Understanding the Experience.

If you've ever experienced something you couldn't explain you're not alone.

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There was a time I heard, felt and saw things but couldn't understand why.

It felt real, overwhelming and at times frightening.

Over time I grew to understand that what I was experiencing, was actually my mind trying to process more than it can handle.

If you are going through something similar, it doesn't mean you are broken or losing yourself. It means something in you is overwhelmed.

There are times when the body and mind don’t quite work in sync, especially through exhaustion. Sleep deprivation can bring on sensations that feel very real, even when nothing is physically happening.

I’ve lain in bed feeling like I’m spinning upwards towards the ceiling,completely still, yet convinced I’m moving.I’ve reached my hands out to stop myself, as if I might actually drift into it.

At other times, the room feels slightly off—balance shifts, focus slips, and everything feels just a little harder to hold onto.

Sounds can seem louder than they are, or the mind fills in gaps—hearing something that isn’t quite there, or replaying thoughts that won’t settle.

Understanding, didn't take my experiences away, it helped me find peace with them.

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Beyond the Veil – A Personal Reflection

There was a time when the veil did not feel like an idea, but an experience.

Not imagined in the way we casually dismiss things, but something vivid, structured, and present. A voice filled the space around me, calling out again and again through the night. I saw a pale figure move through the room and pass beyond it, and on another night, shapes formed from blue haze, tall and almost human, yet not quite.

It would be easy to wrap such moments in myth.

To call it a banshee.

To say something crossed from one world into another.

But time, distance, and understanding bring a different kind of clarity.

These experiences came during a period of deep stress and exhaustion, when the mind was stretched thin between waking and dreaming. In that fragile space, something remarkable happened—not a crossing of worlds, but a crossing of states. The mind, rich with memory, culture, and symbolism, began to project its inner landscape outward.

What I witnessed was not something external entering my world, but my own mind, expressing itself with a power and intensity that felt real.

And that, in itself, is worth pausing on.

Because what it reveals is not something to fear, but something to respect:

the depth of the human mind, and its ability to create meaning, presence, and atmosphere from within.

The veil, perhaps, is not a boundary between worlds.

But a boundary within ourselves—between what we consciously know, and what lies just beneath.

Sometimes, under pressure, that veil becomes thin.

And for a moment, we see what we are capable of creating.

Causes to Consider

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The Birdwoman of Bedlam

The Birdwoman of Bedlam

It started innocently enough.

There I was, minding my own business, standing at the window, looking out at the grey sky and whatever slice of freedom I could see from behind the glass… when I noticed them.

Seagulls.

Not just one or two—oh no. A full committee. Perched. Circling. Watching.

At first, I thought nothing of it. They were just birds doing bird things.

Then one day, I gave them a bit of food.

That… was my first mistake.

The next day, there were more.

The day after that? I’m fairly certain word had spread across the entire coastline.

I’d stand at the window, and they’d gather. Not casually either—properly. Like I was hosting a meeting.

They weren’t shy. They flew closer. Hovered. Pressed in toward the glass like they were trying to clock in for their shift.

And I swear… they recognised me.

Other people could walk past that window all day long—nothing. I’d step up?

Full aerial display.

At one point, there were so many of them flying right up near the window, wings flapping, beaks peering in, that it looked less like a hospital… and more like I was running some sort of seaside drive-through.

Staff started noticing.

You could see it in their faces—Why are the birds… here? Why are they all looking at her?

I tried to act normal. Which, in hindsight, probably made it worse.

Then came the incident.

I’d gone on home leave and, being the responsible Birdwoman that I was, I asked another patient if she could feed them while I was gone.

She agreed. Very enthusiastically.

When I came back, I asked her, “Did you feed the birds?”

She looked at me, eyes wide, deadly serious, and said, “Yes.”

I took a small step back.

There was a pause.

Then she added—“They pooped all over the windows… I had to clean it up.”

I didn’t even try to hold it together .I just collapsed laughing.

Of course they did.

I’d basically trained a flock of seagulls to treat a hospital window like a beachfront café… and then handed over management to someone else without so much as a briefing.

From that point on, it was official.

I wasn’t just a patient.

I was the Birdwoman of Bedlam.

Part of me thinks they saw something in me—something a bit wild, a bit untamed… something that didn’t quite belong behind glass.

Or maybe they just knew where the food was.

Either way…for a little while, in a place that felt closed in and controlled, I had a connection to something free.

And if that connection came with a bit of chaos, a lot of noise, and the occasional window covered in bird mess…

Well.