essential lesson in taking accountability for wrongdoing, making amends & make restitution to your #self & others, your fellow earthlings & ancestors #HolyPeople.

#recovery #GenerationalTrauma #SpiritualHealth #FirstNations
🖤☮️ & 🏴

https://youtu.be/1eGlkxSLICw?

essential lesson in taking accountability for wrongdoing, making amends & make restitution to your #self & others, your fellow earthlings & ancestors #HolyPeople.

#recovery #GenerationalTrauma #SpiritualHealth #FirstNations
🖤☮️ & 🏴

https://youtu.be/1eGlkxSLICw?

#TheParanormalFiles: colin & his dad are in one of the most notorious prisons on earth, where the men locked up there have suffered such horrific conditions & violence, the walls are dripping with misory.

#GifsArtidote: i have been to prison & i understand from personal experience & my #CrimPsy study how anyone can end up in a hellhole like that.

this system of death we live in is causing a pandemic of narcissistic behaviour. when you're born into a poor, toxic & dysfunctional family and all you know is violence & hate, you're only just surviving by standing your ground & use violence by any means necessary.
we are all suffering collective #CPTSD with immense #GenerationalTrauma, we need the opposite of hate, which off course is 🖤

https://youtu.be/pcVG2yj0uqI?

..this system of death we live in is causing a pandemic of narcissistic behaviour. when you're born into a poor, toxic & dysfunctional family and all you know is violence & hate, you're only just surviving by standing your ground & use violence by any means necessary.
we are all suffering collective #CPTSD with immense #GenerationalTrauma, we need the opposite of hate, which off course is 🖤

https://youtu.be/pcVG2yj0uqI?

Book Review: Salt Bones by Jennifer Givhan — A Haunting, Generational Masterpiece I Can’t Stop Thinking About

Five stars… and honestly I’m still processing…What did I just read?!

Jennifer Givhan didn’t just write a book. She cracked open the chest of generational trauma, held up the ribs, and asked us to look inside. Salt Bones is one of those rare reads that is dark, atmospheric, unsettling, and emotionally layered in a way only a Latina author rooted in culture, myth, and lived experience can deliver. I’m blown away. I really am.

I’ve been on a kick lately with horror and gothic-leaning stories by Latina authors, partly because that’s the atmosphere I live in while writing The Ordinary Bruja and the Las Cerradoras trilogy, and partly because these books always go beyond fear. They dig into identity, family wounds, unspoken truths, and the complicated ways we inherit stories that never belonged to us. Salt Bones carries that same DNA.

This book starts slow, but not in a way that feels wasted. It’s purposeful. Act One eases you into the mother-daughter dynamic, the family’s strange habits, the odd tension that doesn’t have a name yet. You aren’t sure why things feel “off” but you can sense something brewing under the surface. And then Act Two hits… and suddenly every quiet detail from the beginning clicks into place. I swear, I wanted to go back and reread the first half just to look at everything with new eyes.

The main character, Mal, wrecked me. She is one of the most complex, painfully human characters I’ve read in a while. And part of why she hit me so hard is because she mirrored pieces of myself… especially the parts I’ve worked so hard to heal. Her need for control, her desire to protect everyone at all costs, her inability to tell the truth until she can make it “pretty”… I know that woman. I’ve been that woman. Reading her was like holding up a mirror to the scars I’ve carried since childhood and the ways I tried to parent perfectly only to realize that perfection creates its own harm.

That’s what Givhan does so brilliantly here. She uses dark mythical beings, superstition, and supernatural elements as metaphors for trauma, guilt, and silence. The horror isn’t just the creatures in the shadows. It’s the generational secrets, the suffocating loyalty to elders, the way so many Latine families protect the wrong people for the wrong reasons. It’s painfully real. Painfully familiar.

And then, when the daughter goes missing, everything explodes. Skeletons fall out of multiple closets. Every assumption melts. Ma unravels the past thread by thread until the truth finally reveals itself… and the truth is devastating. Because Mal has spent her entire life carrying guilt that was never hers. A burden placed on her by the very people who claimed to love her. That part? That part felt so real it almost hurt to read.

What I love most is that the author doesn’t glorify the cycle. She shows it honestly, messily, culturally… but she also gives us a roadmap out. The ending, and especially the epilogue, is hopeful in the way sunlight feels after days of rain. Not “perfect bow on top” hopeful, but “realistic healing is possible” hopeful. Mal sets boundaries. She separates herself. She chooses a life where she can breathe. And it feels earned.

Thematically, this book has everything that makes me obsessed with Latina horror:
• complex mother-daughter dynamics
• generational silence and guilt
• supernatural myth woven into trauma
• culture as both comfort and curse
• atmospheric writing that lingers

When I tell you this book will stay with me… whew. I already know it will. It’s one of those novels that forces you to confront your past while imagining a healthier future. It’s dark in all the right places and tender where it counts.

If you love gothic, horror-adjacent stories filled with mythical elements, cultural nuance, morally messy families, and emotional depth, read this. Immediately. I need people to talk to about this book because I am still flabbergasted by what Jennifer Givhan pulled off.

This is an easy, unwavering, deeply felt 5 stars.

#atmosphericReads #bookRecommendations #BookReview #darkFiction #GenerationalTrauma #gothicFiction #JenniferGivhan #LatinaHorror #LatineLiterature #motherDaughterStories #PsychologicalHorror #SaltBones #supernaturalBooks

.. i am actually developing an idea of how i could do that. it involves a historic wooden sailing ship, my greatest 🖤⛵️⚓️ yeah & 🏴‍☠️😁
🏴☮️

https://youtu.be/ll2Nh-GuSdQ?

#MentalHealth #CPTSD #GenerationalTrauma #CollectiveTrauma #BPD #DysthymicDisorder #nature #ChangeTheWorldStartWithYourSelf #press #media #recovery

#LifeInTheLand is a project of healing from colonialism & #genocide for the #BlackfeetTribe #FirstNation people.

#GifsArtidote: watching this powerful story of survival & healing is deeply connected to me & my family's story, as i experienced #colonialism at home with my adopted sister.
i would love to learn from indigenous people & heal my self. then i'd go teach my family, & maybe ppl back home in #NL
you never know, might get some sense into their cheesy clog-ged brains 😉

i am actually developing an idea of how i could do that. it involves a historic wooden sailing ship, my greatest 🖤⛵️⚓️ yeah & 🏴‍☠️😁
🏴☮️

https://youtu.be/ll2Nh-GuSdQ?

#MentalHealth #CPTSD #GenerationalTrauma #CollectiveTrauma #BPD #DysthymicDisorder #nature #ChangeTheWorldStartWithYourSelf #press #media #recovery

@PallasRiot
destroy capitalism & hierarchy = anarchy. note how terrified the state & authorities are of anarchy. they manipulated everyone to believe it means chaos & violence, but #truth is that it's our natural way of organising & largely ☮️ful. just not against authority & narcissistic pricks after generations of our ancestors have suffered hell & so are we now bc #GenerationalTrauma & neglect, exploitation & slavery.
thing is, a lot of us are waking up to actual reality & are coming to get what is rightfully ours. watch!

11 Toxic Relationship Patterns Kids Learn From Parents

Read more: https://thecoffeedrivenparent.com/toxic-relationship-patterns/

#ChildhoodHealing
#GenerationalTrauma
#inspiratioalquotes
#JournalingForKids
#ParentingImpact
#ParentingTips
#PositiveAffirmationsForKids
#RelationshipAdvice
#ToxicRelationshipPatterns

i never met her 😪, but right now i can so deeply relate to her, cause i am grateful i live today. sofar i haven't been sectioned yet, thank fuck. that's why i am fighting authority today, for my self & my family, on both sides, who have suffered mental illness & trauma like hell for generations.

.. https://youtu.be/wXusWhcmyn4?

#press #media #psychology #GenerationalTrauma #recovery #ancestors #family #BPD #ChronicDepressionDisorder #DysthymicDisorder
#CPTSD #history #LearnLifesLessons..

tonight i am honouring my ancestors, & in particular tante (aunt) aaltje, my granddad's sister, who lived her whole adult life in an asylum like this. i don't know why.

#GifsArtidote:
i am going back home for #yuletide in a few weeks, & i plan to visit my family ancestors graves & maybe the asylum. i think it's still an asylum today, so i want to pay my aunty respect & see if they have any information about her. i never met her 😪, but right now i can so deeply relate to her, cause i am grateful i live today. sofar i haven't been sectioned yet, thank fuck. that's why i am fighting authority today, for my self & my family, on both sides, who have suffered mental illness & trauma like hell for generations.

https://youtu.be/wXusWhcmyn4?

#press #media #psychology #GenerationalTrauma #recovery #ancestors #family #BPD #ChronicDepressionDisorder #DysthymicDisorder
#CPTSD #history #LearnLifesLessons
Toxic System Toxic Family Toxic Self

#RestInPower my beautiful family, i 🖤 you all, i respect you all & i will honour your memory for ever. ☮️🏴

A brilliant memoir for the story told and the concept presented. Highly recommend.
https://medium.com/the-book-cafe/bad-bad-girl-by-gish-jen-an-audiobook-review-aaca67bc3fe5
#bookreview #bookrecommendations #autofiction #memoir #bookreviewer #family #relationships #trauma #generationaltrauma #readingcommunity #writingcommunity

Why We Need Softness in Horror

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#emotionalHorror2 #generationalTrauma #healingThroughStorytelling #horrorWithHeart #latineAuthors #magicalRealism #ownVoicesHorror #softHorror #theOrdinaryBruja

The Fire and Fragility of Juan Gabriel

https://www.netflix.com/ca/title/81977112

Juan Gabriel was a babe. Fierce, magnetic, and utterly himself. Watching the limited series Juan Gabriel: I Must, I Can, I Will reminded me why his presence hit like a tidal wave every time he stepped on a stage. The docuseries stitches together rare footage and intimate voices to show the duality between the mythic performer and the private man, and it landed right in the center of the things I think about most as a writer: permission, pain, and the alchemy that turns both into art.

On stage he transformed. He gave himself full permission to be who he wanted to be and then left every ounce of that self on the floorboards. The series leans into that duality, pulling from personal archives, home videos, and interviews to show how the public and private Juan Gabriel collided and fed each other. It is a four-part Netflix docuseries that premiered on October 30, 2025, and its focus on genius, sacrifice, and the split life of a global icon grounds what many of us always felt in our bones watching him perform.

What also comes through is the hurt he carried. The series details a childhood marked by absence and institutions, and a lifelong hunger for love that never quite arrived in the form he needed. Reporting around the release underscores the brutality of his youth and how early trauma shaped the man and the music that followed.

You can feel the ache most when the story turns toward his mother. I do not believe she loved him the way he loved her. I do not write that to accuse. I write it because generational wounds are not solved by pretending they never happened. Coverage around the doc points to a complicated relationship with his mother, Victoria Valadez, and a patchwork of caretaking that did not protect him from loneliness. That absence echoes in the songs so many of us cried to.

Here is where I get opinionated. Society failed her too. We still treat motherhood as a default setting rather than a choice with enormous weight. Women are rarely given social permission to say I cannot do this or I am not ready without punishment. When that permission is denied, children often pay the price. The series and reporting do not excuse anyone. They contextualize. They show a woman shaped by poverty, expectations, patriarchy, and a culture that rarely offers grace when motherhood does not fit. They show a son who turned the ache into a cathedral that millions visited through his work.

That is the conundrum sitting in my throat after the final credits. If she had not had him, if life had not bent in exactly these unfair ways, would the world have known the uncontested phenomenon who redefined Latin music and dragged pop into high culture spaces like Bellas Artes in 1990. That concert did not just crown a star. It split a cultural atom, collapsing class and taste boundaries in real time.

The series also traces the betrayals, the political proximity, the tabloid wounds, and the family circle that loved and protected and sometimes complicated his story. That network matters because it shows how impossible it is to separate the artist from the web that made him, fought him, and carried him.

What I keep returning to is the way performance became therapy. Not the cute kind. The raw kind. When he sang “Querida,” it was not just a love song. It was prayer. Confession. A reclamation of self in front of witnesses who needed the same permission slip. The series’ premise is simple and devastating. It reveals a man who gave everything to his audience because under the lights was where he could be whole. That is what people came to feel. That is why his concerts played like revivals.

As a writer, I understand that survival strategy. I write to drag the unspeakable into the light. In The Ordinary Bruja, Marisol learns that silence is its own monster. She also learns that love does not always come in the package you begged for. Watching Juan Gabriel in this series reminded me that art can be revolt and self-worship at the same time. He did not wait for permission to exist. He performed his existence into reality and invited us to do the same.

There is another thread here that matters. The series makes clear how personal archives and never-before-seen materials complicate the simple narratives some people prefer. The man fans called El Divo de Juárez wrote more than 1,500 songs and sold out arenas across decades. None of that cancels the loneliness. All of it explains the scale of his reach. The NPR segment on the doc uses a phrase I love. It says the series “stitches together” his own recordings to tell the story only he could tell. That feels exactly right. He left the fabric. We are only now seeing the pattern.

So yes. Juan Gabriel was a babe. He was fierce. He taught me that transformation is possible when you risk being seen. He taught me that flamboyance can be a survival tool. He taught me that the tenderest people can still build cathedrals out of sound. I hope he learned what he needed to learn in this lifetime. I hope his mother did too. I am grateful to have been alive at the same time as this man who turned abandonment into belonging and invited the rest of us to come home to ourselves.

If you watch one thing this week, make it Juan Gabriel: I Must, I Can, I Will. Then tell me what it stirred up for you. Tell me where you recognized yourself. Tell me which song cracked you open and why.

#culturalLegacy #emotionalStorytelling #generationalTrauma #juanGabriel #latinMusicIcons #latinoHeritage #motherWound #netflixDocuseries #performanceAsHealing #theOrdinaryBruja

Taking Away the Monster’s Power

There was a Threads post I read last night that stayed with me long after I closed the app. It was about sexual-abuse survivors and how, for many, the deepest wound isn’t only what happened. It’s how their families respond after. One comment read something like, “Parents feel shame because they failed to do the one thing they were supposed to do: protect their child. Out of that shame, they deny it ever happened. And after denying it for so long, the silence itself becomes real.”

That line hit me hard because I know that silence. I’ve lived with it.

When something horrific happens in a family, the natural instinct should be to protect and comfort. But for many survivors, the opposite happens. The adults retreat behind fear and shame, rewriting the story so they can live with themselves. According to trauma psychologists, denial is a common defense mechanism when the truth threatens a person’s sense of identity. A 2018 study published in Frontiers in Psychology found that families dealing with abuse often enter what researchers call “protective denial”—a state where acknowledging the trauma would mean admitting they failed at love’s most basic duty: safety.

That’s what builds the silence.

In families like mine, silence doesn’t just linger. It mutates. It becomes a living thing, a presence that sits at the dinner table and watches TV with you. Everyone senses it, but no one names it. It’s easier to pretend it isn’t there than to face what it means. Over time, the silence becomes the monster in the house: invisible, but powerful enough to shape every conversation, every relationship, every unspoken rule about what can and cannot be said.

That’s the monster I write about.

In The Ordinary Bruja, Marisol lives inside that same haunted quiet—the generational kind that passes from mother to daughter like an heirloom nobody wants. Her mother Josefina tried to protect her the only way she knew how: by wrapping truth in stories, lullabies, and warnings disguised as folklore. It’s something I’ve seen in so many immigrant and Latine families—pain gets encoded in parables because direct confrontation feels dangerous or disrespectful. Storytelling becomes the only safe language for survival.

When I write, I’m not just crafting fiction. I’m translating silence. Every ghost, every haunting, every ancestral whisper in my books represents something once buried. Writing becomes a kind of exorcism; a way to let those spirits finally speak.

People sometimes ask why my stories lean into darkness. I tell them it’s because I grew up in a world that pretended darkness didn’t exist. Writing horror and magical realism lets me drag it into the light. Horror, at its best, doesn’t glamorize pain, instead it forces us to look at what we’d rather avoid. Like the psychologist Carl Jung said, “What you resist, persists.” By writing the very things I was told to keep quiet about, I stop them from persisting in me.

Silence is powerful because it isolates. It convinces survivors that they’re alone in their truth, when the reality is heartbreakingly common. According to the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN), about 1 in 9 girls and 1 in 20 boys experience sexual abuse before age 18. Yet fewer than 38% of these crimes are reported. And of those reported, many families respond with disbelief or hostility, which re-traumatizes survivors and pushes them deeper into isolation. That’s how silence becomes its own ecosystem of harm.

For years, I didn’t understand that silence is a form of participation. When we choose not to speak, we hand the microphone to the monster. The more everyone avoids naming it, the more it grows. It slithers between generations, showing up as anxiety, addiction, or perfectionism—disguises that look different but share the same root: unspoken pain.

In writing The Ordinary Bruja, I decided I was done letting the silence win. Through Marisol, I took away the monster’s mask. Her journey isn’t about becoming fearless. It’s about facing what her family refused to confront. When she begins to see her ancestors’ ghosts, she’s really seeing what they hid from her: the pain, the guilt, and the truths that were too heavy to hold.

I’ve learned that every survivor’s story of healing starts with naming. That first whisper of “This happened to me” is an act of rebellion against shame. Shame thrives in secrecy, and truth starves it. When survivors speak, even through fiction, they reclaim their narrative. Research from trauma expert Dr. Bessel van der Kolk, author of The Body Keeps the Score, explains that storytelling helps survivors integrate fragmented memories and rebuild a coherent sense of self. In other words, telling the story—whether aloud, on paper, or through art—is literally how we rewire our brains toward healing.

That’s why I write.

I don’t write because I enjoy the dark; I write because I refuse to let it win. I write to remind myself that even if no one else names the monster, I can. And once I do, it loses its grip.

There’s a particular kind of freedom that comes when you finally drag the unspoken into the light. It’s painful, yes—but it’s also purifying. Every time I describe the ghost, or give a voice to a silenced woman, I feel a piece of that generational weight lift. It doesn’t disappear overnight. Healing never does. But the act of storytelling, of choosing to remember and speak, is a daily declaration: I survived, and the monster doesn’t get to live rent-free anymore.

Denial doesn’t protect anyone. It only delays the inevitable reckoning. Silence is not safety. It’s surrender.

So, yes, my monsters talk. They whisper, cry, and sometimes sing. But they’re mine now. They don’t walk freely through my house anymore.

And that, to me, is what real magic looks like.

#breakingSilence #familyDenial #generationalTrauma #healingThroughWriting #magicalRealism #ownVoicesFiction #survivorStories #theOrdinaryBruja #traumaRecovery

next up, as we're on the subject of #RadicalRap for #MusicBeforeBedtime, enjoy this absolute classic, evoking lots of memories, #CypressHill with #iAintGoingOutLikeThat

https://tidal.com/browse/track/35618?

#music #BedtimeRoutine #SelfCare #BurnOut #MENtalHealth #BPD #CPTSD #GenerationalTrauma

next up, as we're on the subject of #RadicalRap for #MusicBeforeBedtime, enjoy this absolute classic, evoking lots of memories, #CypressHill with #iAintGoingOutLikeThat

https://tidal.com/browse/track/35618?

#music #BedtimeRoutine #SelfCare #BurnOut #MENtalHealth #BPD #CPTSD #GenerationalTrauma

De Eso No Se Habla: The Cost of Our Cultural Silence

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#ancestralHealing #culturalSilence #DeEsoNoSeHabla #DominicanAuthor #familySecrets #GenerationalTrauma #identityReclamation #indieAuthorBlog #LatinaWriter #magicalRealism #PsychologicalHorror #TheOrdinaryBruja

When Hauntings Become Inheritance: The Stories That Shaped The Ordinary Bruja

When I first started writing The Ordinary Bruja, I didn’t plan to write a haunted house story. At least, not in the traditional sense. I wanted to write about the kind of hauntings that don’t come with creaking floors or shadowy figures, but with inherited silence, guilt, and the weight of being the first to see what others have learned to ignore.

But hauntings have a way of finding us.

And for me, they arrived wrapped in the influences of four stories that still live rent-free in my imagination: The Haunting of Hill House, The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina, Mexican Gothic, and Play Nice. Each one peeled back a layer of what I thought horror could be—and what it means to be haunted not by ghosts, but by family, memory, and identity.

The Haunting of Hill House – Grief That Builds Its Own Walls

Mike Flanagan’s The Haunting of Hill House changed the way I saw horror. It isn’t just a ghost story—it’s an autopsy of grief. What unsettled me most wasn’t the jump scares, but the quiet ache of it all. The way the Crain family keeps walking through rooms built from regret, denial, and love.

That’s how Hallowthorn Hill came to life in my book. It’s not just a setting; it’s a living reflection of the Espinal women’s silence and sorrow. Like Hill House, it’s a presence that responds to what’s left unsaid.

I wanted Marisol’s haunting to feel cyclical, deeply human—where trauma doesn’t stay buried just because you refuse to speak its name. Hill House taught me that horror isn’t always about the supernatural. Sometimes, it’s about the rooms you build inside yourself to survive loss.

The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina – Magic Written in Bloodlines

Zoraida Córdova’s The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina gave me permission to embrace unapologetic magic. The story of a family bound by a mysterious matriarch—whose gifts, secrets, and sacrifices ripple through generations—resonated deeply with me.

Orquídea reminded me of the Dominican women in my own life: the ones who speak in prayer and proverb, who light candles not just for hope but for protection, who hold entire histories in their silence.

That’s how the Espinal women were born. Their magic, like Orquídea’s legacy, is both inheritance and burden. Each generation carries a power that was once silenced—and a responsibility to reclaim it without losing themselves in the process.

Córdova’s novel showed me that magical realism doesn’t need to explain itself. It exists because it’s truthful to cultures where the sacred and the everyday coexist. Her story reminded me that ancestral magic is not delicate—it’s demanding. And in The Ordinary Bruja, that truth became the backbone of the Espinal legacy.

Mexican Gothic – The Rot Beneath the Beauty

Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia is one of those novels that hums with unease. It’s not the kind of horror that screams—it whispers. It’s decadent and decaying at once, where the air itself feels poisonous and the walls pulse with history.

What captivated me most was how Silvia made dread beautiful. She built a world where the horrors of patriarchy, colonization, and control literally fester beneath the surface. The mold in that house isn’t just physical—it’s metaphorical.

In The Ordinary Bruja, Salvador embodies that same rot. He’s the ghost of machismo and generational control—a man who believed power belonged only to him. His influence lingers like mildew, feeding on fear and doubt.

I wanted my story to carry that same slow suffocation—a psychological horror that doesn’t always announce itself, but seeps into your bones. Like Mexican Gothic, I wanted to show that the real horror isn’t just in the house—it’s in the systems and silences that built it.

Play Nice – The Horror of Being the “Good Woman”

Rachel Harrison’s Play Nice was the most recent spark of inspiration, and it hit me in the chest. On the surface, it’s about a woman who inherits her mother’s supposedly haunted house, but beneath that is something far more sinister—the expectation to be “good,” to be palatable, to perform happiness even when everything inside you is collapsing.

Clio, the protagonist, is a woman who curates her life for the internet. She knows how to pose, how to smile, how to “play nice.” But when she returns to the house her mother once called cursed, she’s forced to confront the lies she’s told herself to keep that façade intact.

That idea struck a chord. Because Marisol Espinal also performs. She’s spent years trying to be small, agreeable, and invisible—trying to fit into a world that keeps telling her she’s too much and not enough at the same time.

Like Play Nice, The Ordinary Bruja explores what happens when women stop pretending. When they stop contorting themselves into acceptable versions of womanhood. When they finally say, I’m not here to play nice.

It’s in that defiance—when the mask cracks—that true power begins to rise.

The Intersection of Horror, Heritage, and Healing

When you blend all of these influences together—Hill House’s grief, Orquídea’s inheritance from Zoraida Córdova’s imagination, Mexican Gothic’s atmosphere, and Play Nice’s unmasking—you get the emotional DNA of The Ordinary Bruja.

I didn’t write this book to scare people. I wrote it to unbury something. To ask: what do we inherit when we inherit silence? What does it cost to heal what’s been festering for generations?

Writing this novel was my own kind of haunting. Every draft pulled me closer to the ghosts I hadn’t wanted to face—those of assimilation, of womanhood, of ancestral expectations. But it also showed me that hauntings don’t always want to hurt us. Sometimes, they want to be heard.

If The Ordinary Bruja has a message stitched into its spine, it’s this:
Our hauntings are not curses. They’re invitations—to remember, to reclaim, and to rise.

The Ordinary Bruja: Book One of Las Cerradoras Series – Johanny Ortega

Marisol Espinal has spent her life trying to disappear from her family’s whispers of magic, from the shame of not belonging, from the truth she refuses to face. She’s always wanted to be someone else: confident, capable, extraordinary.

But when strange visions, flickering shadows, and warnings written in her mother’s hand begin to stalk her, Marisol is forced to confront her deepest fear: what if she isn’t extraordinary at all? What if she’s painfully ordinary?

Yet Hallowthorn Hill doesn’t call to just anyone. And the more Marisol resists, the stronger its pull becomes. The past she’s buried claws its way back, and something in the mist is watching—waiting for her to remember.

If Marisol cannot face the truth about who she is and where she comes from, the same darkness that destroyed her ancestors will claim her, too.

Somewhere in the shadows, something knows her name.

And it’s time for Marisol to learn why.

Pre-order now

..on that note, here's another very apt #musicToWakeUpTo by #PJharvey called #billy which has deep memories for me around both my kids dads.
only the dickhead is still alive, in prison & heavily alcohol dependend resulting in serious #psychosis after 3 decades of drinking..

https://tidal.com/browse/track/637993?

#press #media #psychology #MENtalHealth #GenerationalTrauma #EmotionalNeglect #recovery #CPTSD #BPD #NPD #DVsurvivor #AbsentFathers #SingleParentFamilies