I woke up this morning with the Impending Doom feeling. One of the ugliest aspects of being an intuitive is the ability to register in your body that something bad is coming which you can’t prevent. Often, I can’t even tell what it is. I just feel a terrible anxiety, prolonged and prelonged, that I never can write off as being “just in my head.” Case in point: In the days leading up to September 11, 2001, my nerves were so frayed I suddenly moved upstate rather than into the Manhattan apartment I’d been planning to take over from a friend. When watching the Twin Towers collapse from Poughkeepsie, I in no way felt vindicated, just a dull relief that my profound dis-ease now had a face.
All summer I’ve been getting what an ex used to call “ID” (as if uttering the phrase aloud gave it too much power), and all summer hits have duly arrived—upheaval that I may someday regard as necessary, even helpful, but right now experience as wrenching. This morning I got that cruddy feeling again. It may stem from something as simple as a lack of a vacation or (less simply) the approaching anniversary of September 11, but I suspect greater tempests are afoot. In the interim, I wish my gut instincts weren’t so uncomfortably literal.