Frustration abounds.

 Dear Reader,

If it isn't some issue with my C-PTSD troubling me, then it's a migraine. If it isn't that, it is some kind of shenanigans. And then there's my cursed bipolar disorder. Depressive episodes pretty much destroy my brain. The confluence of all this leads to months of not writing. It leaves me head-blind and renders my psychic gifts the subject of bitter scrutiny. I lose faith in myself. I am exhausted all the time. It's hellish.

Now, as I claw my way out of the most recent depressive episode, I can feel the dead clamoring to be heard. I don't know what to do. Typically, they come to me for directions because they've gotten lost on their way to their next life or their spiritual place of rest. It doesn't usually happen to me that they want me to convey messages or listen to their story. I just point them in the direction they need to go and that's the extent of the interaction, typically.

There's so many waiting beyond the wall I put up spiritually around my home to keep the non-familial dead out during the pandemic. At the beginning, I was overwhelmed by the dead who were lost and confused about their deaths. So, under the direction of the All-Father, I put up a wall. Now there's something like a small army beyond it, crying out to be heard. I know that where I go, there's going to be the spirits of the dead looking for someone like me to guide them and possibly listen to them.

I don't know what to do in this situation. This has not happened before.