Stranded Somewhere in Missouri

I had a paranormal experience this morning. It started as a normal experience—I was crying on the bathroom floor while what felt like the end of the world dangled on a thin thread in front of me—but then something else happened.

Mind you, I’m in a Motel 6 in Kansas City and their amenities are nothing short of questionable, but as I cried into my knees the bathroom lights began to flicker. They’d done this the night before, so I added it to the list of reasons to continue my mental breakdown and pushed on. After a handful of randomly timed flickers, I pushed myself off the floor and pressed the button for the light-switch myself.

I’ve always been scared of being near a mirror when it’s dark. In middle school, my friends and I used to have competitions to see who could watch the most scary movies alone. We’d keep count on our own and report back at the next sleepover. I remember watching Paranormal Activity 3 over twelve times. The scene where the two young girls play Bloody Mary in the bathroom replays in my head every time I enter a dark bathroom. I had to take the mirrors out of my bedroom for the next few years.

As I stared into the mirror, my finger hovering over the button waiting for the next flicker, the overwhelming feeling of dread that had flooded my body moments before began to wash away. For some reason, I felt like there was something there watching over me. Holding onto the granite countertop, I lowered myself back onto the floor. I swallowed any selfish thoughts that I deserved protection from some angel or ghost and continued indulging myself in self-pity.

I had just graduated college a week before we started this trip. Four years of too-much-to-fit-in-a-sentence material, but this trip was going to be a breath of fresh air. Fresh Colorado air, beautiful hikes, and even more beautiful art. When our van broke down in Kansas City, the closest we could get to art was a mile walk to Walmart, some plain colored hoodies, and a tie-dye kit. The manager at the Motel 6 yelled at us for dying hoodies on their grass beside some dog shit. The van mechanic didn’t call us back for the entire weekend. We paid the motel manager for six more nights. She forgot about the tie-dye incident.

From my spot on the floor, my worries and anxieties seeped out from the buckled flooring and wrapped around me like a bed of weeds. As they engulfed me once again, and I caught my sobs in the crook of my elbow, the lights began to flicker once again. This time, they were flashing so intensely that I thought the bulb would blow. I didn’t move from my spot on the floor this time. In fact, I didn’t feel scared at all.

Now I could have, at that point, lost my mind. Maybe the thread snapped and being harassed by a ghost while I ugly cried on the floor was just not at the top of my list of worries. Or maybe it was someone who cares about me finding a way. Finding a way to what, you ask? To throw you a bathroom rave party to cheer you up, or inversely, humiliate you for crying in a Motel 6 a thousand miles from home? I have no idea.

What I do know is that I didn’t feel alone. I wasn't scared. And when I stood back up, wiped the mascara from under my eyes, and took a deep breath, the flickering stopped.