Until Someone Remembers

By Emme Dorsam

"Until Someone Remembers" by Emme Dorsam tells the story of a woman from England who wakes up one day to remember a life-changing event. Feeling lost, she returns to where it all began in Yorkshire, hoping to find answers from a woman she barely knows. But as she searches for the truth, she struggles with her sanity and faith.

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Monica Aebi
• Release date: Apr 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798869322302

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Until Someone Remembers

Emme Dorsam

Copyright © 2024

All Rights Reserved

Website: emmedorsam.com

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Dedication

To Josh,

An understanding and caring partner, but sometimes a bit testy.

Thank you for your love, encouragement, and never-ending support

Acknowledgments

True friends are seldom found, but when they show up, they are a true blessing. Mine come in all shapes and colors, each with their own talents, giving comfort, understanding, and supporting me when I needed it most. They are the ones who deserve all the praise for this book.

To Velda Thomas, Beverly Thomas, Joan Boes, Holly McG., Nicola Brunell, Erin Murphy, Tu, and the rest of the posse.

I would like to convey my gratitude to you wonderful people for scraping me off the ceiling (many) times, having my back, and not admitting me into the nearest mental institution.

Without your tender guidance, loving prodding, and patient encouragement, I would not have survived this endeavor. We’ve shed many tears and laughs on this wild journey, and I’m sure many ups and downs are yet to come. You faithfully accompanied me on my quest and even gave credence to the dark places of my mind. It was your support that brought Until Someone Remembers to print.

Having the warmth of your companionship and hospitality sustained me for these last years. Over multiple cups of tea or glasses of wine, you listened intently and even dissected the entire story with me. Who but a true friend would do that?

Using emotionally charged words, you held me together when all around me was falling apart and gave me a safe place to land without judgment (especially when the voices in my head roared). For many years, you all have kept me grounded, and our trust bond will surpass the ages. It was only through your expert teachings and encouragement that I opened my mind to accept the mysterious arts that transcend the fascinating veil. I am forever grateful to all of you.

Special appreciation for the dynamic Rev. Adam Gaunt, word wizard Mary Margaret Green, and excellent researcher Rev. Marie Bacchiocchi.

Foreword

Once in a blue moon, you hear a story that is so amazing it makes you ask the existential question: Is there something else that we are ignoring or unaware of?

Full disclosure: Having worked at the psychological unit at New Mexico University Hospital for many years as a Registered Nurse and as a psychologist, as well as having worked with those in need of psychological services for decades, I have never heard a recounting of a tale like Until Someone Remembers. While sitting for my doctorate, I studied near-death experiences, past life regressions, and Hakomi method therapies. However, after hearing Emme’s experience, my viewpoint now is that there is a distinct possibility that there is much more to this world than meets the human eye. What that is, I am honestly not sure. However, my mind is now open and receptive to that possibility, which makes this memoir much more poignant.

My first interaction with Emme was when she phoned for a therapy appointment. At the time, I was in the process of preparing for my own professional retirement by culling my client list and passing on those who were willing to other therapists in the area. I had closed my professional office, left a message on my voice mail that I would no longer be taking any new patients, and stopped answering the office phone. However, on this particular day, for some reason I still cannot explain. I happened to answer it, and it was Emme. When I told her that I was no longer accepting new patients due to planned retirement, she said, I don’t need you to fix me; I just want you to listen.

How I came to give her an appointment is beyond me. It was as if we were meant to meet – as if we were destined to be companions on this part of her journey.

Emme arrived at the precise time, dressed in yoga wear, no makeup, and her hair covered by a ball cap. She was an attractive black woman, intelligent with large dimples, beautiful white shining teeth, and well-spoken with an upper-class British accent. As we sat in my home office, she nervously ate the candy in my dish and started to relate a wild tale. There was no need for me to draw her out as she was already open and giving. As her story unfolded, I sensed I was about to learn something new, unusual, and perhaps mystical. Her grief, her sadness, and the regret that she displayed as a result of her recovered memory were overtly palpable.

The 60-minute session flew by, but I could not let her leave. My mouth was agape, my mind was filled with adrenaline, and I needed her to stay another hour to hear more. As she emptied the tissue box, I became captivated by the mesmerizing and compelling cosmic depth of her recovered memory and life experiences. During several of the following 2-hour sessions, we listened to each recorded psychic reading session together. Each one solicited a profound effect — the spoken words grounded into my soul. But when she told me that she wrote this book in five months, I was astounded. Eventually, she allowed me to read this astonishing manuscript and told me that, surprisingly, she was unable to read it in its entirety.

At one point, Emme asked for my professional opinion of her mental state, fearing that she was tumbling into insanity. In my professional capacity, I assured her that she was undeniably sane and that the shock of recovering the memory of such a profound event could be psychologically overwhelming.It has been my privilege to have heard and seen most of Emme’s evidence – from auditing her interactions with the psychics through recordings (which were mailed to her) to my own experience while interacting with her. I hope to be with her for a long time to come as she continues her incredible journey.

Joan A. Boes, Ph.D., Clinical Psychology

UNTIL SOMEONE REMEMBERS:

All of us believe in a force beyond and within us that is greater than our own existence. Is there a single person on earth who really believes that our destiny is entirely in our own hands, that we are not subject to forces beyond us?

Steve Leder

More Beautiful Than Before

Prologue

Imagine receiving an email from an unknown sender that is written in an unrecognizable language. Even using translation software produces a nonsensical script. You delete the email believing it was sent to you by mistake or it is simply annoying spam. When a second identical email arrives, you delete it too in frustration.

After a few days, weeks, or months, the same message reappears, always atop all other messages. You look for instructions on how to unsubscribe but there are none. Each time you receive the message now, it piques your curiosity as it’s obvious that somebody is trying to tell you something that requires urgent action. When all efforts are exhausted, the emails stop and you are left scratching your head.

A few days later, your phone rings from a number you recognize, but when you answer no one is there. This continues a few times with the same result and you think you’re going insane.

Perhaps you think of several acquaintances you haven’t heard from in a while and before you call them, they call you. Or you experience the eeriness of déjà vu, or maybe when an obscure feather lands at your feet, it seems hauntingly coincidental.

When these events are taken as a whole, you might believe your inventive brain is making it up.  But when you have no answer as to what and why, it could be a hint from the unconscious mind.

Have you considered that these strange incidents might signal that there is a message for you, one you are unable to hear or translate? My memoir, Until Someone Remembers, is a mystical and spiritual adventure that will take you to places you’ve never dreamt of. It will challenge you to rethink everything you think you know.

Had you experienced all these occurrences in the span of three months, say, would you consider them a coincidence? Or could there be some spiritual synchronicity at play?

Is there a message waiting for you?

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Foreword

Prologue

Introduction

Chapter 1: My Wandering Existence

Chapter 2: My Story

Chapter 3: My New Normal

Chapter 4: The Unthinkable

Chapter 5: The Next Chapter Of Me

Chapter 6: Alone Again

Chapter 7: Putting Pieces Together

Chapter 8: Darkness Of Memory

Chapter 9: Remembering

Chapter 10: Psychic Reading 1

Chapter 11: Psychic Reading 2

Chapter 12: The Journey Home

Chapter 13: Past Life Or Pretend Life?

Chapter 14: Psychic Reading 3

Introduction

Until Someone Remembers is my truth. Everything that I am about to relate to actually occurred. The names of some people involved have been changed to protect their privacy.

I am a blackwoman from southern England, although I reside in the United States. These events take place mainly in northern England, along the Yorkshire coast. One morning, in the midst of a two-year medically unexplained sleeping sickness, I awoke and began to recall a distant, ephemeral dream but abruptly realized that the dream had been a real event and that its transformative experience had been erased from my consciousness. But even as I recalled this event, I felt compelled to pursue answers to once nagging but since-forgotten questions. This story and its account began to take turn after turn, twist after twist.

I took a journey back to Yorkshire, where my story began, to talk with a woman I had met just twice as many years earlier in a place I barely knew. A woman from the past who unknowingly playsa central role in the telling and who holds some of the precious answers I am seeking.

When the story revealed itself, my mental state came into question. Throughout the writing of this account, I felt as if I were fighting to retain my sanity and wasunder spiritual attack. Though I am grateful that I chose to undertake this journey to find answers and meaning, I struggled (and still do) to make sense of it all. I found myself fighting to balance my Christian faith with the unfamiliar and shadowy realm of spiritualism. To this end, I reached out to the mysterious world of psychic mediums and practitioners of the hypnotic arts. To me, their responses were incredible, and I ultimately became a true believer after receiving messages from beyond. The psychic communications I received astonished and amazed me and left no doubt in my mind that this book had to be written.

This book’s undertaking has been with the encouragement and support of my family, dear friends, and acquaintances who know the entire fantastical tale. It is not meant to sway one’s viewpoint one way or another. It is only a pure narrative of what occurred, where it took me, and what is still happening to me.

This Is Me

For years, I have sat on my couch or lain in bed, withdrawn from society and unresponsive to outside stimulation, frightened to leave the much-needed protection of home. Is it Tuesday, or is it Friday? What month or year is it? I couldn’t muster the brainwaves to know or care. Yet somehow, the last few months have stirred an awareness that this illness has summoned an overwhelming and hauntingly uncanny shift in my psyche. My life has been flipped in a way that I am unable to grasp, and it continues that way with sporadic lucidity.

For two years, I have been in a comatose state, exhausted and unable to function as I did during my career. The many medical specialists I have consulted have not been able to diagnose what is happening to me and why it continues to occur. No, I am not under the influence of psychotropic drugs or recreational mind-altering substances. I have always been an adventurer with a vibrant, witty, and wild personality, so this state of mind is new to me. I am now a ghost of my old self. My current existence is shrouded by a cocoon of dense fog and a terrifying sense that there are spiritual dimensions outside of my reasoning wanting to make contact with me. It’s either that, or I’m slowly gliding from sanity into the murky depths of madness.

***

My name is Emme, pronounced Em-ee. There is no last name – just call me Emme Everywoman. This tale is a letter to life, love, remembrance, and the ensuing journey that needed to be taken. Even though you may think the tale is too fantastic or far-fetched to believe, all of it is true.

When someone tells me that life is a breeze, my opinion of that person’s life becomes that it is an unfinished, unfulfilled venture. But what happens when your life’s journey is interrupted for a while and then continues in a different direction? And what happens when a long-lost memory resurfaces and you learn how small you are, how immaterial you are in the universe? Why did the memory come back? And why did it come back when it did?

If anyone tells you that life is strange and the journey is long, believe that person. Especially if the journey involves lost loves because those are the ones that stretch beyond the margins, making the rest of life long and lonely, with unanswered questions. They make living tiresome and lacking because you cannot be with your loved one, can’t pick up the phone for a quick conversation, and are left wondering ‘why?’ about everything.

When you meet me for the first time, you will notice that I am an enigma – a run-of-the-mill slender black woman with a wide African nose, processed kinky hair, expressive eyes, dimples the size of the Grand Canyon, the skin of a mocha goddess and a soft upper-class British accent.

I am the fifth of six children born into a family from a British Caribbean island, but I play the role of the middle child. As if I were the third sibling, I am the peacemaker and deal-maker, the keeper of secrets in the different alliances formed among us children throughout the years. As a result, I am a bit distant from the others, and that role has informed my distinctive style.

It is not easy being blackand British. To the American ear, I sound English; to the English ear, I sound American. Americans of every color think my accent is mocking them; Englishmen consider me American, and yet they cannot immediately put me in a box. There is no definitive place to put me. All they know is that I definitely am not white, and I definitely am not black black. So what am I? In many ways, there are advantages to being considered different: You become immediately unforgettable; you awaken a sense of world-class adventure in the listener, and the difference is always a great conversation starter. It draws the audience in.

At a slender 5’7", I know clothes hang well on me, and I use them to maximize my appearance – nothing too much, just a pop of color or an unusual design that can be used to start a discussion or chit-chat at a gala, dinner or a ride with strangers on the Metro.

My smile can charm you in an instant, putting you at ease, along with my well-spoken words. People are usually warm to me. On the other hand, if pressed, I can use my wit to cut you down and put you in your place – seamlessly and with a genuine-looking smile. These are all things I learned from my formative years at a prestigious girls' school and many years of working in the political arena in Washington, D.C.

During my time working and living here in the Washington area, I have shaken the hands of presidents and vice presidents of the United States, White House chiefs of staff, secretaries of every Cabinet department, Congress members and senators, heads of international central banks, cardinals and bishops from around the world, a British princess – you get the gist. Among my friends are politicians, chief executives of large corporations, ex-ambassadors, and political and global influencers in general.

The one thing to know about me is that I am a painfully shy introvert.

During my formative years, this shyness gave me the innate ability to live in my head, as outside stimulation was not needed to amuse or entertain me. Just observing people and what they were doing was enough to keep me occupied for hours – no need for words or companionship.

My shyness came about as protection from family members, and especially strangers who found the need to comment on my large dimples, wanting me to smile and tickling me to get their way. To this day, I refuse to be tickled. Do not be fooled! Just because I am shy doesn’t mean I lack self-confidence. My attributes should not put you off. I am a regular person. I shy away from fools and drama, as they take away from my personal happy existence, yet I will not judge unless I am asked, and then I will give my honest, blunt opinion.

How you live is your business as long as it does not interfere with my reality. My good friends have earned my loyalty and trust, as I always rely on them. Above all, my family is everything.

Chapter 1

My Wandering Existence

W

hen I was 19 years old, I had a very successful, rewarding career working with Eastern Gas in the Gas Conversion Unit. The hours were long, but the returns were enormous, not just in salary but in working with the best group of people anyone could wish to know. Our boss was a wonderful man who trusted us to take care of business and allowed us to soar. We repaid him with loyalty, representing him and the company in everything we did. Our unit was very effective; our job performance was A-1. We worked hard and played hard, spending 12 to 14 hours a day together. We were all well acquainted personally and were dedicated to the job and each other. Because we spent so much time together, our lives became intertwined; we fully supported one another.

I also had two young children, a boy, and a girl, because of stupidity and gullibility in believing empty promises. My children were my strength and resolve. I was determined to give them a good, happy life and afford them every opportunity to flourish and triumph. My weekly income from Eastern Gas was far larger than my father’s salary. I compensated my mother generously to take care of the children during the week, and they stayed with me on the weekends. It was a win-win for all of us. I dated when it was convenient but had no intention of marrying or cohabiting with anyone. My focus was on my children and my career. Life was good. Then, a mutual friend introduced me to Frank, a senior airman like my friend, living on base with his wife and family. He was a technical sergeant with the U.S. Air Force and nine years my senior. He and his wife, whom I had met and known was a severely abusive alcoholic, hadtwo children. Before I knew it, Frank had my phone number and was calling constantly. We went to dinner a few times; he came to my flat once and drove my Godly parents to their church services on Sundays. He ingratiated himself with my children and parents, who, in turn, embraced him. He used them all as his advocates and began finding excuses to visit.

I think they liked the availability of his car – a new Mustang Cobra – more than him, as none of us could drive, and we all relied on the local buses for transportation. He drove us everywhere – to the market, to doctor appointments, for Sunday afternoon drives.

One evening, while I was relaxing in my flat after work, there was a knock at the front door. It was Frank, with a suitcase in hand. He informed me that he had left his wife and had no place to stay. As adear friend, I offered him the couch for a few days.

The rest is history;he never left. In time, webecame intimate, and he wooed me with promises of a happy life together. We subsequently moved into a large rented bungalow in an adjoining village, where we lived happily with the children for 18 months. He was good to us; we had a mutual agreement on everything, and he embraced my children as his own.

His wife and children had been out of the picture since we met. He made little effort to visit or inquire about them, even when I insisted he should. To him, it was as if they had never existed.

Abilene, Texas

I had never thought of leaving England, as it was my home, and leaving family had never occurred to me. Yet I was ready for adventure, and Frank was relocating to Texas. I set out to obtain a U.S. visitor visa, but that became a nightmare, as papers were frequently lost between embassies and had to be resubmitted again and again.

Frank, already in Texas, theorized that if I were a married woman, the visa paperwork would be fast-tracked so we could join him in the house he had purchased for us. So, with that purpose in mind, I flew from London to Mexico City, where we were married immediately in an unceremonious ceremony in Spanish by a justice of the peace with the justice’s secretary as our only witness.

That evening, Frank received a call from his U.S. base with orders to return immediately for an overseas mission. I was back in England before I heard from him again. He didn’t say where he was or what he was doing. I guess that’s the life of a U.S. airman. When he returned to England for a visit, I followed through on his suggestion that I should quit my lucrative position at Eastern Gas with the expectation that soon we would be flying off as a family into the wild blue yonder.

In fact, securing my U.S. visa took more than five months, which depleted all of my savings,