The Mind That Sees…
Chapter 14
My neighbor, who is also a writer, told me something that stopped me in my tracks.
He said my writing is sometimes so painful that he has to stop reading. He has to put it down. He has to walk away.
It was not a criticism. It was an observation. But it hit me deeper than he probably intended.
Because it made me think of a dream I used to have.
A recurring dream. One that haunted me through my teenage years and into my youth. One that I never fully understood until now.
The Dream I Didn’t Want to See
I literally did not want to see. I wanted to stop being there. Not because I was suicidal—not in the way people think. But because my mind was a projector I could not turn off.
I learned very young how easily my brain could be impressed.
A glimpse of a horror movie.
A tale told by one of my brothers at dinner.
Anything visual or auditive—because I transform what I hear into vivid images, automatic and unstoppable.
I do not just hear words. I see them. I feel them. I am inside them.
And that meant that one image could trigger not just one nightmare, but weeks of them. The same nightmare. The same terror. Over and over.
I remember praying. Turning on my night lamp. Any ritual I could think of to keep the darkness at bay. I sleepwalked. I ground my teeth. I woke up exhausted, terrified, and alone.
Why His Words Hit So Hard
My neighbor’s comment made me realize something.
My writing does to others what those stories and images did to me. It invades. It stays. It does not let go.
That is not a choice I make. It is how my brain works.
I have always been a projector. A conduit. A sponge. I absorb the world—the light, the dark, the beautiful, the terrible—and I project it back out. Through my voice. Through my hands. Through my words.
And sometimes, it is too much for people.
Just like it was too much for me.
The Gift and the Curse
I used to think this was a curse. A malfunction. Something wrong with me.
Now I know it is also a gift.
Because I can see things others cannot. I can feel things others cannot. I can hold the pain of the world and shape it into something that helps people feel seen.
But the cost is real.
I still have nightmares sometimes. I still grind my teeth. I still turn on the light and pray.
And I still write.
Because if I do not, the images stay inside me. And that is worse.
What I Want You to Know
If my writing ever hurts you—if it is too much—please know: it is not because I want to harm you. It is because I have learned to let the darkness out so it does not consume me.
I am not writing for shock. I am writing to survive.
And if you have to stop reading, that is okay. I understand.
Because I have had to stop looking at the world sometimes too.
A Note for the One Who Reads
To my neighbor—thank you. For your honesty. For your care. For reading even when it hurts.
You reminded me of something I had forgotten.
The images I project are real. And they have weight.
I will keep writing. And I will keep trusting that the people who need to read them will find their way through.
Even if they have to stop sometimes.
With gratitude and understanding,
Merida Paz
The Purple Witch, under The Purple Cape
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