Hands (c)
By: Tara Shannon

Intro:

 

Every night for the last fifteen years, Bree Kennedy dreamt the same dream. A blue eyed man would stare deeply into her eyes. It was as if he knew her every inch - her every thought. She couldn’t make out anything else about the man except for his piercing blue eyes. They were so familiar yet she couldn’t place who they belonged to. Without a doubt though, she knew that she loved the man who owned those eyes. Heart and soul she loved him.

Bree could feel his embrace, his arms strong around her as he began to kiss her. His kisses fell softly on her lips and she became lost in the moment. She wished she could stay in this part of the dream, she loved this part. It was the next part, the part that would soon come, that she feared.

Every night it was the same. Bree’s blue eyed love would let go his embrace and begin to walk away from her. Try as she might, she could never make him stop and turn back around. He stayed one step ahead of her at every turn, always just out of reach. In a whisper she would hear him say “goodbye”, his silhouette fading out into a bright glaring light. His soft voice replaced by the sound of someone screaming, the screech of tires on pavement and a horn blaring loudly. Pure fear would wash over her; the dream was now a nightmare.

Bree would wake to a scream. It was her own. It would escape her lips and steal her breath before falling flat against the darkness of the night. She was awake now and frightened. Gripping her blankets tight around her Bree would listen to the only sound in the room - the pounding of her broken heart.

Chapter 1:

“Mom? Are you there?” Bree Kennedy called out to the darkness of her bedroom.

There was no response, except for a confused and disgruntled meow from Marzbarz, Bree’s constant feline companion.

“I thank you for you deep concern.” Bree whispered sarcastically to the cat as she shimmied out of her bed. Marz curled himself into a ball, contented once again to fall asleep amongst the pillows and feather duvet covering the bed. Rolling her eyes and wishing to be able to trade places with her pet, Bree made her way down the hall to the kitchen.

When Bree was a little girl it was her father who would always put the kettle on. He would swear that a good cup of tea could cure anything from nightmares to heartache, the common cold and everything in between. He was right, a good cup of tea usually did the trick. It could cure anything, if he made it. And, that in itself was the problem. He wasn’t there and Bree was on her own to cure what ailed her. She made a good cup of tea, but it was never quite the same as what her Dad would make. She hoped one day she would get the knack of it but deep down she knew she never would. The true magic to her Dad’s cure-all cuppa came not from the tea, its time steeping in the pot or just the right amount of milk added to the cup – that wasn’t it at all – it was the man himself who held the magic. It was his care, his kind words and his joking nature that would turn any problem no matter how small, or large for that matter, into a ray of sunshine. All became right in the world with one of her Dad’s brews.

Bree sat and pondered her tea before she took her first sip. She imagined her Dad stirring in the milk and placing the steaming cup before her at the kitchen table of her childhood home. Home - that was a thought! It was thousands of miles away. She thought of her father there at that moment, with her mom at his side. Maybe she could call the house and they would answer. Bree reached for the phone, then realised how ridiculous she was being. They weren’t there anymore and they would never again answer her call.

Bree’s parents existed only in her memory - and in her overactive imagination. She often felt that she could still sense them, sometimes even catch a glimpse of them from the corner of her eye. She convinced herself that this was nothing more than a cruel trick of her mind. Regardless, she never stopped looking.

How she hated life without her parents in it. When they died in a car accident, of which Bree was a part, they left a hole so large in her heart that she feared it would never heal. Wounded or not, Bree had to carry on. What was done was done. Eventually, she hoped, she would feel normal again. Fifteen years had passed since the accident. A new sense of normalcy had yet to set in.

Bree was losing hope and sadly her heartache became the one constant thing she could count on. It became normal, weirdly comforting in a way, for her to hurt, to feel sad and to never expect much from life. Bree became so complacent with things going poorly that she allowed people to walk all over her. Her relationships with men were a disaster, her relationship with her aunt who raised her following her parent’s death was even worse - and work! She could barely hold on to a job for more than a month. She bore the mark of someone who could be walked on and ridiculed. After a while she would eventually have enough and explode in anger, running away to find solace or off to find a new job. Through it all Bree pushed forward giving the illusion that she didn’t care how terribly she was being treated - how terribly she let herself be treated. Whatever the case, underneath her mostly emotionless exterior, she did care and she cared deeply. Bree was a bit of a masochist. She felt that she deserved to feel terrible and to be treated as such. That’s how she felt everyday since her parents had died. Why should she ever expect to feel any different? Besides, to feel happy would mean that Bree was moving on and moving away from her parents and their collective tragedy. She couldn’t allow herself to do that, it wasn’t fair. Her parents couldn’t move beyond the accident, why should she?

Bree felt helpless and hopeless. She was helpless at the loss of her parent’s and hopeless because she could not remember a thing about the accident that took their lives, even though she had been there. The injury Bree sustained as a result of the accident caused her to lose all memory of the incident and the year that preceded it. Bree knew that fifteen years ago she had parents, wonderful parents and then in a flash, they were gone. She was alone. Bree woke to her Aunt Reed packing her bags and flying her to Canada during the cold of February. Bree soon came to see an ironic relationship between the Aunt who took her in and the country that she began to half-heartedly call home - They were both cold.

Bree stared into her cup of tea, struggling to hold back tears. She despised her Aunt and she missed her parents. She hated most of all, not remembering that last year with her parents. What had happened in that year? What was said? Did her parents know how much she loved them before they died? Did they know how much she missed them now? Bree felt that if she could retrieve those lost memories, she could gain back that stolen time with her parents. The hole in her heart might fill and she could gain some closure, maybe even some peace.

She was certain that her recurring dream about the blue eyed man was connected in some way to her missing memories, but she couldn’t for the life of her figure out how. Bree also knew that the last nightmarish part of her dream was a glimpse into the crash that stole so much from her. While she didn’t want to know anymore about the crash, she knew she would someday have to relive it if she were to regain her missing year. For years Bree had hoped that her memory would just return out of the blue, no therapy or prompting required. Then as a result her recurring nightmare would end and be replaced by something beautiful – perhaps a dream of her parents enjoying a warm summers day. As the years ticked by, Bree realised that the miraculous return of her memory and the disappearance of her recurring nightmare would never happen. At least, not without some help. If she wanted her memories back, she would have to confront her nightmare head on. The only way she felt she could do that would be by returning home - to Ireland. Surely her memories would be there waiting for her. She could feel them calling to her, pulling at her heart and mind. Every time she dreamt her dreaded dream she woke to the need to go home but time and time again she would resist. She would tell herself that she needn’t return, it wasn’t necessary and she could find the truth of her past right where she was. Bree was afraid. She was afraid of what she might find and of what she might learn. The thought of leaving her dismal life in Canada to find what might be an even more dismal one in Ireland chilled her to the bone.

Tonight though, things were different. As Bree sat at her kitchen table sipping her tea and hoping her problems would magically solve themselves, she realised that she had the solution. She’d had it all along. The answer to her problems was within her, only she could put an end to her constant nightmares. Only she could track down the pieces of her missing year. Enough was enough. Bree knew she could no longer resist the strange pull calling her home.

In one decisive move Bree went online and booked a ticket to Ireland. The plane would leave first thing in the morning. With no turning back she swiftly packed her bags, slipped her sleepy cat into his travel carrier and tiptoed out the door. Her fiancé, who lay sleeping on the sofa in the living room in front of the TV, was none the wiser. Bree’s days of living in the dark were over. Good or bad, her life was about to change. She stepped out onto the street and hailed a cab. A cool spring breeze played across her cheek and a smile formed on her lips. She was determined like never before to take charge of her life and to find what she had lost.

A Novel Idea

The Synopsis:

In the Hollow of his Hands (c)

By: Bill Patterson

 
Breagh Kennedy has lost everything but she doesn't know why. In search of answers she leaves her cold life in Canada and returns to her ancestral home in Ireland. Once there she hopes to find what she has lost – but is she really prepared to learn the truth about her forgotten past? When her lost memories come crashing in as ghosts, fairies and a love that knows no bounds - Breagh doesn't know what to believe - but believe she must! Only then will she see that magic really does exist, that fairy tales really can come true and that her life can end happily ever after.

Tick, Tock on the Clock

Really!? Is that what this looks like. Hmmm.

Tick, tock, tick, tock - and so on and so forth.... and on and on - holy cow this clock is loud!

What kind of sick and twisted turn of events is this?! Why now after all this time does my biological clock have to start ticking? And, it’s not just ticking, it’s gonging! I hear it. I get the point. But there’s nothing I am prepared to do about it. Except maybe get another cat or buy a sweater for my dog. For me, fur babies are where it’s at.

and... I'm ok with that.

I am young enough by many standards to still have a child, or two of my own. The thing is I’m not willing to go through the tests and the procedures required to make it so that I might be able to conceive. Neither is my husband. He already has two children (young ladies) of his own from a previous relationship. A thought out little snip a few years ago put an end to him ever having anymore. Couple that with my comfort thus far in not wanting (I did have a couple miscarriages during a previous marriage) children of my own – we were, and have been, golden.

My motto in life has always been, “what is meant to be, will be”. I have not been meant to have children. There are alternatives I know – adoption or fostering and I suppose I could also (and I can hear some advocating it) leave my husband. It is after all a woman’s divine right, privilege and obligation to produce children into this world. Right?  To those who may think this I reply with a resounding; “No way!” I have been blessed, after some trial and tribulation, to find the best man in the world for me and I’ll be damned if I toss him aside for the chance to have a child. I have everything I need in life and I’m happy and I’m grateful. So why can’t I quiet this, of late, incessant gonging inside my head and my heart?

What can I do to stop it?

I need to think of what the real driving force behind my “tick, tock” is and I have to learn not to dwell on what is not “meant to be”.

Deep down I know that my biological clock isn’t ticking because of my own desire to have a child. It is the societally acceptable thing to do but for me that isn’t a good enough. I can hear my Mom’s voice inside my head; “When are you going to give me a grandchild?”; “Well, I guess my end of the family line is going to end with you.”; and my favourite, “It hurts me to think of you being alone when I’m gone.” My heart strings tug to the point of near breaking. However they don’t break because for me, providing a child so that my mother can have a grandchild or having one to ensure that I am not alone or so that I stay young at heart are not good enough reasons to have a child. Maybe I’m just afraid of getting old? Is my biological clock clanging because it sees that soon my belfry will be full of bats and rust?

Having a child is a huge responsibility – one that if I were meant to carry out I would handle with the utmost care. It’s also something I think I would feel a deep need for within my soul. I don’t feel that and if I do it’s buried so deep it’s now impossible for me to know if it’s really me wanting a child or if it’s just an innate survival instinct that’s been built into my DNA.

My mind, at times, is a mess on this subject. Every time I come back to the same conclusion – “What is meant to be, will be.” At this point in my life my having a child will have to come down to immaculate conception. That or some other act of god or whatever metaphysical being one may believe in.  If pigs fly, you know I’m pregnant. In any case it will be a newsworthy event. For now, I will carry on with a glass of wine, my sense of humour and maybe a therapist. Heaven knows it’s always nice to have a second opinion, even if they’re laughing while they give it to you.

I'm the one in the back - unamused. HA! Sorry, I'm totally amused. Just messin.

Well! What do you know...

Seems that the exercise I set myself up for in retelling Jane Eyre chapter by chapter really inspired me! After writing out that last post (pre-soup) the whole outline for my own novel fell into place and splattered all over the place - I literally wrote for hours and in a relatively short amount of time had notes all over the place and an outline. When my spree was over I had 33 small paragraphs representing my novel (including character names and some development). Crazy.

Looking into the story that I wanted to tell, at least the idea that I had, I was able to see similarities/links to my all time favourite - Jane Eyre. So, why not use that novel as my inspiration. Why fight it if it's there. I mean so many authors do that. Stories are told and retold time and time again, especially those written by Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters. Would I have thought to place zombies in the world of  Pride and Prejudice, I doubt it - but hey, to each their own.

Now, seeing that I have my own novel to write, I don't think I should post it chapter by chapter with you here in this format. I will post my "work-in-progress" first chapter and little snippets of things here and there like character information or the outline/synopsis. However I need to hone the characters and outline a little bit more before I share.

What's the title - well for the moment I have it as: In the Hollow of his Hands (c) and my inspiration: a farm that looks something like the one pictured above... and if possible I would love to know the source for the above - I would like to contact them. I can't quite make out the watermark in the bottom and searching has has lead me in nothing but circles.

Well, I'm off for now - off to type up the first chapter so I can share it with you soon. ;)

Cheers.








 

Something a little different - Sweet Potato & Garlic Soup

I love to cook as much as I love to write sometimes. Especially when I have the time. My plan today was to make a sweet potato soup - I had sweet potatoes in the cupboard and wanted to use them up.

When I get something in mind that I want to make I first look online for inspiration and then - I wing it. And it was a winner!! I will be making this again for sure.

So here it is and I hope you will enjoy it as much as I am right now... it tastes great (smells amazing too) and it will keep both vampires and colds away ;)

Sweet potato garlic soup:
2tbsp olive oil
1 average sized fresh bulb garlic (peeled and smashed)
1 average sized roasted bulb garlic
1 cup onion (diced)
2 1/2 cups chicken stock
3 cups peeled and baked sweet potato
tbsp salt (I used kosher)
1/2 tsp pepper
1/2 cup heavy cream
(*I also added 1/2 tbsp of cornstarch to thicken it a bit)

In a tall sauce pan over medium heat, add the olive oil and then the garlic and sauté for one minute, stirring constantly.
Add the onion, salt and pepper, and cook for five minutes or until tender, stirring occasionally.
Add the chicken stock and potato and brink to a boil, stirring to combine.
Reduce heat, add cream and simmer for ten minutes.
Remove from heat and blend the soup until smooth (this can be done in a blender or using a hand blender).
Adjust seasoning to taste and return to very low heat until serving.

Jane Eyre: Retold - Ch. 1

Jane Eyre is my favourite novel. I can read it over and over again. Something about the story pulls me in every time. Maybe it's the fact that Jane is the underdog and I can relate to that - most everyone can. She pulls herself up from nothing and becomes a strong, smart and confident woman. The love story also gets me. The prickly, mysterious and intriguing Mr. Rochester... a man brave enough (for the time the story was originally written) to take on a woman who keeps him on his toes - his equal.

For me, Janes' story never grows old. Every film that is made of the story, I've seen - and will see. It's a story that lasts the test of time. It's the kind of story I would love to write myself. And as I try to write my own novel I look to Charlotte Bronte and her novel Jane Eyre for inspiration. Inspiration that comes in splits and splats. It's hard to wrap your head around writing a compelling story that people would want to read... a story that a writer wants to carry on writing.

So, why not try rewriting my favourite novel as a test. I will rewrite a major literary masterpiece, chapter by chapter - all thirty-eight of them... :S Am I crazy. Maybe. Well, yes I am. That really was an unfair question.

I will endeavour to rewrite a chapter a week - modernising the story somewhat, making a few other changes as I see fit and continually editing as I go along.

We'll see - I will see, if I can do this. Stick with it I mean - if I can, then maybe I can get the guts to actually get a crack on my own story when I'm done.

Here goes nothing... *gulp*

***

Jane Eyre: Retold
Chapter One

The rain pounded heavily outside and I knew there would be no chance of getting out of this house on this dismal day. I would be stuck inside with my dreadful Aunt and her even more dreadful children. My only saving grace being that my Aunt very rarely let me socialize with anyone but myself. Hopefully I could sit alone, undisturbed in the library thumbing my way through history and travel books until I was called to dinner. My cousins, Liza, Georgie and John were too good for me according to my Aunt. I might dirty them up with my lower class ways. This was never something that my Aunt would say out loud of course, oh no, she was too much of a lady for that. My Aunts actions were all I needed to know that she despised me. Why else would she not let me near her children and why else would she belittle me at my every turn?

My Aunt was jealous of anyone who had anything that she did not. She even went so far as to be Jealous of her own sister - my Mother. Now by association, she was jealous of me as well. When my Mother chose to marry for love and not money my Aunt rejoiced in her jealousy and hatred of her. She hated the fact that my Mother and Father loved each other, it was something she would never know. She rejoiced because as a result of that love, my Mother was cut off from the family and my Aunt became the heir. A great fortune was to be hers.

When my parents died in a terrible car accident, Aunt Reed had the perfect opportunity to envelope herself in her anger and jealousy. She adopted me into her home and family under the guise that I should (and could) be saved. She made everything look perfect on the outside as she paraded me around to all the social gatherings, while I was made to remain as quiet as a mouse. Heaven forbid I dare say a word as we mingled in "polite society." If I did, I'd never hear the end of it!  On the plus side when I did occasionally speak out or fuss, usually because my cousin John was taunting me, my Aunt was able to play up her part as the martyr. She, already a busy mother of three (and now a widow) had taken in a hapless child that was not her own. To all eyes that looked upon her in the town of Haworth, my Aunt was a saint. Behind closed doors and away from those approving eyes, I was the perfect victim. Trapped in my Aunt's cage and there at the ready should she desire to spew her disdain.

Fortunately for my Aunt, I pitied her. She was sad and loveless, which I knew was her own doing and for that I was sad. She might not deserve my love but she had it because I knew she was doing the only thing she knew how. My Aunt had never learned to love. She loved neither herself nor anyone else. I on the other hand did know love and that could never be taken from me. My Aunt and I could have been close and I wished we had. I felt a hollowness inside whenever she would send me to another room. She looked so much like my Mother - how I missed her. However, my Aunt chose to be stubborn and spiteful. She chose, not I. I felt great sadness when she would curse my parents and I. No matter how hard she tried to break me, to destroy the image and love of my Mother and Father, she could not. My ability to remain unbroken seemed only to spur her on and with every cutting word she gave me, I grew stronger, but never harder.

Aunt Reed could have had love and she could have had happiness - she could have followed in my Mother's footsteps. Instead she turned her back on true love and married according to what her parents and her society expected. She married for money and for status. Lucky for her my Uncle was a great man and when he was in this house, life was tolerable. I think he died of a broken heart. He would have loved my Aunt, if she'd only let him. In the week since his death in his room, all glint of life and of love that had existed, vanished. I felt completely alone and I was beginning to be quite at home with only myself to entertain.


I had been living at Gateshead Hills with my aunt and her family for close to a month by the time my Uncle died. A long, patience testing month. Now with my Uncle gone, I wondered how I would hold it together and not scream profanities at the sad little family that remained? More so, how was I not going to punch my cousin John right in the face!? "Patience is a virtue" I would say over and over again in my mind, hoping against hope that it would stick. I feared the inevitable - I would crack.

Crack I did. As I sat in the library that rainy afternoon, imagining myself in the exotic, far off places I was reading about, my cousin John appeared. What happened next happened so quickly I had no time to defend myself. John threw a punch so hard to the right side of my face that I fell off my chair, catching the corner of the reading table with my head as I fell. The room began to spin and become disordered. All I could hear was the faint sound of a laugh coming from John. How I hated him. In that moment I was done, all semblance of patience and virtue was gone. As soon as my body allowed I was on my feet screaming the most vile swear words I could think of as I tackled John to the ground. John cried as he covered his face against the blows of my fists which pummelled over and over again into his head and chest. I even managed to knee him in the groin a couple of times which had him doubling up in pain. How fantastic I thought! What a release!

Then it was over. Aunt Reed's hands were on me tearing me away from her precious son. A look of horror took hold of her face. I continued to scream and cry out as Aunt Reed's trusty housemaid Beth began dragging me down the hall to meet my punishment. A night in the most fearful room in the house. The room my Uncle had died in. I feared that black room. It housed death and death was something that, after the loss of my own parents, I'd hoped to never meet again. Death was unknown and scary. It was as black as the room I now found myself in. With a nod of understanding Beth ushered me into the darkness of my Uncle's room. She shut the door tight and locked it before making her way back to the library. Where I am certain she would have found my Aunt fussing and preening over my idiot cousin John.

I sat with my back against the door. I was alone with death and whatever else it might bring with it. In this house, being alone usually brought me comfort however at this moment fear of the unknown had taken hold of me and I couldn't catch my breath. My eyes darted about the room and they soon grew tired. They fixed themselves on one place, my Uncle's face. He starred into my eyes. The black of the room engulfed me and I passed out. I was not alone.

In Time

"I'm here." Called a voice, ushering in a presence that filled every inch of space in the room.

"What do you mean, you're here? You weren't invited." My heart began to race. Nervously I fidgeted and looked around.

The response came; "I don't need an invitation dear one. I come when I please and leave when I like."

Every stitch of air was then sucked from the room and the walls began to close in. Suddenly, the intruder was on top of me - Inside of me.

Was I going to die?

Why had it come? What had I done? I didn't mean to encourage it. My heart pounded and my fists clenched in rage. With my back against a wall I began to fight, kicking and screaming as I slid to the floor.

Hands gripped my wrists and I heard voices but couldn't make out what they said. Inextricable fear washed over me. Fight or flight - I knew I had to fight! I couldn't die, I didn't want to die. Not like this, not now.

I had just seen my Mom, we'd chatted over a nice lunch. Where had she gone, surely she must still be here? Why was she letting this happen? Why was she letting this monster attack me?

My heart pounded in my head. Every part of me ached and tears began to stream down my cheeks. Why? Why!?

"WHY!?" I screamed out. "Leave me alone!"

"I can't leave you alone." Came the saccharine voice. Ever so soft and bevelled, it melted like velvet into my tortured ears. "You called me. You wanted me to come. Don't tell me now that this isn't what you wanted."

"I don't want this. I don't! Please leave - Please!" I begged.

Pressure was all around me and the creatures presence was thick as it pressed into me. I tensed and cried. Relief was not coming. I was trapped.

"You are going to die anyways, are you not?" Said the beast. "You're worried over some lump, a scratch and that five pounds you gained this week..." It's voice trailed off as if it were waiting for a response.

"How did you know?" I grew more fearful. What had this thing been doing? Was it watching me? "What do you want?"

"Why, my Dear." The beasts lips brushed past my ear and it's rancid breath filled my lungs. "What I want, is you. You want death... and I can give it to you."

"No!!" I screamed. "No, I don't. I want to live."

"You could have fooled me, dearest." Said the monster. The weight of it was suffocating. Desperate I gasped for air. At first it wouldn't come, I couldn't catch it. The beast wrestled me and I struggled to fight back.

"Give up!" It demanded.

"Never!" I answered.

"You can't even breathe. You're pathetic!" The beast pressed on.

Determined to prove it wrong, I concentrated and managed to suck in a breath. Then another. The monster lessened its grip.

"You see. I can breath." I said indignantly.

"I see." Responded the creature and again its hold on me loosened a little more. "Perhaps you won't die, at least not today." I felt its hold on me disappear and its presence diminish.

My eyes flickered open. Maybe they had been open all along. Whatever the case I once again could see. I sat in the open living space of my parents house. The sun was streaming in through the windows. My Mom was on the floor with me, her hands holding mine. My Dad stood near, holding the phone. They starred at me as worry and fear stained their faces.

"You beat the monster?" Asked my Mother, a smile softening her lips. She brushed a wayward piece of hair away from my eyes.

"I did." I said even though I could still sense it lingering down the hall. Its power was growing weaker by the minute as I was growing stronger. Breath was coming to me more easily now and a sense of ease was settling in. My body and mind began to lighten.

"I'm so sorry!" I professed to my parents.

"No need for that." Said my Dad. "I only wish I could fight this monster for you."

I wished he could too. But he couldn't, this was a battle that I had to fight on my own. It seemed unfair as I was never prepared. The panic always seemed to come without warning and for no reason. One moment I was fine and the next I was trapped in my mind, fighting for air.

In time, I would learn to live with this beast called panic and I would eventually gain the upper hand. In time, panic would just become a minor annoyance and in time, my life would become mine again. ...In time.