As I walk this shadow side by side
A recollection of a friend of mine
Memories hung in light of dreams
Shadows are nightmares too, it seems
As I walk this shadow walk away
Never a shadow is here to stay
Voices hinge on secrets passed
Never shadows could ever last
As I walk this shadow to the ending light
The ghost beside me dies to night
A weary hand beside the moon
The walking shadow gone too soon
As I walk this shadow to no sound
The ghost of you looses ground
A ghostly shadow next to me
Your never shadow should will never be
I’ve written hundreds of characters over the years, but none has been as difficult as writing me. There is a lesson to be learned here. I’m sure at some point in time I’ll figure it out. This is not my memoir: I’m not that exciting. This is a small excerpt from Pathological, a fictional account of what it is like to essentially date a narcissistic sociopath. This follows Eddie’s confession at having slept with a woman (who now claims to be pregnant) during a time he was trying to date Gabbie.
With hands tossed in the air, I backed up to the small office chair and dropped. Was I entitled to be upset? Was I? We were talking; only talking. We weren’t dating. Hadn’t spoken on dating. Hadn’t even hinted at going out. My mind waged a war, a million thoughts, infinite emotions all running into each other like those epic scenes of thousands of warriors running full speed into each other on some desolate battle ground. The destruction left behind was never noble, and I could already feel the acid of the aftermath. Did I have the right to be upset?
In my mind a reel of rationalization began to unfold. I wasn’t a pessimist, but I wasn’t a glittery optimist either. My world, my teachings, my studies all hinged on realism; on bringing people back to spatial reality and acknowledging that good and bad coexist to create function. But, that was my job. When it came to me, to my personal life, to my own vagabond emotions there was only visceral reaction. And every time—each and every time—I arced my neck, shuddered, and betrayed myself to give another person the benefit of the doubt.
An excerpt by, Tania L Ramos
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I’m writing quite different with this one. Adding journal entries at the beginning of each part. These are the real parts. The dark parts that were true enough of how I felt in those days that turned out to be the beginning of 6 years of lies. This is all hindsight, which lends to a bit of self-loathing as can be noted at the end. Maybe people will heed the warnings: don’t piss a writer or you may get killed in her book.
In the days of knowing I was losing Andy I felt like I was losing myself too. There was a dynamic about Andy, something that out shadowed me in every way. My name was lost at marriage. My days ahead I was known as Andy’s wife, and where I should’ve delighted instead I became abhorrent. If I ever I needed the proverbial knight in shining armor, the time had come. Desperate times and desperate situations also meant loss of reasoning and the ability to see clearly. Eddie Sinolach was just what I needed, when I needed someone, so much that the world around me faded to all things Eddie. Nobody should ever close their eyes so tight.
Tania L Ramos RN BSN, author
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I said I would do it. The story is written as fiction. So many aspects changed. But the story writes its self. My favorite lines from chapter one.
One baby, four years, and a million arguments later, we found ourselves caught up in a very bitter divorce. He tried in his way to make it work, but we were opposites, like the sun trying to marry the moon. Sure, we could occupy the same universe, but we would never occupy the same space all the time. The moon would always be jealous of the brilliance of the sun. He was the sun. I was the moon. I pale beside him, and every day I lost myself just a little more until I disappeared. Those eclipses though, those times we were as one…those were amazing.
Much of what is written is stolen from life. Stories often mimic the adage that “Necessity is the mother of invention.” The need to get words and truths onto paper for others to know and understand is at the heart of every writer. And though many of my stories have pulled a few excerpts, thoughts, or locations from my real life, none has hit as close to home as the story of a woman scorned … who discovered there was another woman scorned … and another woman who will soon be scorned and tortmented to know the truth. A story of decades of deceit, mounds that turned into volcanic eruptions of lies, followed by the need to prey on women and their families so one man could satisfy some sick pathological desire to fulfill an egocentric hero complex. At this moment I am grateful at my talent to recall even the vaguest of details, to turn a real life story into the opus of my collection of fiction; to eradicate and expose a predator in what can only be described as “fiction based loosely on reality.” Finally, the writer’s block is over and bad guys never win.
Things in life to know:
- Don’t ever hurt a woman’s children.
- Don’t ever hurt the children of a writer.
- Know your adversary.
Tania L Ramos
Sometimes the writing is on the wall, we choose not to see it. sometimes there’s that one great friend that holds your hand through your own self inflicted blindness. And when you can finally see the writing on the wall, they don’t say I told you so, they say I’m still here for you. And they listen to you cry, even though it hurts them too, because they walked it with you. They hurt for you long before you knew you would hurt. And when the mud and the tears and the hurt are removed from your eyes, you can see clearly, that the one who truly loved you, was the one who was your eyes when you chose not to see.
Now, I see.