There is a sign, of course, at the foot of the drawbridge: “Welcome to the inside of my head”. Ah yes... take in the brilliance of my Disney-like castle. The palatial grandeur, the iridescent colours. The bricks are units of time: from small second-bricks to huge year-ones. And those turrets? They're decades. The fourth one is still under construction. Do you see how my castle shimmers on a sunny day? When the skies are warm and blue, marvel at the French doors that swing open to the sound of music. Out pop amazing stories of wild adventures, daring encounters and breath-taking journeys. Out dance passionate affairs dripping in salacious details, followed by hilarious conversations, endearing anecdotes. Inside my Castle of Time it's like one of these multi-screen cinemas where rich assortments of films are playing simultaneously, in various languages and with different subtitles. There's upbeat jazz music – the quick tempo a perfect remedy for the chaos of my ever-spinning thoughts. Fairy lights are a-twinkle and the scent of freshly baked bread magics a smile upon your face. “How clever, how witty!” visitors say. “Super creative… fabulous imagination.” “Aren't you tired? There is SO MUCH going on here,” says a kind soul. “Inspirational.” “I can't stop laughing. Do you do this professionally? No? Well, you should.” “Those psychedelic dreams!” “So capable,” says a tourist, clapping me on the back. “Great potential. When is your book coming out?” But suddenly, thick clouds set in and drown out the sun. The drawbridge creaks and heaves as it clanks down. There, in that muddy moat that hugs the castle, live terrible traumas. Hideous monsters that rise from the murky depths. The tigers crouching under the drawbridge are males who touched me, uninvited. The dragons hiding in the rye are the screamers; dominant men who must be in control at all times. There are more demons in that pond, lurking in the shadows of the Castle. The snakes are the cheaters, the scorpions the contaminators. Worst of all are the piranhas; the loved ones that simply upped and left. They wake up when my castle is stressed, scared or worn out. That's when the CP (Condemning Priest) who rules the place spews his poison, his Sect of Smug Women screeching that nothing I do is good enough. “My book,” I tell the tourist, breathing away the tension, “Oh, I don't know. I…” By now, the grey sky is pressing down on me. I feel exhausted. I want to run inside the donjon and hide in a room marked PRIVATE. It has a sofa with a warm blanket, a TV, books, and mountains of chocolate. “You'll never amount to anything,” the CP sneers. His Smug Women snigger. They've caught up with me, loving the torture. “Others write better, more poignant stories,” they mock. “They're successful. You're not.” “You have no energy to pull it off, a book on the market? You're always tired. Loser!” “Failure!” “You've got wrinkles. Time's up.” “Your body is flabby, you can't stop bingeing.” “You say you work hard but you have only ONE child. Pish.” I try to ignore their scorn. Grunting, I shove the CP and his haters in the pantry and lock it. I have another tourist to show around. “And where are you from?” I ask as I throw away the key. “Macedonia.” “Great,” I smile, opening the golden doors. “Здраво. Јас сум Сузана. Како си? добро или лошо? Мило ми е.” The woman's mouth falls open. “How did you...?” “I learnt some Macedonian whilst studying in Barcelona.” “Which languages do you speak?” “Oh,” I say shyly. “English, Dutch... and to varying degrees, French, German, Spanish, British Sign Language, Arabic, Italian, Mandarin and Turkish. “Can you read the Cyrillic alphabet?” “It was amazing to read signs in Moscow,” I say excitedly. But in the distance, I hear banging and clanking. The CP and his army of Smug Women. They're breaking out of the room. I feel anger bubbling inside. “What about Arabic?” the tourist asks. “Love reading and writing from right to left.” “And the Chinese one?” “Don't push it.” Grinning, the tourist picks up a memory. “Wow,” she breathes. “You covered this posh hotel in the Seychelles? You're a journalist? A writer?” Before I can even reply, the CP comes galloping up, flanked by his faithful followers. “She was,” he barks, “but now...” BAM! My fist hits him square on the nose. He slumps on the floor, clutching his bleeding face. Did I just do that? The tourist is too wrapped up in pictures of tropical trumpet fish and gorgeous Creoles to notice. She grabs a Huge Fact off a shelf. “Who's this handsome little prince? You're a Mum too?” “Lazy sloth…” one Smug Women starts. "She..." But I don't let her finish. “Oi,” I say, yanking the Smug's hair. “I am the Queen of my castle,” I bite at them. “No one else. Shoo!” “That's right,” I tell the tourist as I glare at my retreating demons. "And I do both well.” Yes, I've got some fight left in me. But how do I banish the baddies from my castle forever? Time will tell.

It was late when I woke up from my nap, my grandmother, who came home late from work, woke me up, "Oh poor girl, how are you going to spend your night?”. I didn't say anything as I was thinking. After a moment, I asked her, “Can I go to John's house to watch a movie?” She responded, “I won't walk you”. I begged her to take me because I was afraid of the monsters in the dark. She knew that I would keep begging her, and she accepted to take me. John had the only television in our neighborhood, and he had many domestic animals. It was hard walk to John's house because of all the animal feces. My grandmother stepped in it, “Oh no! See what you have done to me!” she pointed to her foot, “Why couldn't you stay at home?” I apologized, and tried to help her, but she refused me. I went into John's home, my grandma left me as I did, walking back home. When I entered the home, Luke, John's son, was watching football. Football isn't my favorite, but I greeted him and sat down to watch football. Eventually the game ended, “What do you want to watch?” he asked, I politely replied, “A movie please”. He changed it a movie “Where's your family?” I asked. He said, “They went to the wedding and will back soon.” Usually, the house was full of people but that day it was empty. After thirty minutes of watching the movie Luke stood and came to sit next to me. I moved over so he could have space, but I felt scared when he came over. He kept moving towards me. I was only twelve years old and Luke was seventeen. I kept watching the movie while he was kept inching closer. Something inside me told me to get up and run to your home, but my legs froze. I felt heart beat strong. I hoped someone would open the doors and rescue me. I was shifting and breathing hard, he asked, “Are you okay?" I was not, but I lied and said “Yes, I just want to go home” “Why?” he asked, “I thought you came to watch a movie”. I quietly replied, “Yes, but I think I should go home and help my grandmother”, Luke was not in the mood to listen to me because as I stood up he held onto my hand and insisting I finish the movie, and then he would take me home. After another moment of watching the movie, he decided to bring water from outside. I should have left as he was gone however, I stayed, and he came back with water. We watched the movie, he put his hand on my shoulder, “Don't worry I'm your brother”, he assured me. I sat stiff but after a moment, his lips were on my cheek. I pulled back in shock, “Why did you kiss me?” He said, “Because you have a beautiful cheek.” I moved away, “I want to go home now.” I insisted. “No, you don't because there are monsters outside. If you go, they will eat you. Trust me”, he said, “while I was outside, I saw monsters that looked evil.” Do I have any choice other than to stay with him inside the house? I sat carefully, aware of my place. He continued to sit with me and then touch me. He put his hands on my chest and I cried, I begged him to not touch me. I wanted to run but I'm afraid of the monsters outside. I felt as though I'm stuck in the middle of a horrific dream. My legs were frozen, and I wanted to close my eyes to pretend that everything was okay. He kept kissing me. His breath smelled rotten. He was a monster, dressed as a man. When he tried to hold me to him, I pushed him harshly and stated, “I will scream.” His home was remote; he knew that my scream would not help me though. I wanted to go home, but he kept insisting, “There is a monster with big teeth and a scary face waiting for you.” I was crying, begging him to take me home he said, “No, not unless you sit and let me do what I want to do” he bargained. I had known him since I was seven years old and I remember I used to play football and other games with him. He was the one we played seek and hide with, he was always willing to play my part, because he knew I was afraid of the dark, but now he has changed into a monster. I shot out of the seat, “I will walk home. I would rather be eaten by the monsters.” I went to the door, Luke fast on my heels. He tried to stop me, blocking the door, but I shoved past him and sprinted home in the dark. I knocked on the door and grandmother answered, surprised, “Oh! You're early. I thought you were watching a movie?” I didn't answer but entered my home tried to calm my heart as there were no monsters I found. I knew my grandmother wanted to ask me questions but refused to ask. I couldn't sleep for hours. There were no monsters I knew this. It was a story to tell children. I got up and left. He used my fear against me, to manipulate me. I swore I would not let my fear show and not let it control me. I won't let my fear cloud my mind. Now, as I'm older, I speak the truth about the power fear, and I walk without fear. I walk freely in both shadow and light, seeing the beauty of both worlds untied. Because even in the shadows, stars shine though.

The Monsters Beneath Me That's where they were: beneath me...under my bed, actually...the grizzly and ghoulish creatures of my childhood imaginings. But, for a six year old boy, still treading the perplexing waters between fantasy and reality, they were as real as the bed I lay upon. Night after night I would lay rigid in my bed, dreading falling asleep, for I knew that once asleep, my arm or leg would come to dangle over the side of my all-too-narrow bed. And that's when it would happen: some hideous, cartoonish monster, or team of them, would snatch my dangling limb and pull me under the bed, where all manner of horrors awaited me. Fearing what lay in wait for me, I would try to fall asleep laying perfectly still in the middle of my bed, legs together, arms tight to my sides, and hope that somehow I might safely awaken in the morning. Often, I would awaken in darkness and deep dread (did I yell for help?), sweating and shaking. Unconvinced that this was “just” a dream, I would lay there in that fixed, rigid position, trying to stay awake, but failing and falling again into sleep. To my great relief, I would indeed awaken safely each morning -- another treacherous and fearful night, survived. And although I would rise to meet the morning with my childish exuberance -- forgetting the sweat-inducing panic and fear of the night before -- all would return upon bedtime. I am not certain how long this phantasmic phase persisted. The memory is fuzzy, distorted by a lifetime since lived. But it seems to have recurred over many days, or periodically, over a week or two. I don't recall sharing these night terrors with my brothers or ever mentioning it to my dad or mom. I was, even at the age of six, deeply embarrassed by the whole thing. And so I felt rather helpless as well. But, possibly due to some innate stubbornness, or exasperation, this terrifying dreaming would abruptly stop. I can recall only opening my eyes, one morning, peering straight up at what seemed to be a wall of wooden slats pressing in on me. Startled, I lifted my head, banging it hard against the wood, exclaiming “Ow!” as one might expect. What was this? What's going on? A few seconds of disorientation and rousing consciousness passed before I realized what was ‘going on' -- where I was: I was underneath my bed! Somehow, in my sleeping state -- and I possessed no memory of doing so -- I had gotten out of bed, and, blanket and all, maneuvered myself onto the floor beneath my bed -- a tight space with just enough room, plus an inch or two, for one six year old boy. I laid there for some time, awake and marveling at this strange feat of magical transportation. And then, another profound realization came over me: if I was under my bed, then there couldn't be monsters under my bed, too -- there was simply no room for them. I remember smiling, even laughing out loud. That whole day I felt a strange, all-pervading sense of calm and confidence that I had never felt previously. I had, unknowingly, found the solution to my night time hallucinations. I had confronted the monsters where they lived and had emerged the stronger! I had become my own hero. No help from mom or dad or divine intervention. And, something in me had changed, permanently. My view of ‘reality', however limited by youthful inexperience, had been forever altered. I felt, deeply, that my Life was no longer the same. Possibly, I might have spent a night or two more sleeping under my bed (just to be sure), but I distinctly recall the complete vanquishing of those limb-snatching ghouls that were just out of sight, and yet so close beneath me. And, over the months following, whenever a new night time phantasm emerged, I would somehow find a way to thwart or out-smart it, as if now possessing magic powers. Over the years, I would come to confront other fears common to many...such as the ‘panic' of having to speak in front of others and even a fear of hypodermic needles. I remember a nurse rubbing the alcohol-soaked swab on my arm, just moments before being ‘stuck'. I started to feel that familiar panic rising up in me. Closing my eyes, slowing my breathing, I recalled that long-ago morning when I woke up beneath my bed. But now, I felt only an eye blink of anxiety, and then a wave of calm flowing over me as the needle pierced my skin. I think I laughed -- surprising myself, and the nurse. This ‘extinguishing' would ultimately prove invaluable as, only a few years afterwards, my dad developed an acute form of dysplastic anemia and was in need of a familial blood supply for possible transfusions. And, in the ride to the hospital, feeling no little pride, I recalled the vanquishing of those monsters once more. It might seem strange to say it now but I believe I first started ‘growing up' the moment that my six-year-old-self woke up, under my bed, bumped my head, and laughed.