If you have never pined over an ex, this article is not for you. If you have never felt the years wasted away on someone, don’t read any further. If you have never mulled over the past, the what-could-have-been, stop right here.
Ghosts are so many things. And they are lurk-y and tricky and, not always but often times, very taxing. Ghosts prance around as if they own the place, they take off their clothes and stir pots and whatnot. They really feel at home. If they’ve made your home their home, be ready for a wanton ghost.
They have no shame. They visit you at family gatherings, during the toughest part of any given work day, during a deep meditation, at a first date or an interview, right before you go to bed, right when you wake-up, in the shower. Like, they have no sense of timing; they have no concept of social or culture etiquette. Ghosts give zero fucks. Like seriously.
Enter the ghost graveyard. Enter if you dare, if you wish to feel the opposite feelings of scared, trapped, and depressed. Ghosts are figments of your imagination. Let’s make that clear. They are reflections of the past transmitted by a broken heart chakra. But now it’s your job to kill them, kill each and every one of them. Be all knife-in-hand brave and shit. Be a taking-no-for-an-answer person.
You don’t have to be a victim anymore. You can stand your ground and eliminate ghosts for good. I’m being dead-ass here. If you want to let go of the past like put an eraser to that stuff, banish ghosts from your life, and pick up the pieces only to chuck them in the bin, you have found this writing not by chance, but by chance. Use that to your advantage and go thee forth. That ghost is soon to be gone, soon to be ghost in the goodbye-don’t-let-the-door-hit-yo-ass-on-the-way-out sense. Read about how you can manage common situations that involve ghosts, ghost-like figures, or apparitions.
You’re minding your own business and then your neighbor plays that song, you know which song I’m talking about, don’t play dumb with me. At first you’re all like, Is that in my head or is that shit for real? You pause, stop slicing onions or sending emails or whatever. Then your hand does that thing when you get all worked up over something or someone and you do that thing you do, you know what thing I’m talking about, and you stare at your hand in disbelief all the while your pupils growing and you keep staring at your hand, but not really because it’s more like you’re looking through the hand than at it. The panic attack creeps, slow ether to a baby bird. You can chop off your hand. Cut the thing off at the bud. Or attack the problem at the root which would be your heart, but that’s a bit extreme and you failed medical school, actually you made it in, but quit to pursue dreams of a seamstress who doesn’t use a stick of thread. You remember cotton balls and shove them in your ears, as if. Then you hum Mary Had a Little Lamb or one of those childhood nursery rhymes you know the rhythm to but not the words which, by the way, is so like you to forget the shiny parts of life, but you can’t focus on that now. You gotta be a ghost-fighter which requires concentration and positive steam, let it build from behind your eyes, from behind your sternum. But you’re like pre-panic which can be the worst panic where you hear everything acutely. Try to chew on loud stuff like raw carrots, apples, fried tortilla chips, dry, celery, yeah that’s the stuff, celery. Pop rock candy will do, too –if you got it laying around. Try to find gum, like bubble-bubble gum that extra sweet and blow bubbles and pop that shit. It could be the onions or the non-onions you were just chopping, but there’s water on your face now. And a rip in your t-shirt or jeans unless you bought them that way. Fuck, you murmur. But really you scream it.
This could go so smoother if you had, without much reaction or noticeable body flex, put on music of your own choosing and blasted the fuck out of it. Then if you did some jumps on the bed because it’s your bed and you can do stuff like that, you wouldn’t even have to consider chopping off a hand. And you wouldn’t have to acknowledge the presence of a radio-wave ghost who is really just a soundwave that is lost in space, umbilicalled so many galaxies away. Outer space ghosts don’t count.
Like you always do, social media scrolling and living on the screen. But not really. You´re snooping and spying, but you don’t say those words, you use other ones like checking-out/checking-in, research, investigation, killing time, messing around –but you know and I know, shit, we all know, what you’re doing. But you can’t stop. You ain’t got no business in that world or any world that be connected to any ghosts, not that ghost anyways and surely not one that judged your body or used ugly language, any ghost that was not a friendly ghost. You know the ghost will appear all-radiant sunsparkles computer status and technology-esque glossy, but you’re not certain when, so you keep on scrolling down, further down, down, down, down. But the rush like speed, like sugar, like danger. It’s like getting close to an orgasm. And you can’t stop. Until you realize it’s 5:23pm and you’ve been scrolling since this morning or was it yesterday morning or last night –oh, my god it would be a week for all you know. You are so weak, it’s been a week. Don’t do this to yourself. Already, the index finger and thumb no longer feel like part of the hand, no longer part of you, a former you, a you that once knew what the fuck a unicorn was and why you fought for the rights of animals. Lost, like a key, like a seashell, like a mermaid gone off on some potent oxygen. Your eyes retreat from sunlight, can’t recognize clouds and say marshmallow thingys or egg white fluffer bits. Stuff like that. And there it is. Like pixelated dreamland dreamscapes, the face of a ghost so much brighter than before. The face of the ghost illuminates like computer screens in a dark, dark room, the dark, dark room of ghostly hearts like his and hers, like theirs, not yours.
To rid yourself of this ghost, things could get extreme. And yes, this is a warning and a wake-up call and stay the fuck woke already. You will have to live like a human again. You must push the off button or simply unplug. This might require days, maybe weeks, more than likely weeks at minimum. You will hardly be able to live at first, but you will see that it gets better. Try to breath real air, not the stuff that comes from the back of the computer or the stuff that forms pockets on curtains or inside a cat’s mouth. You have to leave the box for the good stuff. Air is outside and you’ve not been there in so long. Return, dear one. Return to it and abandon self. And it will get better if you can visit places, preferably for a few hours at least, like real places not screenshot memories. Places that are green in color, like parks or forests or jungles or all of them, plan separate trips, put it all on your credit card right now. Or paint your room green. This heals the heart chakra.
It’s a sleeper ghost. Comes to you in sleep or in the process of sleep or sleeping or sleep-ish behavior. This ghost likes to see you unrested, full of tired, and zombie-walking. This ghost is the cruelest because it has many voices and faces –some call it the shapeshifter, aka no-namer. It’s pretty much the worst one out there. You can never be certain when or if it will come and when you expect it, it never shows up, but then it does show up later, because it will show up later because it does stuff like that, it will be all like, you thought you knew when I was coming, but I come and go as I please. And then you’re like yep, just like you did when we were together, when I knew you back then, you ain’t changed one bit, asshole. And if you talk like that to this ghost you’re in trouble. This ghosts like sass and potty-mouths, but not golden showers. This ghosts wants frazzled nerve endings and broken synapsis. This ghost wants you to be all unbalanced, in states wobbly, inner-ear dizzy spells. With this ghost you gotta stay quiet and really act dead but not be dead. You know what I mean?
Here you do things like talk to yourself a good one, like you’re sure looking lovely today, that’s a nice hoodie or stunning pant leg or radiant sleeve, that’s a nice ear lobe, what dazzling finger pads and kneecaps, those ankle socks got me feeling godly. If you hear this ghost, you did not hear it. That’s the motto. Under no circumstances should you direct a word or a whistle to or at or toward this ghost. They will think it a compliment and then you will do life with dark circles and half-functional motor skills –everything about you will be on medium status, but you wanted big, bigger, biggest which means no backtalk. For the love of baby animals, religious and non-religious saints that are sincretizaciones of African deities, and your poetry collections, do not backtalk this ghost. But focus on the positive self-talk, a solid go-to is: your hair is laid for the gods, boo. Try that one, it’s a no-fail. And it goes for all genders and non-genders.
That ghost gets fingers and texts you. Or gets a hand and caresses your face like once upon a time fairytale fashion. Or gets a body and cuddles you when you are at some super low point. Ghosts who get bodies or body parts are known as thieves. And as you know, thieves are not cool people –they are people who take things that don’t belong to them. Case in point, your heart, your life, your spirit. But maybe it’s been so long, so you might have forgotten which is reasonable because you’re become a real ghost-lover. You might not even recognize the words that I’m writing because language feels like an old cigar box from your childhood with secret stuff like feathers and photos and coins, all under the pre-text of your adult imaginary face which doesn’t even look the same anymore or you don’t use a real mirror to see yourself because the ghost gives you a piece of tinfoil and that’s enough for now. Truth be told, that ghost is shadier than any Paleozoic shade. Look how it has you thinking, dear one. This creature might also have some demon blood, so this is not something to mess with and should be given to the hands of a professional.
Seek a professional on this one. It can be any one of the following or a collection or triad of: witches or warlocks, priests, priestesses, shamans, mediums, divine spirits, earth mother goddesses, orishas or divinities. Do not go this one alone as you can with the other scenarios –this one would be a sewing machine needle in your eye hurt if you go solo. Removing this ghost will take a lot from you, so build up your immunity to expel this one from your life –that means extra garlic, green tea, good sleeping patterns, zero dairy, and wild greens. Black pepper in the corner of all the houses works well, too. Do not use any red ribbons or red of any kind. Avoid white for confusion with the ghost entity itself. Sleep with a mirror next to your bed, put a bowl of water under your bed, and avoid any chemical substances of any kind. Your guide, your healer will give your more information. Take a paper to the meeting, write everything in invisible ink or vinegar.
You’re at a whatever thing. You know, with him or her or whoever or all of them, doesn’t matter –not the point. And people are like talking the ghost all the way up, like all the way up to the ceiling and then the clouds, like really praising this bitch and applauding it to the sacrifices of the century and you’re all like is this the twilight zone and then you’re like what is the twilight zone and then people ask how you could let that ghost go because the ghost was like a million angel-babies sent to the earthland encrusted with the most precious of stoned gems and jewels and maybe minerals, too and those eye, tho. Maybe, if you’re unlucky, the ghost will take back the body that it once presented to you and revive it, cradle the old bones like an infant it has eaten one too many times. And it will be there at that whatever thing all walking around in the best black. The room spins like rims and doll eyes and you chug martinis that are yours and not yours, then you wrestle the bartender for a bottle of that stuff. People are all like what are you doing, stop, don’t do that, you’re embarrassing the ghost, you have to get yourself together, if not for the ghost but for you, for you who is not with the ghost anymore, for you who was so blessed to have been with the ghost, to be of the ghost, to be in its presence and bed. The ghost this and the ghost that and you know the truth that the ghost is just a see-through fabric thing and everyone else has been drugged or is a druggie. And none of this is real and if you could close your heart the ghost and his legions might disappear.
You might consider that heart surgery, first of all. Or simply removing yourself from all social functions. Then get to work on a life that has nothing to do with ghosts, ghost-worshippers, or ghost-fakers, but specifically not that ghost. You are alive, you have veins and capillaries and eyelashes and eyebrows. Ghost parties are not what you’re about anymore –not that you ever were, but you got caught up because life. Get the breath of a human, take it in deeply, exhale, then fly. Fly far away from here and never come back. Never again. Do you hear me? Never.
jacklyn janeksela is a wolf and a raven, a cluster of stars, & a direct descent of the divine feminine. find her @ Luna Luna, Pank, Yes Poetry, Entropy; & elsewhere. her band, the velblouds. her baby, femalefilet. her chapbook fitting a witch // hexing the stitch (The Operating System). she is an energy. find her @ hermetic hare for herbal astrology readings.