Whispers: A Story of Meeting the Devil and Surviving

By T.G. Anderson

This book charts T.G. Anderson’s true life mingles with the unknown. It takes readers to his journey through the darkness and finding his way out to the light. Here, he shares snippets of his daily-to-day life as he struggles with mental illness. This is his story of meeting the devil and surviving from it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796088137

T.G. Anderson

I am not one to espouse self-accomplishments. So, I guess I can try to not grandiose myself. Only that, if I saw something I wanted to do, I did it, and very well. Guess you can say I was a jack of all trades that succeeded in all. I was a bricklayer, country club manager, managed construction sites, taught math in college and graduated on the top of my classes at the University of Omaha in International Finance. I threw all that behind me to try to be a writer.

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Copyright © 2020 by T.G. Anderson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/13/2020

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CONTENTS

Prologue

PART I : CLARITY

Chapter 1: The Luck of the Draw

Chapter 2: From Woody Allen to Arnold Schwarzenegger

Chapter 3: Stampede

Chapter 4: Flying Pigs

Chapter 5: The Stump-Bow Incident

Chapter 6: The Devil’s Ride

Chapter 7: The Badger

Chapter 8: Path Changers

Chapter 9: Limb Hanging

PART II : ADULTHOOD’S SLAP IN THE FACE

Chapter 10: Entering Uncharted Waters

Chapter 11: Acclimating to Brutality

Chapter 12: A World Turned Upside Down

Chapter 13: We’re in Business

Chapter 14: The Moonshine Run

Chapter 15: Purple Passion

PART II : ON A PIG’S WINGS

Chapter 16: Leaving Tom Sawyer

Chapter 17: Dreamt Places Visited

Chapter 18: Reevaluation

Chapter 19: Unclipped Wings

Chapter 20: The Green Beast

Chapter 21: A Band of Bandits

Chapter 22: Nowhere to Go, Not Enough Time to Be There

PART III : RAGS, RICHES, LOVE, AND STRIPPERS

Chapter 23: The Catalysts

Chapter 24: The Boxer

Chapter 25: An Aztec Goddess

Chapter 26: Lighting a Fire under Our Butts

Chapter 27: Ghosts, Geese, and a Vacuum

Chapter 28: The Gander from Hell

Chapter 29: The Vacuum

Chapter 30: Everybody Wants to Rule the World

Chapter 31: Just Muggin’ in the Rain

Chapter 32: Shadow Jumping

Chapter 33: The Prodigal Son Returns

Chapter 34: Building an Empire

Chapter 35: The African Princess

Chapter 36: The Ship Left Harbor without Me

Chapter 37: Two Punches to the Kidneys

Chapter 38: Follow Me

Chapter 39: Creating a Monster

Chapter 40: Abandon Ship!

PART IV : ROSES, 3 HOTS WITH A COT, AND A DIAMOND STARTING OVER

Chapter 41: Lessons not Learned

Chapter 42: Homecoming

Chapter 43: A Quiet Menace

Chapter 44: I Fought the Law and the Law Won

PART V : CHAOS, KNOCKING ON HELL’S DOOR

Chapter 45: Aliens Invading

Chapter 46: A Rat, a Cat, and a Brat

Chapter 47: The Wayward Child

Chapter 48: Fast Forward

PART VI : NOTHING IS WHAT IT SEEMS TO BE

Chapter 49: A New Spring

Chapter 50: The Snake

Chapter 51: What Seems to Be Is Not What It Is

Chapter 52: Unopened Arms

Chapter 53: A Family of My Own

Chapter 54: A Time of Waiting to Die

Chapter 55: Recuperating from Losses

Chapter 56: A New Day

Chapter 57: Days Lost

Chapter 58: Back in the Rhythm

Chapter 59: Lightening Only Strikes Once

Chapter 60: Last Visit

Chapter 61: Leaving Sanctuary

Acknowledgments

If you’re going through hell,

Keep on going,

If you’re scared do not show it!

If you’re going through Hell, keep on moving.

Face that fire and walk right through it,

For you may get out before the Devil even

Knows you’re there!

—Rodney Atkins,

"If You’re Going

Through Hell"

Prologue

Could life be better than this? Ducking, twisting, and dodging through the woods, running as quickly as possible with only instinct navigating. Living on the edge, trusting the power strapped by your legs around the beast beneath you. I trust her instincts as she trusts me to give her the reins of her will for both our sakes. The reins are free, my hands grasping her mane; and my legs are snug around her, ready for any deviation she chooses. I ride in pure faith and in unadulterated trust. Sandy is her name. She is my horse, my pal, my only friend.

We have been following my uncle, four years my senior, on his own chestnut pony, Silver. Sandy’s hooves pound the ground, anticipating the next turn. We follow the downflow of the creek running through the woods. Her reins are free, and she decides her next move. Her only hindrance is the twelve-year-old boy with his legs holding on for dear life around her midsection. I feel her strength between my thighs as she snorts and huffs all the while her breathing is in a constant rhythm with her pace. She loves to run this way. She has the wind and the will. She needs no prodding by me to keep up with the pursuit. Leaning forward, I whisper in her ear, Go, girl, ho! Moving even faster, she takes turns only an unreined horse can do. This is not the Kentucky Derby on the stretch run to the finish but an obstacle course a Navy SEAL would have second thoughts trying. It is an obstacle course only nature can devise.

What little path there is, we follow it. We weave through the trees, duck low-hanging branches, and jump fallen logs in our path. I lie prone on Sandy’s back as we pass under a large hornet’s nest, their stingers dodged and left behind to better prepare themselves for the next time.

Following my uncle on his chestnut horse, we keep pace. Our goal is in sight: the creek where it narrows to eight feet. The path we follow is clearly seen made by the wild animals traveling for water. My uncle, on top of Silver, cleanly jumps the waters to the other side. Climbing a small rise, my uncle reins in Silver to turn and watch Sandy’s and my attempt. A knowing look crosses his face. It is somewhere between a Cheshire cat’s grin and the sneer of the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. He is reminding me of what is coming next. Down a short decline, the creek appears. As if he is watching a NASCAR race, waiting for an accident to happen, I see anticipation in his face.

Ten feet . . . five feet . . . two feet . . . the water’s edge!

Aw . . . SHIT!

As usual, Sandy plants her hooves at creek’s edge. You would think I would learn after so many times. As I catapult over Sandy’s head, I do not see much guilt or remorse in her eyes as I briefly make eye contact flying head over heels over her. When you sit in the middle of a creek with bluegill taking sharp little bites on your ass, the water is flowing by chest deep, and you watch your best friend and steed casually walk past you to the other side, you begin to think the possibility of insanity. When you do the something over and over and expect a different result, you must decide enough is enough. You can live in a fantasy and live that life. But soon, and eventually, you will have to accept reality. The disillusioned living a fantasy life drowns in ever-increasing waters, always reaching for a life jacket. The realist stands on firm ground with no need to follow others and with firm footing treks his own path.

PART I

Clarity

Chapter 1: The Luck of the Draw

Is it predetermined where one is born? Or is birthplace a random choice? Does a Creator determine where one is to be born? Or does man have the will and determination to decide where a child is born? Why are some born into primitive, tribal warfare in this modern age? Many are born under dictatorial rule while many more only know the religious dogma they have lived under their whole lives. The bigger question is, with the communication and information available now, why so many ignore and disbelieve the fact freedoms unheard to them are readily practiced and available here in this special place?

These freedoms are only in this special place. They can only happen here. Everyone holds these freedoms dear. All are free to dream of a better life where only self-will and determination demand the difference between failure and success. Only in this place can one burn our flag in resistance to a war or any other political thought without authoritarian repercussions. Only here can a handful of young black people sit at a diner’s counter to protest unequal rights. Only here, a country joins together during World II to defeat a fascist ruler and bring the world to see the Holocaust. Only here does a country come together to repel the cowardly act upon the World Trade Centers. Our freedom makes us one and special.

Do the oppressed Siberian laboring as slave in a gulag the norm? No! When monsoons hit Africa, do they think this happens around the world? No! A person living under religious edict all their lives may see their life is the only life to live. A life only possible, like all the previous, because they do not have the awareness or the freedom to even dream of something different. Something different beyond their imagination. Perhaps they hear the Whispers. The Whispers are of a different life and existence. Some hear them as hope while others hear them as the devil’s work. More often than not, the Whispers only visit the good to lure them into the bad.

From 300 BC to AD 450, the Roman Empire ruled the known world. However, the birth of the Islamic faith in AD 456 and the insurrection of the Vandals brought Rome to its knees. Rome was the first republic based on capitalism and quasi-democracy. A Senate was created to govern the people and oversee a fledging young economic capitalistic system. Although there were bolts that needed tightening and fissures needed stoppage, it was a start where the people spoke and the governing listened albeit some autocratic rule still existed. So it is not amazing that our fore-founders turned to the Roman rule as a model for their own vision of the new society they were creating. They even plotted the city of Washington DC with Rome in mind. Not only that, our forefathers also installed precepts on top of the Roman rule unheard of in human history. Freedoms were the basis of their thoughts. For the first time, freedoms were necessary for a society to thrive on with pure democracy and capitalism. The people spoke; the government listened. A concept never attempted fully, and yet, a concept very successful. All the while fighting a mighty monarchial empire.

According to John Locke, the eighteenth-century philosopher—and I paraphrase— liberty and ensuing freedoms are inalienable rights of man to pursue Happiness. Such is our country still today 240 years later, such where everyone still have the freedom to live happiness. What is more amazing is the achievements gained in so few a years. To name a few: electricity, phones (landline and mobile), cars, radios, TVs, space exploration, computers, Internet, and social media. Wow! Think about it! Man has been on this planet for hundreds of thousands of years, yet we achieved all the above in less than three centuries with our American ingenuity. So is it not so wondrous that by the luck of the draw I was born in such a wondrous place?

Happiness. A state of mind. The accomplishment of happiness has been deciphered throughout mankind. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Locke, Einstein, Twain, and many others have a different thought. Shelter, heat, and food gave early man happiness. Simple yet difficult to attain at the time. As man evolved, happiness became harder to achieve. This simple happiness became more difficult when formations of different societies created tribal warfare to protect one another’s territory. Thus increase the stress to sustain and keep one’s livelihood with their local game. In turn, tribal warfare ensued for food and territory. The communal society gave way to clans resorting to warfare to take another’s treasures for their own. Happiness went from relying on one another in the community to achieve greater happiness to taking another’s treasure.

Like an alcoholic taking his first drink after so many years of sobriety and cannot stop, the clans kept feuding to achieve happiness always out of their reach. The thirst for happiness overwhelmed any common respect for others. Clans became self-indulgent and no longer cared of the pain and death they inflicted to gain something that was always out of reach. Clans became tribal, the tribes became nations, and nations warred on a greater scale. The cost no longer mattered; only the wealth of their existence mattered.

Debauchery, rape, murder, and religious persecutions became a norm. As the centuries passed, one country was born to stifle all these atrocities and emerge out of the chaos. A few daring men and women risked their lives to create a new nation. They threw away their sense of security, their simple needs for food and shelter, for a vision that they knew full well they will never see the possible fruition or maybe the pure failure. Here we go back to prerevolutionary thoughts of John Locke.

The founding fathers based their ideas on the musings of John Locke. Long before the Declaration of Independence was written and signed, John Locke wrote, All men are created equal, that they are Endowed By Our Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. Let’s start with the word inalienable. Inalienable means a right already preexisting. Unalienable would mean a right that is foreign and unknown. The word of takes on a more ambiguous meaning. If John Locke used the word for, it would hold the meaning of chasing something not yet seen or grasped. But the word of suggests the connotation happiness already exists. Everyone with inalienable rights already have happiness. There is no need to find it for it is always there. All that is needed is to see it and live it. The word before happiness is more profound than the word happiness itself. It construes the concept life can be lived with happiness without fighting for happiness. It is simply a choice. You choose to live happy or choose to dwell on what bad is going to happen next.

So this begins my story. A life that followed two roads but neither intersecting. Each road going in opposite directions. Not knowing to go left or right, I was left with one option. To go on the off-track to which road it led me. Hop, skipped, and jumped down the yellow brick road I went. Horses of another color, flying monkeys, and a witch’s curses stood in my way. Although I lost the path and the Emerald City was always elusive, I never gave up!

Three reasons I tell this tale, although not a simple fairy tale but much like Mark Twain meeting Stephen King. And this is not fiction. One, I felt the need to finally explain my actions and answer any questions my family has always wondered about. Two, perhaps the most important, I need to reveal all to cleanse my soul. And three, I pray this tale will help others know that they are not alone in facing the demons within. No matter how dark it seems, no matter how close to the edge one steps foot, you are not alone. Many feel the same only to let it slide by thinking the darkness is what everyone else lives but copes with.

It gets dark! Very, very dark! There is not a glimmer of light. No future, no hope. All one wanted is peace from the chaos within the mind, the demons. It can be stopped. If I do one thing here with this story, I will preach the demons can be beaten. I reached that precipice and came back. Four times, I came back. Why? I reached out. I still had that small strength to find that phonebook, dial 911, and call family. I reached out in desperation. Deep inside, I really wanted to live but without the demons in my mind. I was lucky. I reached out. I found hope! With hope and help, I found direction. No matter how dark it seems, there always remains a glimmer of light to lead you. That is hope! So here we go.

Chapter 2: From Woody Allen to Arnold Schwarzenegger

It is cold! So cold! Am I drowning? I do not think so. My head seems to stay afloat to breathe. I feel the ice around me, but I do not understand being in this deep bathtub while three other people are looking down on me. The icy water is inflicting stabbing pains on my body. But I am not shivering. In fact, I welcome the intense bodily pain if only it can soothe the madness in my mind. The boiling in my mind. The faces above me are talking to one another. I do not hear their words or understand the grave concern on their faces. But why are they not taking attempts to pull me from this icy torture? The three angels kept a constant watch over me with murmured words among one another. I am not understanding any of this. But I took consolation from the compassion in their eyes. A compassion that stayed with me for the rest of my life, although I frequently forgot and seldom embraced for the next fifty years. A lesson learned but faded by time.

The three angels were my parents and the family doctor. A time when family doctors still made house calls. It was a time of my earliest remembrance of life. I was five years old, and I had scarlet fever. I was immersed in the old deep tub, normally found on the farms at that time, in ice. My fever had to be reduced. My temperature increased to the point that most concurred brain damage was nearly certain. Only time will tell. I was five years old, and I believe I can remember this is because it was so catastrophic. I had no one tell me of this ever, even my parents. My recollection is solely based on the experience imbedded in my mind. The three angels who watched over me then paid me a visit once again much later in my life. As they carried me then, they carried me years later to survive once again!

My illnesses did not stop there. My very early youth was that of a very sickly boy. I am almost proud to say I survived every ailment this world has to offer besides the bubonic plague, smallpox, and Ebola. Before I was ten years old I had the company of the measles, chickenpox, mumps, diphtheria, and migraines that were so severe that my parents took me to every specialist to cure them. None succeeded, but they just simply disappeared over time. I even had mononucleosis, the kissing disease. Give me a break! The only thing I kissed at that age was my dog Lucky.

Before I was ten, I felt as if I was Woody Allen. Sickly looking and the body of weakness. Past ten, I became the epitome of the Terminator, the Arnold. I defeated the sickness and became stronger, only because of the farm life I lived demanded it. I came of age to take care of the livestock and run massive tractors to do field work. My father taught me at a young age. This is what people who work the land do. Sire as many children as you can to produce your own labor force. I not only enjoyed it but also felt the pride of becoming a man. As I watched my father do feats, which were amazing to me, I felt soon I would be doing the same and follow his footsteps.

We were a God-fearing family. A farming family. Every day we woke at sunrise and the day was done when the sun set. The seventh day, we went to church. Church school first hour then the sermon the next hour. Imagine two hours of religion and keeping five children in line with pent-up energy. Alas, we were relegated from the front pews to the back pews. There, our father can give his hand to the back of our heads without anyone seeing. We children were proud of the pins we earned for each year of church school. We fastened each pin onto the ever-growing chain we displayed every Sunday as if we were admirals of the Fifth Fleet. We all went through Catholicism classes. We learned the Lord’s Prayer, the Apostles’ Creed, and the Nicene Creed. Upon graduation, we all received our personal Bible, which to this day we still cherish.

I have often wondered and tried to make sense why I was born into such God-fearing, hardworking parents in the middle of such a great country while others are not. Why was I spared the famine, the political strife and oppression, and dictatorial rule many others lived under while I was taking for granted the freedoms I thought everyone enjoyed? I came to the conclusion that there was a higher power that decides such things, or I was very lucky.

We were a farming family. It was not an eight-to-five job but rather work from sunrise to sundown. We woke at dawn to feed the livestock. Cattle, pigs, chickens, and horses. We then prepped our equipment to head out to the fields. We never left the fields all day. Our only reprieve was when Mother brought us lunch to eat under the shade of the big tires of our tractors. Then once again, Mother would bring ice-cold lemonade in the middle of a hot summer afternoon for a little respite. Our day’s field work was only done when the sun was setting, and we had to feed the livestock once again before darkness. In the middle of a surprise blizzard, we combined the harvest of crops at two in the morning. The rest of a farmer who toils the land rests solely on the temperament of the weather. My father’s credo was always Hard work reaps great rewards. So day after day after day, we fed the livestock: the cattle, pigs, chickens, and horses. We plowed the land, harvested the crops and stacked the hay, planted the garden, and fixed the fences. The work is done Monday through Saturday. Sunday was for rest besides feeding the livestock. All the rest could wait until Monday. Sundays were a special day for the family.

Sundays were always special family days. We would drive home after church where Mom would make her usual Sunday feast of a dinner. On a farm versus those townies, lunch is called dinner and dinner is called supper. Please excuse my lack of sophistication by lack of habit. You never leave the farm. Usually, dinner was fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn on the cob, green bean casserole, and Jell-O parfait. Dessert was apple, cherry, peach, or strawberry rhubarb pie with ice cream on top. All raised and grown on the farm. We enjoyed what we reaped from our hard labor. After which, Dad would herd all us kids into the family car for our usual Sunday drive around the area. Us kids hated this boring sightseeing trip. We would have much more by playing outside. But I suspect Mom and Dad took us on a spying mission for lack of a babysitter. Back then, phones were connected to a party line. To make a call, one must wait for the others to get off. In the meantime, one can still listen in on to the new neighborhood gossip two farmer wives are having. A Sunday drive, however, gains access to firsthand knowledge of our neighbors in real time. Once back home, Dad and I would feed the livestock while Mom and the sisters would prep supper, which was usually leftovers or shit on a shingle. It was actually better than it sounds. It was homemade gravy mixed with hamburger on top homemade biscuits.

Once dinner was finished and we kids washed and dried the dishes—we always fought over who would wash—was TV time. Back then, channel surfing was quick. Our black-and-white TV only had three channels and only if Dad could manipulate the rabbit ears just right. The first half hour, 6:00 to 6:30 p.m., was Sing Along with Mitch Miller; then the next half hour was the Lawrence Welk Show about polka and dancing. We kids hated that hour of forced viewing. Needless to say, neither one of us became accomplished singers and dancers. Then it was our kid’s time to choose unless All-Star Wrestling came on. Dad hated the Sandman and Mad Dog Vachon.

Our TV viewing was between 7:00 p.m. and 9:00 p.m., 9:00 p.m. being bedtime. We had a plethora of choices on three simple stations: CBS, NBC, and ABC. The choices were mouth-watering. We had the Wonderful World of Disney, Gunsmoke, Rawhide, The Rifle Man, Daniel Boone, The Honeymooners, The Carol Burnett Show, The Red Skelton Show, Lassie, and the Milton Berle Show. The problem was we four kids would squabble heatedly over which to watch. So being the autocratic beings they were, our parents decided for us. More often than not, we came to a forced consensus to watch The Wonderful World of Disney.

We grew up with a proud sense of patriotism. My father was a war veteran. When the three TV stations closed down for the night playing the national anthem, my father would stand with his right hand to his heart. In our one-room rural grade school, each day we raised the flag up the flagpole each morning as we vowed the Pledge of Allegiance. We even had, in case Russia was dropping nuclear warheads on us, drills where we scrambled under our desks with our hands over our heads, all for God, country, and family!

As the family jousted over which show to watch, I could be found in my room with my books. My grade school teacher introduced me to the fabulous world of words and stories. At seven years old, this teacher assigned me the works of Shakespeare and Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities. Anyone who has tried to read Old English can understand the difficulty of understanding it. They are words spoken and written hundreds of years ago. A more formal language than ours today. Essentially, it is a foreign language. But like anything foreign, the more you live with it, the better you understand it. I started to live within the words of Shakespeare and Dickens. Soon, I found a new world in a language long forgotten. An eloquent language discarded for ease of understanding. It is no wonder that A Tale of Two Cities is my favorite. The language is poetic and the story compelling, told through a time of history. A true author and storyteller can paint a picture with words. These writers allow you to see and feel the moment as they see and feel the moment themselves. A true writer’s concern is not the number of volumes sold but rather the influence his words have. A true writer only wants to open minds to see what was not seen before. An aha moment.

In my bedroom, I could open a book and escape into another world. I left all pain, despair, and sense of futility behind. The feeling of hopelessness, unworthiness, and loneliness disappeared. I was Romeo laying my life down for Juliet. I was Anne Boleyn being beheaded under orders of King Henry VIII. I experienced the desperation in the Grapes of Wrath dustbowl. I froze under the betrayal in Doctor Zhivago. I was sitting in the courtroom as Atticus Finch defended his client while at the same time educated his daughter Scout in To Kill a Mockingbird. And I relaxed as Huckleberry Finn, Indian Joe, and I floated down the Mississippi on a raft. I fished with Tom Sawyer with our cane fishing poles while relaxing on the riverbank. But then, I was also Rambo fighting injustice in First Blood! I was even King Arthur pulling Excalibur out of the stone.

At this time, I believe the Whispers made themselves apparent. Each time I closed my book for the night to rest for the next day, I felt a foreboding sense of not wanting to reenter the real world. I knew the Whispers would visit my sleep. They would tell me of failure, worthlessness, taking space from someone more worthy than I. Why should a young boy be demonized for something yet not done? This is how the Whispers work. They become tenants of the two worlds you live in. The consciousness and the unconsciousness. They watch you through the day and visit your dreams at night. They manipulate your dreams and unconsciousness to alter your conscious reality. They are masters of confusion to lead you down their own path. Getting off that path is a long continuous journey without them noticing.

Chapter 3: Stampede

Farm kids start their work life early. I am not talking about delivering newspapers or the legs getting tired pedaling a bike or a rotary cuff getting injured throwing a newspaper onto a porch. I am talking of backbreaking chores all day long that would make Paul Bunyan complain and force a professional wrestler tap the mat into submission.

Being the eldest of four siblings, I looked forward to relinquishing some of the chores when the next sibling in line came of age. In the meantime, I was bestowed the knighthood of being my father’s second at the tender age of eight. Why should I not perform the duties soon to be demanded me? After all, I have already mastered the works of Dickens and Shakespeare. How much harder can it be?

Are you ready, boy? my father said, not really asking me but telling me.

You bet! I declared.

I was bedecked like my father. Coveralls, check. Boots, check. My red Husker cap, check. I was ready. Bring it on! I was ready to show my worth as my father has always done.

"Well then, kid, let’s get to