At this point you may be impressed by my situation. It probably sounds fascinating, in an eccentric woman who lives in an antique windmill kind of way.

Wow! How do you do it all? What kind of impact does it have on relationships and family?

The best way to understand how talking to the dead impacts life with the living would be to spend some time in my shoes. Lucky for you, I am wearing UGG Boots today, so you will be incredibly comfortable. Like, “Oh look, we sacrificed a lamb for you!” level luxury. You’re welcome.

Before we dive too deeply, I do want to be clear: I am not Jennifer Love Hewitt (or more precisely the spirit-channeling character she played on TV). I would love to be so whimsically adorkable, surrounded by family and friends who willingly accept my uncanny instinct for spectral communications. In fact, after the thunder and lightning excitement of my origin story died down, I needed some way to learn more about what exactly was up with my new role. So I watched all five seasons (#bringitback) of Ghost Whisperer. While I did find it to be an engaging dramedy, it prepared me to commune with spirits in the same way a Hallmark movie equips owners of quirky coffee/book shops to handle loan officers (Careful, Ms. Snarky Pants, he’s very likely going to be your blind date tonight).

Needless to say, I was left wanting in the instruction department. Luckily, my deceased callers were almost always happy to drop some afterlife lessons. At first, I eagerly took down every word, ensuring pen and paper were always at the ready, should our discussion venture into The More You Know territory. That lasted for about a month, at which point I tossed out all my notes and started to make my own sense of the situation.

So I’ve been on my own when it comes to dealing with my hand. Over the last fifteen years I have not found an appropriate opportunity to open up about my skill with the living. As a result, there have been awkward moments aplenty, limited career options, and insurmountable obstacles to long-term intimate relationships.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. You mean you haven’t even told your family?

Almost…but not really. Join me as I look back on a conversation that happened after I’d returned from my first spirit-requested mission.

I was up in my room, trying to wrap my head around my visit from my first ghost, Edith, when I heard an unnerving rattling at the door. Suddenly, my mom burst into the room. She was holding a screwdriver as though she had been attempting to jimmy the (unlocked) door.

“Explain to me what is happening in here!”

“I just got back from going on an errand with a, uh… friend.”

She scanned the room, arms still raised slightly, as though she was preparing to be jumped by a ninja encased in my clothes hamper. After a minute or so, her eyes must have adjusted to my lamplit room or her Mom-on-a-Mission adrenaline tapped out; her shoulders dropped and she carefully turned to face me. I remained on my bed, wary that any movement would cause her to spring forward and lodge the flathead into my throat.

“Where is it?”

“The box of books that I picked up?”

“We both know we’re not talking about books, Ainslee.”

I was still immersed in my mysterious visit at that moment, so I assumed that my mom was had come in to broach how Edith had appeared to me. Maybe my mom was a rogue ghost hunter!

“Did Edith talk to you? Is she here?” I leapt up from the bed excitedly, heading for the door, hoping for another chance to talk with her.

“Here? No, she, Edith, I guess, called me this afternoon at work. I am not…”

“She called you?” I was befuddled and intrigued by this new piece of information. Apparently she had leveled up in her spirit communication techniques. Obviously she was not a ghost hunter, but in a higher order of spirit guides.“Do you have a special phone for those calls?”

My mom narrowed her eyes, and dropped her head in exasperation.

“I am not here to play games, Ains,” her voice was tense. I noted an undertone of fear as she continued. “I came home to find you, and you were gone.”

“But I was with her! She came to the school…”

“Ainslee, stop lying! I know about the mushrooms! Edith told me everything.”

“But why would she…”

“Kiki was scared and…”

“Kiki?”

“Her daughter, Kiki, your friend! Come on, Ainslee! This is serious.”

“Mrs. Marcus? You mean Mrs. Marcus. Not Edith.” Reality hit like a brick. Of course my mother was not talking to Edith. This was the woman who had sent Arden Daneko away from my birthday sleepover in fourth grade because she brought a Ouija Board into our house.

“Wait… so then who is this…Edith? Is that your dealer?!”

I’m going to internally pivot here to give you a little more insight into my drug experimentation, as I’ve mentioned it a few times and may be painting an inaccurate self portrait. At seventeen, I was just moving out of an incredibly careful childhood towards more of an I’ll try anything once mindset. Whereas riding a stained mattress down the staircase of an abandoned house had once seemed too rife with consequence for my taste,  perhaps all those years of avoiding danger made me susceptible to the beckoning finger of adolescent experimentation. As a late-blooming thrillist, I had very little skill at covering up my tracks or withholding information. I also was a poor judge of my co-conspirators’ tattling tendencies, hence the call from Kiki’s mother to my own.

Now however, circumstances had changed, and I was forced to become a swift weaver of stories.

“Yes. Edith was my dealer. But I sent her away. She was too much trouble. She made me cut school and drive her out to Oakport for a stupid errand. I’m sorry. You must have been so worried.” I sat back down on the bed, dropped my head into my hands and channeled my disappointment in Kiki to produce a few superficial tears.

This display seemed to work for my mom. She alighted next to me delicately, and slid my hair behind my ear so she could catch my eye.

“It’s been a hard week, hasn’t it?”

I nodded weepily, worried that speaking words would break my focus.

“Your father and I still can’t get over how we forgot your birthday. I know that must have a lot to do with what you’re going through.”

(Or absolutely nothing, but whatever.)

“You know, we thought we were so prepared for the teen years. Kertis really was so easy. I guess that experience made us naive.”

(BTW, it was in fact my brother Kertis who had hooked us up with the mushrooms in question. “Ains, you have to try ‘shrooms for your birthday. It changes e v e r y t h i n g.” Thanks, bro.)

“Maybe we should move you back into the house for right now. Having your garage room and car might be a confusing amount of freedom. Let’s try that for the next month, and we’ll see how it goes from there.”

I nodded softly, curling into her shoulder. I knew then that I couldn’t trust Kiki, my brothers, or my parents with my secret. That night, as I moved my clothes and books back into the house, I laid the foundation for barriers that would allow for my double life. While these walls would be absolutely necessary to protect my expanded interaction with the great beyond, they inevitably limited my connection with others.

Until recently, that is. But we can discuss that another time.