3 Strange Events of My Childhood

Power, No Sleepovers, & the Missing Object

🔥 The First Time Power Entered Me

“I was only six or seven... but the world cracked open.”

I remember standing in my bedroom, hand pressed tight to my tall wooden bookshelf—not for fun, not for climbing—
but for stability.
Because something… was happening to me.
Something big.

It hit without warning.

A pressure built behind my forehead like thunder waiting to split the sky.
I’d been thinking too hard again—thinking about the world.
About the sun, the Earth, the way they told us everything worked.

They said we were spinning.
That Earth was whirling around so fast it created gravity.
But the sun didn’t move. And somehow, we didn’t feel it?

It didn’t make sense.
If we were spinning that fast, wouldn’t the sky flash between light and dark like a strobe?
Wouldn’t the trees blur sideways?

I remember thinking,
"They're wrong.
They’re telling us something they don’t even understand.”

And then—BOOM.

The pressure behind my forehead exploded.

It didn’t feel like a thought anymore.
It felt like a force—one that rushed into me from all sides,
as if a thousand invisible rivers of energy suddenly collided in my chest.

My whole body stiffened.
My heart stung.
It wasn’t fear.
It wasn’t pain.
It was power—so much of it, it nearly knocked me over.

I gripped the bookshelf like it was the only thing anchoring me to Earth.
My breath caught.
My eyes wide.

The world around me didn’t look the same anymore.
The walls shimmered. The floor felt far away.
Everything was fake—a thin layer of pretend.

And I stood there, frozen in awe,
thinking,
"I’m not supposed to know this yet… but I do."

At the time, I didn’t have words for what happened.
I thought maybe I was sick. Or dizzy. Or dreaming.
But now I know:
That wasn’t dizziness.
That was activation.

That was my third eye opening under pressure—too soon, too fast, but exactly on time.
That was my flame memory breaking through the veil.

Something ancient entered me that day.
And nothing has ever been the same since.

---

🕯️ Why I Couldn’t Stay the Night

“I thought I was scared. But really—I was gifted.”

When I was little, sleepovers were magic.
Playing outside until the sun dipped.
Piling up stuffed animals.
Telling secrets under blanket forts.
Laughing so hard my ribs hurt.

But no matter how much fun I had…
I never made it till morning.

By 2 or 3 AM, like clockwork, I’d be wide awake.
Everyone else—fast asleep.
Me? Eyes wide. Skin buzzing.
Tangled in blankets, frozen still.
Holding my breath in the dark.

I didn’t understand it then.
I just knew I couldn’t stay.
No matter whose house it was,
no matter how sweet their mom or how comfy the couch—
by nightfall, I would feel it.

Something would shift.

The room would go still—but not peaceful.
More like paused.
Like time had bent slightly sideways and the air forgot how to breathe.

And that’s when it started.

The closet across the room?
There’d be a shadow in it.
Not just any shadow—a woman’s shape.
Tall. Wide hat. Watching.

The carpet? It would squirm like roaches were crawling under it.
The plant near the door?
Its leaves would twist into serpents—coiling and uncoiling when no one was looking.
Even small objects on the floor would shimmer like portals.

I didn’t see things like dreams.
I felt them.
I knew them.

It wasn’t just fear—it was recognition.

I knew these things weren’t supposed to be there.
But I also knew they had always been.

I wasn’t haunted.
I was aware.

I could sense the others.
The watchers.
The things behind the veil that kids are taught to ignore.

But I couldn’t ignore them.
Not at 2 AM.
Not in a house that wasn’t mine.
Not in a room where no one else could feel the weight pressing down on the walls.

So I did the only thing I could do.
I called my mom.
Every time.

Between 2 and 4 AM, I’d whisper into the phone:
"Can you come get me?"

And she would.
She never asked too many questions.
Just came, every time.

Now I know why.

Those were my witching hours.
The gates were open.
My senses were active.
And I didn’t have the tools or words to explain it yet.

I wasn’t just “sensitive.”
I wasn’t scared because I missed home.
I was sensing what no one else could.

And those homes—sweet and loving during the day—
were not safe for a young flamekeeper at night.

Because I didn’t yet know how to shield.
I didn’t yet know how to close my sight.
I didn’t yet know how to command my energy.

I only knew something was happening.
Something big.
Something deep.
Something ancient.

And now?

Now I know.
I was never broken.
I was never too much.
I was lit from within—
in a world that feared the dark,
but feared the light even more.

---

🪞 The Dresser, The Object, and the Fold

Why things disappear when you’re remembering who you are.

I was eight when it happened.

I hadn’t dropped it. I hadn’t lost it.
I placed it—intentionally, with care.

It was about three inches long, just over an inch wide. Small, but important.
The kind of object you don’t want to misplace,
so you tuck it somewhere safe.

I remember everything about that moment.
My room wasn’t messy—maybe a few clothes on the floor or bed, but everything else had a spot. I didn’t like clutter. I liked energy to move.

So I placed the object on the left side of my long dresser, right in front of my stereo.
I paused for a second—
I made a mental note.
“This is where I’m putting it. I’ll need it later.”

And then I left the room.

But when I came back—
it was gone.

I froze.
I checked the dresser.
The floor.
The stereo.
Under everything.
Nothing.

Panic didn't come like a scream.
It came like a stillness. A void.

Something was wrong.

I wasn’t the kind of kid who forgot where I put things.
Especially not something this specific, this deliberate.
I knew where I left it.

And I could feel it—
this strange pressure around the spot it had been,
like the air was heavy in just that square of space.

So I did something… different.

I stood at the dresser,
covered my eyes with my left hand—
and with my right, I reached out.

Right to the exact place it was supposed to be.
Like maybe… if I couldn’t see the world,
I could feel through it.

But nothing was there.

Not a trace. Not a bump. Not a whisper of presence.

Eventually, I went upstairs.
Probably asked my mom if she had taken it.
Grabbed a snack—because snacks were always comfort.
Then I wandered back down.

And there it was.
Right where I left it.
Sitting on the dresser.
Exactly where I knew it should be.

Like it had never moved at all.

But I knew better.

---

🔍 What Really Happened

Now, I understand what that was.

That wasn’t childhood forgetfulness.
It wasn’t absent-mindedness or imagination.

It was dimensional cloaking.

The object didn’t vanish.
It was folded—into a veil pocket.

These veil pockets are like soft folds in time and space.
They’re not always physical, but they’re real.
They’re energy traps—designed to disorient you, to test your sight.

At the time, I was remembering too much.
My soul was vibrating higher than my human mind could fully handle.

So the object became a test.
Could I feel what I couldn’t see?
Would I doubt myself?

And when I couldn’t feel it…
it wasn’t because it wasn’t there.

It was because I wasn’t allowed to access that layer yet.
Not until the veil eased.
Not until my frequency matched what was hidden.

It’s not just that the object was cloaked.
I was being watched.
Measured.
My gift of perception was being calibrated.

And the moment I let go—
when I left the room, when I released control—
it reappeared.

This is how the veil works.
This is how the tests begin.
Soft. Quiet. Surreal.

Until one day, you realize the missing objects were never the point.
You were the key.

---

🫂 What About You?

I’ve shared mine.
But I know I’m not the only one.

What are your childhood stories?

What disappeared and reappeared without a trace?
What moments made you stop and feel like the world wasn’t what they said it was?

Did you ever feel something no one else could explain?
A presence, a knowing, a pressure in the room?

Did the dark feel alive?
Did light flicker when you got upset?
Did you hear your name before anyone called it?

I want to know the moments that didn’t make sense.
The ones you still think about sometimes but never say out loud.

Because maybe they weren’t just weird.
Maybe they were real.
Maybe you’re remembering too.

And if you are—
You’re not alone anymore.

🌀 Tell me. I’m listening.

Thank you for witnessing the return—this flame burns brighter with you here!