Dunluce Castle

Sea-sprayed and lichen-coated, the seaside ruins of this 14thC., round-tower fortress rests dauntingly atop the Antrim Coast cliffs. Dunluce claims as residents, a winsome White Lady, ghostly tower dwellers and mischievous spirits who, reportedly, play in the gift shop overnight, rearranging books and turning on radios for the morning staff's arrival.

The White Lady hails from Dunluce's origins, the foundations and two round towers built by the MacQuillan sept in the 1300s. A daughter of the family, the now-known White Lady was forbidden by her father to marry the man she loved. As sad, beautiful, medieval nobles were wont to do, she died of a broken heart soon thereafter. Now, she roams the stones, forever young, beauteous and melancholy: the very best look for sporting a long, flowing, white gown as one aimlessly roams castle ruins, atop a jagged cliff overlooking a stormy sea, in an Irish mist, for all eternity.  

By the 16thC., inter-family usurpations, kidnap and murder plagued the MacDonnell sept, notably Sorely Boy MacDonnell. After his inheritance of the estate in 1556, his brother-in-law Shane O'Neill captured and imprisoned Sorely Boy during the Battle of Glentaisle. Only after Sorely Boy's posse retaliated and murdered O'Neill during a festive banquet, was Sorely Boy installed again as the rightful occupant and heir to Dunluce. 

In 1584, Queen Elizabeth I's Lord Deputy of Ireland, Sir John Perrot, attacked Dunluce sans provocation and garrisoned an army there. Once more, Sorely Boy was ousted from the premises and, in this place, Perrot positioned Peter Carey as castle constable. Queen Elizabeth, however, seems to have known nothing of the attack and, upon learning of it, granted Dunluce back to Sorely Boy. Resurrected, again, Sorely Boy celebrated at Dunluce with a lively banquet and a hanging, of Peter Carey. 

As the 17thC. dawned, Dunluce had earned a reputation for desolation and doom. In 1635, Sorely Boy's grandson, Randall MacDonnell, brought his new bride, Catherine Manners, to the castle. Catherine was a widow of the Duke of Buckingham and a dyed-in-the-silk Lady of London. From the moment she stepped onto the Western Isle, Catherine loathed the countryside. The farther north she travelled the deeper her loathing burrowed. The isolation, the placid landscapes and the quiet life set in a madness for the city girl. Most of all, Catherine claimed "the constant boom of the sea drove her to distraction". 

On an exceptionally stormy night in 1639, as the family sat to yet another boring dinner in the banquet hall, the north wall of Dunluce's kitchen court crumbled suddenly into the sea, far below. Several of the kitchen staff fell to their terrifying, rocky, briny deaths. From that night, understandably so, Catherine refused "to live on that rock" ever again. As her husband commissioned a new home to be built on the mainland, Dunluce saw fewer inhabitants, less activity, sliding maintenance schedules and, as the years passed, slowly became the spooky, salty ruin it is today. 

Most notably, Dunluce Castle features in the origins of the fictitious O'Connor family, as it relates to Miss Erin Tara O'Connor, a prominent, supporting character in author Jennifer Susannah Devore's Savannah of Williamsburg: The Trials of Blackbeard and His Pirates, Virginia 1718 (Book II in the Savannah of Williamsburg Series of Books)   

*Dunluce Castle is currently closed, due to Covid, but is usually open for admission and self-guided strolls. For updates, visit their website or phone directly at +44 (0) 28 2073 1938   

Carrickfergus Castle

The house that self-fulfilling prophecy built: In the 12thC., Anglo-Normans roamed the Ulster countryside, oot 'n' aboot, king for land they fancied. When they found just the right bit, they took it. In 1185, a Norman Lord, John deCourcy, heard a prophecy that "a white knight from a foreign land, riding a white horse, with birds of prey upon his shield" would, one day, conquer all of Ulster. "Hey!" deCourcy he thought to himself, "I'm a blond knight from France and could totally get a white horse and make a shield with birds on it!" Because audiences were way easier to convince back then, he assembled an army and led a twenty-five year conquest over Ulster. On every chunk of land he conquered, he built a castle. Carrickfergus is one of those monuments to victory and unfathomable confidence. Today, it is one of the oldest, in-tact, stone castles in Ireland. However his conquest was short-lived. In 1210, England's King John claimed it for himself and it served as a government building for nearly 800 years. 

During that time, in the 18thC., consistent military installation oversaw centuries of not only bloodshed but heartache. In 1760, a case worthy of Project Innocence played out at the castle. Infuriated by a duplicitous fiancée, one Betsey Baird, a Carrickfergus soldier known as Robert Rainey rooted out Betsey's illicit paramour, one Col. Jennings and ran him through with his sword. Undaunted and self-satisfied, Rainey returned to his barracks, wiped clean his sword of Jennings' blood, changed shirts and went about his day. Unfortunately, also stationed at Carrickfergus was a soldier named Timothy Lavery. Lavery was a fine fellow who went by the nickname of Buttoncap, for the large, non-issue button he'd attached to his cap. Liked by all, Lavery really had only one fault: he bore a striking resemblance to Rainey. As Jennings lay on his death bed, dying from his sword-wound, he mistakenly identified Lavery, instead of Rainey, as his assailant. Lavery was arrested and sent t the gallows. Claiming innocence to the end, as the noose was pulled over his head and tightened around his neck, he vowed revenge and to haunt the castle forevermore. Today, his sad, vengeful spirit is seen on occasion at a castle well he was known to frequent. It is called Buttoncap's Well. 

*Carrickfergus Castle is currently closed, due to Covid of course - stupid virus - but is usually open for admission and self-guided strolls. Call or visit site updates. Phone: +44 (0) 28 9335 1273. 

Killakee House (a.k.a. Dower House)

Below Hellfire Club ruins, 12 Killakee Rd. Rathfarnham, Co. Dublin, Dublin D16FT51

Ask Stephen King: some pets are just scary, no matter how much you try to love them. If you've ever had a cat that stalked you, and not playfully, Killakee House Restaurant may not be the dining experience you wish to book. Though the main house - a large, gracious, Regency-era, country home built in 1806 by prominent bookseller Luke White - fell into ill-repair over the last two-hundred years, what does remain today is The Steward's House (a.k.a. Dower House), built circa 1750 -1770. Since the early-2000s, it has stood as a casual dining establishment in the dark and moody hills of County Dublin, overlooking the bustling hub of Dublin Town. 

Dower House has been long-reported as haunted. Just above it, up Montpelier Hill lie the wicked ruins of Richard Parsons' Hell-Fire Club. In the 1700s, Satanic and myriad evil events occurred at not only the Hell-Fire, but also inside Dower House. The vile deeds are believed to have included, but are certainly not limited to, devil worship, animal sacrifice and torture (primarily black cats), witch burning, prostitute murders and the deathly beating of a dwarf, as amusement. Evidence of this final "amusement" is the long-forgotten skeleton of a badly deformed dwarf which was found by Dower House renovation workers, in the bell tower, in 1970.

Reported hauntings include sightings of, at least, two ghostly nuns, the spirits of two murdered men, extreme Poltergeist activity, black clouds moving about indoors and various, unsettling, unexplained noises. However, Killakee is best-known for The Killakee Cat. In 1968, Margaret and Nicholas O'Brien purchased the dilapidated Dower House with the intention of refurbishing it into a grand, Fine Arts center and intellectual retreat for writers, dancers and artists of all sorts. In paranormal terms, words like "construction", "renovation" and "refurbishment" are synonymous with "stirring up the spirits". As Dower House underwent renovations, it seems spirits indeed were stirred. Work crews reported, in addition to "general Poltergeist activity", seeing a large, black cat in the gardens. Later that year, Dublin artist and interior decorator Tom McAassey, claimed to see a black cat, "large as a Dalmatian dog" outside the front door.

According to McAssey's personal account in Frank Smyth's Ghosts and Poltergeists, after closing up for the night, one of two workmen on-site with him noted aloud that the heavy, front door was open, even after having locked it. Noticing a dark figure outside the door, McAssey thought it the other workman: the two of them pranking him. He told the figure, thinking it the second workman, "It won’t work, I can see you, so get in". McAssey claimed he then heard a "low voice" reply, "You cannot see me, leave the door open". McAssey turned aroud to see the two workmen standing behind him, well away from the door. In a flash, the two workmen fled the scene in a great fright. Not one to turn tail, McAssey investigated what must be clearly another worker or neighbourhood teen playing a joke. He walked toward the door and, there, now sitting in the foyer, was a black cat, "large as a Dalmatian dog with amber colored eyes" and ears flattened in attack-mode. Thinking the workmen had the right idea after all, McAssey fled out the back door of Dower House, never to see the cat again. Later, as artists do, he painted that which haunted him.

Today, McAssey's famed and spooky Killakee Cat painting hangs in the foyer of Killakee House, greeting guests and workers every day. Some have tried to toy with the painting (or the Cat, one in the same, some say), hanging it upside-down in jest. Yet, each time the painting is vexed, power outages and drained batteries immediately ensue. In a Ghost Adventures episode "Leap Castle & Hell-Fire Club" (S9e4), host Zak Bagans and Killakee House owner (2000 - present) Shay Murphy see a black cat, although domestic-size, dash past the house as they areon-camera discussing the Killakee Cat.

"Now, there's a black cat right there," points out Zak Bagans.

"There is a black cat. Really! Look, look! No way, no way!," Shay Murphy exclaims in true surprise. "No. Genuine. I have never seen that cat before. On my child's life, I have never seen a black cat in Killakee in fourteen years. And yous guys turn up. That is eerie."

"And we're talking about the Killakee black cat. Is it a weird coincidence?" Bagans ponders. "Yes, but we've learned that coincidences also mean something."

Indeed, they do.

*Killakee House appears to be open for lunch and brunch, Thursday - Sunday 11am - 4pm. Dress is casual and restaurant is dog-friendly and offers vegan/vegetarian options for diners. Call to be sure they are open, due to fluctuating Covid-restrictions: IRL country code (353) 14947087.  

Leap Castle

Coolderry, Co. Offaly, Ireland (north of Roscrea on the R421)

Easily boasting the title of Ireland's Most Haunted Castle, Leap (pron. leh-p) is a spirit world in its own league. Archeological evidence suggests Leap's earliest foundations may have been laid for a 12thC. fort. The castle, as it stands today, has its origins in the late-15thC., built under the supervision of John O'Carroll, Prince of Ely. Starting with John's death by plague in 1532, Leap Castle would bear witness to centuries of insidious turmoil, heart-wrenching despair, conniving ambition, unfathomable torture and veritable cartloads of heinous demise. Of course, if we've learned anything from Tobe Hooper's Poltergeist, (1982), building a home on ancient burial/sacrificial/pagan ground is never a good idea.

Legend recounts that centuries before Leap was constructed, sometime after the missionary work of St. Patrick and Palladius, but well before the arrival of John O'Carroll, the land where Leap's main tower stands today, was sacred ground for Druidic worship. Further, it is believed a sect of the High Kings summoned from the Earth during a sacrificial ritual, an elemental: a primitive, malevolent, supernatural being, neither spirit of a passed human, nor minion of the devil, but a powerful, insidious creature comprised of natural elements and which attaches itself to the place of its "birth". Therein lies the basic trope/origin story for any good, supernatural horror film. 

From 1541 to the 1660s, there occurred a slew of intra-family O'Carroll slayings at Leap. Of those slayings, the murder of an O'Carroll priest, mid-mass, by his own brother, Tyne O'Carroll, seems to be of the most lasting consequence. Slain in what is today known as The Bloody Chapel, the priest's murder was just one of many betrayals in an epic, ongoing power struggle amnogst the O'Carroll sept to secure Chieftainship, after the death of Mulroony O'Carroll in 1532. 

Blood begets blood and, in an ill-fated yet unsurprising act of violence, the last-reigning O'Carroll was slain by an Englishman called Darby: the next family to rule Leap all the way through to the 20thC. The Darbys had owned Leap briefly during the English Civil War: the seized property being awarded to Jonathon Darby I in 1649 for his service to Oliver Cromwell and his Parliamentarian army. However, after the Restoration of England's Stuart monarchy in 1660, Leap was returned to the O'Carrolls, in 1664, by King Charles II, for their service and support of his father, the previously ousted King Charles I.

Never a family to be subdued or shamed, the O'Carrolls were nothing if not cunning and vengeful to all whom opposed them, or were simply perceived to be oppositional. The notorious Oubliette in the Bloody Chapel is proof of their mad vengeance and inhumanity. In the northwest corner of the chapel nests a small chamber with a dropped floor. Embedded in that floor is a series of nauseatingly large, iron spikes. Derived from the French verb oublier (pron. oo-blee-ay and meaning "to forget"), it is where the O'Carrolls dumped the dead, dying, living, guilty, innocent and unsuspecting, forever to be forgotten. The lucky ones fell properly on a spike and died instantly. If one was unlucky enough to miss a spike in fatal fashion, one lingered there in pain and obsolescence until infection or madness mercifully ended their suffering. Those who missed the spikes altogether festered away until hunger, thirst or death by shock took them away from their hell. To add some twisted psychology to the torture, the Oubliette had an arrow-slit window, just large enough for the trapped to view all the lively cavorting in a lovely landscape they could never experience again. There were also vents so that tasty food smells wafted up from the dining hall into the dungeon. What a bunch of bastards. Few made it out alive.

One such fortunate soul to escape was the Englishman, Captain Jonathon Darby III (a.k.a. the Wild Captain). In Romeo and Juliet style, but with a happy ending, an O'Carroll daughter fell in love with the Captain, and he with her. Free of any spike-damage, the captain subsisted breifly on food smuggled to him by his love. When it was deemed safe, she would bust him out of there. When she finally did free him, she and her captain headed down the chapel stairwell to ground-floor freedom; yet, on the way down, they happened upon her brother, on his way up the stairs. In a heartbeat, the Wild Captain Darby fatally slew the O'Carroll brother. As the last male heir of Leap, the dead brother's property passed to his sister ... and to Captain Darby and the whole Darby line. Hey, look at that, Karma works sometimes.

Hauntings kicked up at the turn of the 20thC., when Mildred Darby - wife of Charles, last of the Darbys - delved deeply into the Victorian fad of séances, holding several at the castle and dabbling in various occult practices. It is believed she unintentionally invited, amongst a host of other malevolent spirits, the elemental begat by the Druids so many centuries ago.

" ... standing in the gallery looking down at the main floor, when I felt somebody put a hand on my shoulder. The thing was the size of a sheep. Thin, gaunt and shadowy ... its eyes, which seemed half-decomposed in black cavities, stared into mine. The horrible smell ... gave me a deadly nausea. It was the smell of a decomposing corpse ... ," claimed Mildred in an article she penned for Occult Review  in 1909.

After a fire gutted Leap in 1922, reconstruction crews discovered the O'Carroll Oubleitte. Workers removed three horse-carts flush with human bones from the Bloody Chapel's hidden dungeon. For decades, as Leap stood uninhabited - by the living, at any rate - locals claimed to see the Bloody Chapel's window brief cast a bright glow of amber candlelight in the night, seen across the fields. Witnesses described the sudden glow, "as if someone lit a great number of candles, walked through the chapel's upper room, then blew out all the candles and left". Others who dared to explore the ruins at night during this period reported a wandering woman in a long, red, billowing gown. Funny how they're always in a beautiful gown. One never hears of a ghostly lady in yoga pants or bell-bottoms.

Today, a few broken bones and some unsettling "accidents" later, owners Sean and Anne Ryan seem to have earned their keep. Whilst the spirits "may make nuisances of themselves occasionally", they are largely non-malevolent, but very much still present. Perhaps it's Sean's music (he being a professional musician), the friendly, personal tours or the festive gatherings and feasts that have calmed the spirits. Or, perchance, most important of all, it is the atmosphere of a loving and cheerful home, free of fratricide, torture, deceit and violence that has set the Leap spirits most at peace. For,, when you take all the rough history out of it, the Irish countryside is nothing, if not peaceful.

*Leap Castle is generally open for guided tours; although due to Ireland's changing covid-restrictions, please, contact Mr. Sean Ryan for availability. Phone: +353868690547 or email: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Thoor Ballylee

Nr. Gort, south Co. Galway, Ireland

Sprouting from idyllic, pastoral fields, like the distant focal point of a Turner landscape, stands proudly the 14thC. Hiberno-Norman tower which Irish writer William Butler Yeats called his Summer home. Essentially a ruin by 1917, Yeats shrewdly purchased Islandmore Castle, as it was hitherto known, for a mere £35. Yeats renamed it Thoor Ballylee, Gaelic for "Tower Homestead". As writers love to do, he played with words and the sounds they create, choosing the Gaelic Thoor specifically because, I think the harsh sound of Thoor amends the softness of the rest. One might assume "the softness" Yeats meant, was the tranquil land on which Thoor stands. 

Within two years, in 1919, after considerable refurbishment, Yeats not only inhabited Thoor in the Summer months, but Thoor Ballylee inhabited his spirit, always. A stolid believer in the supernatural and intrigued by the occult, Yeats found Thoor fed that intrigue. With certainty, Yeats was convinced an Anglo-Norman soldier haunted his home. This belief, or concern, depending on your viewpoint, was shared by later residents. This included a woman who reported a ghost frequenting the tower stairwell often enough, she refused to trod the stairs once night fell. Apparently, her dog shared her concerns, regularly cowering from an unseen presence in the downstairs areas of the tower. 

Photographic evidence in 1989 exposes the form of a young boy staring directly at the camera, as a guest took pictures in Yeats' sitting room. The guest, one David Blnkthorne was the only person in the room, as the tower had closed for the day, just as Blinkthorne and his family arrived a bit too late in the day, after a long carride. Blinkthorne entreated the curator to stay open just long enoough for hiis family to take a quick run-through and snap some photos. She allowed the family a few moments as she closed up shop. Blinkthorne's wife and children were in another part of the home; David explored the sitting room alone, or so he believed. The boy has been seen before; he is thought to be Yeats' young son.

Blessed be this place, more blessed still this tower. A bloody, arrogant power, rose out of the race. 

- from William Butler Yeats' "Blood and The Moon", reference to Thoor Ballylee and its haunted staircase

*Thoor Ballylee is generally open April - September for tours tea and hearty welcomes. Failte Thoor Ballylee! As with everything in Europe, the UK and the States, please, double-check for availability and hours.

Phone: +353 (0) 91 631436 (weekdays 10am-2pm, weekends 11am-5pm) or email: This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..

Happy St. Patrick's Day, Happy Irish-American Heritage Month and safe travel to all, when the time time comes again that we may. Sláinte, kittens!

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Riddle: You are in a room with three monkeys ... one has a banana, one has a stick, and one has nothing but gaslighting, snarky comments. Who is the smartest primate?

Answer: You, you magnificent primate!

See, no matter how misleading Monkey is, no matter how he tries to gaslight you are smarter. You see through the condescending trickery and psych warfare. You will outsmart Monkey one day, even if it feels a Sisyphean at times. Ask Kirsten Pagacz, a.k.a. Kirsten Weirdsten. She not only dominated her Monkey, but trained him to do her bidding, not the other way around, when necessary. Subduing this trcikster presented her with the strength and confidence, not to mention extreme exposure therapy, to pull off Monkey's mask and show the world what he really was: OCD (obsessive-compulsive disorder). Experiencing the constriction and robbery of OCD from childhood and only coming to understand it in her Thirties, Kirsten chose to write her tale, share her journey, the awful and the wonderful, to help you, or someone you love, kick Monkey out of the driver's seat and stick him in the sidecar where he belongs.    

Kirsten Pagacz is a unicorn. Professionally, it all started with a B.A. in Communications leading to an impressive background in Entertainment: learning every skill from writing, photography, directing, set design, schmoozing and even driving limos, and spinning all those plates within every venue of Entertainment from local cable commercials to A-list music gigs ... including singing on-stage with Sting and dining with K.D. Lang. Then, one day, that all seemed simultaneously boring and maddening. So, why not feed a mad love of retro and vintage goodies into a business ... starting with making jewelry and selling it to the Rockabilly scene at car shows and street fairs? Sounds reasonable to Moi.      

Smash-cut to: Big Chief in Charge at Retroagogo.com, married to her college-sweetums, artist Doug P'gosh - the man she describes as The Professor from Gilligan's Island (hubba hubba! - and slaying the retro business world like Red Sonja, swashbuckling hither and thither, conquering conventions, global distribution, podcast guest-spots, marketing reels, sky-high sales and even plane-rides with the slowest inchworms and loudest babies in the sky. A fascination with antiques kitsch and yesteryear led her to her true joy and whilst she's crushing concept-to-completion in her biz, every bit the high-powered, Melanie Griffith Working Girl, she has the soul of a happy toddler. This is my kind of gal. TCB in a tutu and Docs if she chooses and stopping at a thrift store on her way to the bank with a cartload of those cartoon bags with $$$ stamped on them. If there were Olympic medals for not-adulting, she and I would be those fierce competitors whom drive each other to greatness. We'd duke it out to the gold platform: probably sword-fighting via our Barbies and shouldering each other off the platform with our kick-ass, bad-broad, Joan Crawford suits and 1940s jawlines. Then, regardless of whom won the gold, we'd go out for Dirty Shirleys in San Diego's Gaslamp District. I imagine. We've never met IRL, only via texts, Insta and email; but she's a fellow dorkette, to be sure.

Of course, this is all happy ending stuff; and you can't have a quality book, or book review, sans some strife and struggle in the beginning. So, in the beginning ...

Peace and mental stillness can e stronger than OCD, and that is what OCD doesn't want you to hear. I love busting OCD! I have heard it said that submission can lead to rebellion, and I am living proof that this can be true. - Kirsten Pagacz, "Leaving the OCD Circus"

Many of you have monkeys. That's the beauty of this book: ig monkeys, small monkeys, mischievous monkeys or just plain, mea taskmaster monkeys, Kirsten's book is helpful on any level, for anyone whom wishes to to e, mostly, monkey-free. 

Confession: Yours Truly has, if not a full circus, a little sideshow of her own going on, all with fabulous, 1920s-style carnival costuming. Whilst I am grateful I have none of the consequence-based OCD issues (fear that bad things will happen if I do or don't __________), I do have a few tiny monkeys, mostly related to organization - wardrobe, kitchen cupboards, sock and t-shirt drawers and things like refrigerator magnets, tablescaping and silverware set just so - all things I am happy to continue fussing over, because it makes for a beautiful home, but am aware not to fixate, wherein it could get in the way of actual living. For example: making the house lovely for guests, but not obsessing to the point where I can't enjoy my guests. Once the house is done and I'm dressed, what's done is done. Pour me a drink sugar. It's time to play! Ditto for leaving the house for outings like parties, road trips, holidays abroad or events like Comic-Con. Once I'm on the train or plane, or in the car, I can't change my clothes, buy a better cosplay wig or lose that extra three pounds. Let's hit Starbucks and then Lewis & Clark this shit!   

Other events in the JennyPop Sideshow include regularly checking screen doors are closed, due to the fact we live in an area with sooooooo many lizards; I love the little creatures; I just don't want them in my closet, trying on my vintage gloves. Monitoring my weight is a daily check; although as of late, I'm better about skipping a few days hither and thither, especially if I've been playing too hard. I have a specific goal weight, with zero room for adjustment. I am always with two to five of it. I am doing better about accepting a four-pound range, rather than a specific, digital numeral. 

Double-checking the front door is clicked and bolted when we leave the house is a must and will not ever change. More accurately, I must ask The Viking, "Are you sure it's clicked?", every time. Every. Single. Time. Poor guy. This is what Kirsten calls "things a normal person would do": checking once or twice that the house is safe. For, we did have an incident, wherein our pup escaped. She was happily found, lazing in the sunny, beach air, in a neighbour's yard, having had pancakes for dinner the night before; but, still, what a nightmare 12hrs for us! (Full disclosure: it was his freind's fault. They went to the beach whilst I was at Comic-Con and his friend was the last one out the door, the unclicked, inlocked, unclosed door.)

Finally, admittedly there exists a leeeeetle bit of anxiety where elevators, planes and small spaces are concerned, even the backseat of a Bentley: a 2-door, not the 4-door models. None of these are enough to keep me from doing stuff or going anywhere, but I have used Kirsten's book to help me learn to talk my way out of a pending panic attack, rare as they may be, using what she calls her Kung Fu Dance: see wicked dance moves below. (Hey, kid! No need to peek through the knot-hole in the fence, step inside the JennyPop sideshow tent! to see the amazing dork in-person!) So, I tell you these things not for attention, judgement or pity, but for street cred, to share that whilst the whole book in question may not be applicable to me, I have read it, ruminated over it and processed it as not only a fellow author in appreciation of a good story, but as a primate sometimes in need of a little help.    

Leaving the OCD Circus: Your Big Ticket out of Having to Control Every Little Thing by Kirsten Pagacz is not fairly categorized as a self-help book; although is helpful on so many facets. Leaving is more of a memoir in the style of David Sedaris or Steve Martin. Like the best guest at a cocktail party, Kirsten is a ranconteuse of the finest order: employing self-deprication, modesty, generosity of spirit and a natural talent for anecdotal hilarity. Her written journey is peppered with humility and deference, never playing the annoying, know-it-all expert. Like that cocktail party star, Kirsten doesn't just regale you with her adventures, she intermittently poses in-depth questions of you, her reader. That is the mark of a true storyteller: listening, as well as sharing. Kirsten avoids directives and absolutes. She is endearingly questioning and wondering, even in her areas of expertise. The only time you will read an absolute, is when she is encouraging you, the reader, to keep pressing through the rushes, that your OCD, and life, WILL get better, if you do the work.

Book cover pic -----

Leaving the OCD Circus is organized, as you might expect, very well. Like a proper college essay, she says what she's going to say (Introduction), says it (Chapters 1 - 8), then says what she said (Chapter 9: Habits of Happiness). Chapters are set chronologically, starting with Chapter 1: A Budding Relationship: The New Stranger and the Invitation, 1975: Nine Years Old (OCD Arrives). It is a fascinating read, to see how an innocent child, one totally unaware of the concepts of clinical psychology or neurology can be tricked and affected by this insidious monkey. Her earliest introduction to OCD, involved simple "games", like tapping: tapping x-number of times, on various surfaces, with very specific areas of the forefinger and sans interruption. If she didn't get to said-number, she not only failed, but was a failure, and had to start again. At first, unaware the thoughts were even hers, she named her OCD, The Stranger. Later,she personified it as Monkey or, the really mean, unrelenting version, The Sargeant. Stranger, Money or Sargeant, they all provided her with tasks and games that made sure to suck her time and life, leaving her very little time or life to actually live. 

These kinds of tasks and games can be helpful, say, if moderated and if you're a dancer, a musician, a medical student, a Ph.D. candidate or a kick-ass parent and you need to nail your daily goals. For a little girl trying to escape the awkwardness of visits with her hippie, love-in kind of weekend-dad, these games started off as helpful distractions, but led to more unyielding directives from the booming, unrelenting voice of The Sargeant, in her psyche. 

Was the guy in the car next to her a serial killer? Maybe, said Monkey. If you make sure you pick up that piece of trash on the side of the road, he won't kill you.

Is the house going to burn down and kill your whole family? Probably, said The Sargeant. If you make sure every electrical cord in the house is straight and lined up against the basebaords or counters, you'll save their lives.

Is a serial killer waiting to go in the house, hide and wait for your mom to come home so he can kill her? Pretty sure he is, Monkey chimed in. If you check the deadbolt thrity-three times, Mom'll be safe.

Kirsten describes not so much the catalysts for her OCD - for she was likely unaware at the time of its eary on-set - but the eras in which it blossomed and in jaw-dropping detail, commanding your undivided attention. From Chapter 2: OCD Like a Brush Fire: High School (Checker Maximus), OCD: 1980 - 1984) onward, Kirsten takes you on a very detailed, intimate journey through the decades. Like the Ghost of Christmas Past, she takes your hand as you fly from a cringing childhood to beyond-awkward high school to uncomfortably real Twenties and Thirties, to an "Oh, thank goodness!" kind of relief as she finds herself, her husband, her business and a true name for her affliction (OCD) as she enters the Miillenium.

I will note, some of her recalls and stories are uncomfortable and heart-wrenching: some as an adult making poor choices; some as an innocent child in the unfortunate company of adults making very bad, likely illegal choices. Those are her stories to share, via her book; they are not mine to share, via my platform. Read the book, if you want the full-Kirsten. 

Throughout the book, there are lists, the author's own poems and even little worksheets, should you choose to use them, to identiify your own Monkey or Sargeant. Most wild though, are the lists of Can't Dos and Must Dos. 

• Can't have certain things confine or touch: must wear size 10 shoe, even though wears an 8, so it doesn't touch toes 
• Can't touch newspaper
• Can't eat sans a calorie count, over and over
• Can't use certain pens: some are unlucky and will ring bad luck to her and her loved ones
• Must check purse every fifteen minutes: incl. reorganizing and memorizing contents
• Must check all electrical cords for straightness throughout house before leaving house
• Must check burners over and over

Not my monkeys pic

     Beyond her anecdotes, which alone are worth the read, there is hope. Her light at the end of the tunnel was a happenstance advert her husband, Doug, heard on NPR, as he listened in his art studio one day when he and Kirsten lived in NorCal. When Kirsten returned home that day from work, a half-day even, he told her what he'd heard. The sixty-second spot went something like this, Kirsten recalls: Do you or someone you know obsess about thingsand can't seem to let them go? Does compulsive behaviour interfere with your life? If so, then you may e suffering from obsessive-compusive disorder.

"His name was Dr. Kalb. I immediately called his office." Baby steps. "He's going to meet with me today!" I said and fell into {my husband's} arms. "I think I can drive myself, if I can just stop crying." ug Baby steps to the elevator, baby steps to the bus, baby steps to a better life. Like Dr. Leo Marvin to her Bob, but kind and caring, Dr. Kalb used Exposure Therapy to help Kirsten through her OCD. The homework was difficult, extensive, sad, hopeful and, in the beginning, angering. "I've been fucking robbed!" Kirsten realized, via her homework. Years of life, taken from her by Monkey, by The Sargeant, by her own passive, puppeted actions. 

It is not simply humility and good manners that keeps Kirsten humble in her domination of OCD; it is pragmatism. She has dominated, but to do so, there must be an object to dominate. Kirsten fully admits she will never be free of Monkey, just that she knows how to handle him and demoting him to a useful minion named Chimpsay puts her fully in charge. She drives the motorbike and Chimpsay sits in the sidecar, waiting to be told where they're going and he will do once there, if anything. 

In the course of her therapy, Dr. Kalb told Kirsten, "It's great when sufferers can reach the point where they say, 'I'm willing to take the hit of anxiety, in order to free myself, so I can live in accord with what's really important in my ife. I'm willing to put my energy into tolerating doubt and uncertainty, instead of squashing it, so I can move in the direction of my values."

Everyone has something, a fear or anxiety, real or imagined, that can either drive you, or drive you underground. For some it's a pursuit of better and FOMO can be a great catapult in higher education, professional advancement, physical excellence or artistic recognition. Conversely, that drive can e just enough to overwhelm and keep you so far from your life that even the simplest things become "someday" dreams. For kKirsten, just leaving a voicemail message was terrifying and a ridiculous time-suck. Now, she's Big Chief in Charge at Retroagogo! You, too, can be Big Chief in Charge at __________!

Kirsten lists yoga amongst her "Habits of Happiness". On a personal note, I can attest to the almighty joy of yoga. For approximately ten years, I have been following Boho Beautiful yogi, Juliana ____. Every practice I get better, stringer and more bendy. Of course, it is not about being bendy or fit enough to wear whatever kind f cosplay you want. (Although, because I adore style - vintage clothes, current trends and cosplay - fitness for fashion is a large part of what drives me.) Yoga is about connecting with the present moment, letting go of what has happened, because you cannot change that, and the fantasy or conjecture of what could happen in the future. What matters is now and yoga with its meditative qualities and all-intensive engagement, especially if you're trying Bird of Paradise or Flying Crow, keeps you fully in the now. Meditation is harder; it's easy to drift off and think about other things: good and bad things. What's for dinner? What should I wear for Comic-Con this year? Are they even having Comic-Con this year? Should I cut my hair like Lady Mary on Downton Abbey? Maybe I should bleach my hair like Marilyn Monroe. How would I look as a blonde? We're all out of yoghurt. What if FreshPet goes out of business? What will I fed my dog, then?! Are they still making new Ghost Adventures episodes? 

Life is fabulous, exhausting and brilliant. Would that there was enough time to read every book, learn every language, perfect every dance style and drink every bottle of Cab, all with your favourite people. Well, as Kirsten says, Dum vivimus vivamus! Let us live while we are alive! Let's do this! 

Follow all the Freaky Goodness!

@JennyPopCom

@kirsten_pagacz_author

@retroagogogear

Hey, Look Out! Kirsten's OCD Traits Quiz: a Sampling of Questions

• __________ creates thoughts and scenarios tht are not true.
• __________ sets the trap, is an alarmist, and will do whatever it takes to get your attention.
• __________ calls you names. For example, Monkey used to call me, Fucking Idiot.
• __________ does "fear casting" about catastrophic future events. Fear casting is her brand of radio.
• __________ tries to get you to fixate on things.
• __________ is a validator and validates your obsessions.
• __________ is the master of illusion and delusion.
• __________ gras a thought, finds and entry point and says, "Let's freak out!" It is random and it is powerful. She picks the topic and sounds the alarms (causing fear and anxiety, both big motivators.)

 Kirsten's Kung Fu Dance Moves: Roundhouse that OCD!

• Accept
• Focus
• Identify
• Breathe and Pause
• Greet
• Stay Aware
• Agree
• Remember
• Forgive

*Note: Breathe and Pause is when you redirect your thoughts/fear/anxiety and transform toward your big, happy life! Remember is when you reinforce what that big happiness is: big or small, immediate reward, like dinner with friends or landing at the airport in Paris or Vienna and having a fabulous trip; or far-off goals like your M.D., Ph.D. or maybe even a wedding to come!! 

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Is it cynical to find the silver lining, to instinctively seek it in the first place? One supposes it depends upon whom answers. Cynical could be read as pragmatic. 2020 was a vile year for so many around the globe, on so many facets. For those whom did not survive it, for their inner circles, there is, likely, no silver lining, and the only thing to write is sincerest condolences. What can one say, but, I'm sorry. For those whom survived, we were afforded the opportunity of self-reflection and existential reexamination. The question is, did you self-reflect, did you examine the life you're living? Did you find yourself content with your innermost findings? Excellent! What a wonderful place to start; a good attitude is always a great starting block! Conversely, did you find yourself displeased with your status quo? If so, what did you do to change your status? For, if 2020 didn't slap you silly and teach us everything can change overnight, literally overnight - from shutdowns of fave pubs and restaurants, to travel and event cancellations, to school closures, and, most heinously, death -  then you failed to pay proper attention. However, a paradigm shift doesn't have to be viewed solely with pessimism; it is possible to view also with optimism, taking advantage of a forced situation and busting thorough it victoriously, or at least thinner. Whilst the beginning of the pandemic was almost too freaky to comprehend, by April it was clear we were all homebody-noobies and, depending on your frame-of-mind, what a marvelous, unique opportunity, in the course of human history, to Seize the Upside, Seize the Day and Emerge Better. 

If you think on other pandemics and plagues throughout mankind's history (the Spanish Flu of 1918, the European Black Death of the mid-14thC, the San Francisco and Australian Plagues of 1900), there could not be a better time to be in lockdown. First and foremost, medical research and application the world over is, obviously, cutting-edge in 2020/2021. Yet, what other era has afforded us the beauty and utility of the Internet? Lockdown might mean your local bar is closed, your kids are now homeschooled (never a bad plan anyhoo, I thought) and you work from home now (also never a bad plan), but you have complete access to whatever you need/want/crave. Imagine having had Amazon and Instacart in 1915 Sydney or 1350 Vienna. Imagine all the YouTube the quarantined might have watched during the Spanish Flu days? Like visiting New Orleans, Vegas, Paris or Amsterdam: if you're bored, you're just not trying. Got an itch? The world is in your hand. Use your technology to scratch that itch. 

Language, exercise, film, fashion, literature, the Fine Arts, writing: all constants in my existence. Bettering my knowledge of these joys are habitually expected, of myself; ergo, filling quarantine time with these pursuits was easy and fun. Kicking up my language study, adding a new level of difficulty to my yoga practice, committing to more writing, more often, including learning new styles of long-form poetry, studying every Woody Allen film, including identifying specific jazz songs within each film, and expanding my education of European painting and sculpture were all movements I expected to enact, regardless of a lockdown. What I didn't expect were the pursuits that piggybacked on my elemental interests.

If you desire fluency in a second (or third, or fourth) language, you must nurture it. If not, cool. Polyglotism isn't for everyone. I bet you're a lot better at math than I. Yet, if you are seeking fluency, simply because you learned a foreign language as a child, took it in high school, or even at advanced levels in college, doesn't mean you can let it flounder. It will pop back, though. Your long-term memory will rush it all the the front burner and off we go! Yet, to become proficient, like any art or sport, #practicepracticepractice! Flms, websites, Insta accounts, TV series, Zooming & Skypeing with friends whom speak your language of pursuit, whatever it takes, wherever you find it, practice as much as you can, daily.

As lockdown began last March, I found a fab new, Duolingo, to help me keep up my French and German. Whilst there, I thought it might be sage to add Italian,which I've been casually noshing on for about a decade. Then, because I'm bonkers for languages, I thought how fun to add a few more: Irish, Danish, Japanese, Klingon and Dutch. (Duolingo offers thirty-eight languages, including endangered languages like Hawaiian and Navajo. To boot, it's free and such fun! Yes, there are paid-subscription models, but the free version keeps one très occupée. Also, DYK, Ashton Kutcher was one of the early investors? Do yourself a fave and check on it! "The best new way to learn a language. Gamiification poured into every lesson!" Moi senses a future post devoted to Duolingo ... check back soon.)

So, of all the amuse-bouche languages I piled on my plate, what stuck was Dutch. Similar to Italain, I had been casually pursuing Dutch, if only for a couple of years, because of my love affair with The Netherlands and the Dutch. Ik houd van het Nederland en zijn mensen! Today, I am nearing my 365-day learning streak via Duolingo. (I believe today is something like 349.) Thanks to Duolingo plus following some Dutch-language Insta accounts (trying to translate captions and comments is xlnt for capturing colloquialisms), news-sites and watching the few Dutch-language films Netflix offers, my Dutch is - als ik het zelf mag zeggen - making wonderful progress. Now, if the Schengen zone reopens to American travellers, I'll be able to get back to my beloved Amsterdam and practice mijn Nederlands.

Now, it's true, languages come very easily to me. (Of course, it is at a brain cost for math and map-reading. Ask me to find a fraction, a percentage, do subtraction involving 9s, or ask me help navigate through the Irish countryside you will see a tearful, hopeless, sloppy pile of JennyPop.) Not all languages are my friends. I'm maintaining a tenuous hold on the basics of Irish. I might be able to politely request a menu, order some water, bread, wine and a sandwich, and, if I can work it into a conversation, point out to any passers-by on the Dingle coastline, "The seal eats a fish!" Itheann an séala iasc!." I don't ever expect to be fluent in Irish or Japanese (another one I'm working on, if only at learning the alphabet and characters thus far), and that's okay. Fluency, for me, will likely be relegated to French, German, Dutch and English (duh). Maybe Italian if I can get there again for a few months. However, in the realm of languages, I am not used to is failing, flat-out. However, I failed this year, miserably. Failure, thy name is Klingon.

Doff my cap, I do, to anyone whom can speak it. Pronunciation, to be precise, is not my problem. Dutch and German have taught me well the hard, throaty Gs, Hs and Rs. It is the sentence structure, possessives and pronouns that stump me, well, stumped me: past-tense. You will rarely read, or hear, this from Moi, yet ... I quit. You win, Klingon. I'm tapping out for good. Not one one to walk away empty-handed, I did learn one apropos, très useful phrase: Tu'HomI'raH SoH ‘e’ Sov wo’  "You are a thing notable for its uselessness; the Empire knows this." Ha! Too true, Klingon, too true.

The Greeks and Spartans believed it was not only vital to work the mind, but the body in equal measure. Agreed. Movement has been pivotal to my life since preschool and continues to this day: ballet, gymnastics, track and cross-country (hated it), field hockey (briefly and only because I loved the kilts), fencing, too many gym-memberships to count, and, as of the last fifteen years, yoga. The last six or so have been following Boho Beautiful Earth-angel, the quiet, gentle, beach-based, vegan and elegant Juliana Spicoluk. (I don't do frenzied, high-energy, you-got-this-girl! kind of frantic coaching. Ick.) In 2020, as I imagine many did, I added some meditation to my yoga practice. It was helpful on some days, notably in the earliest days of the pandemic, when nobody knew what the virus was, how it was transmitted and whether or not it was survivable. Like a Cloverfield monster out there somewhere, anxiety could creep in if one wasn't careful. Juliana's peaceful meditations definitely calmed me when needed. However, I'm more of a stretchy than sitty kind of girl and, whilst I still do the occasional meditation, I like to move. Happily, thanks to Juliana's nurturing instruction, I achieved some poses this past year I never thought possible, for me: Flying Crow, Full Mermaid, Double Eagle and various arm-binds. Still woefully out of my grasp are Bird of Paradise, Lotus Headstand and Pistol Squat. They're the Klingon of yoga. (Look them up, they're bonkers advanced!) 

Of course, a girl can't live on all lavender water, plinky spa music and love and light. Sometimes she needs a Guinness, some obnoxious, Dropkick Murphys and to kick up her heels, literally. 2020 was the year of Irish step-dancing and, like Dutch, it has burrowed deep into my heart and soul and has stuck like hearty, steel-cut oatmeal. Irish dance feels like home. It is also bonkers-difficult, way too much fun, requires supa cute dance shoes and, best of all, an hour of Star Jumps, Light Jigs, Rocks, Leap-2-3s, Sevens and Hornpipes is, by far, the hardest, sweatiest, heart-thumpiest workout I've ever endured Irish step-dancing: like a real sport, only much harder and wherein the weak are killed and eaten ... and washed down with a nice pint of Guinness. 

Oh, big whoop, JennyPop, the fair reader might comment here with exasperation and eye-rolls. You did some stuff. So what?  So this, fair reader ... my endeavours mean very little, if anything, to anyone other than Moi, and that is the point of 2020. This is not an advice column; I wouldn't dare be so confident or bold. Besides, you are too wise. As Ben Franklin sagely postured, Wise men don't need advice and fools don't take it.

Life can change very quickly and sans warning. Pursue your Best You because you want to, not because others wish it or want it for you or you think you're supposed to because of social pressure. If your Best You is a kick-ass cupcake baker, get on it. If your Best You is only a few credits shy of a degree, finish. If your Best You wants to lose weight, learn to knit, garden, cook, dance, write poetry, play soccer or paint, do it. Whatever you choose, do it with gratitude, gratitude for this beautiful life you get to live. Life isn't a carousel; we don't get multiple go-rounds. As Mom said, when I dithered once about what to order at a Karl Strauss, "Don't worry about the calories, honey. Eat the macaroni and cheese. Maybe there won't be a next time to get it." (Full disclosure: I did not get it. Instead, I got the waterrnelon goat-cheese salad. Mommy passed away suddenly about two weeks later. She was right, I should've gotten the macaroni and cheese.)

Whatever 2020 brought, the intangible sentiment of humanity and friendship is what will last, for Moi anyhoo. The opportunity of a year shaken so violently, like a snow globe in the hands of an horrible toddler, has shined a spotlight on friendships. 2020 brought me closer to my dearest friends, it brought a couple back from a silly tiffs and, for better or worse, it exposed a long-term friendship to be, sadly yet truthfully, nothing more than an façade: if it was easy, we were friends; the moment it took effort, we were not. A hard lesson to learn, but glad to know its depth. Where friends are the truest, not even a global pandemic can keep you apart; there are ways to keep connected, especially today. Where friends are fairweather, all it takes is a global pandemic to serve as the perfect excuse to break contact altogether. It's likely they're just not that into you, maybe never were. Sorry, but that's the short and sour truth of it, kittens. Move on to the folks whom appreciate the amazing unicorn you are. 

2021 has had a slow yet gentle and promising start. It's like driving a big sedan with a powerful, 390horsepower kind of engine. You don't bust off the stoplight like a flashy nutter, you very slowly pull away, giving those horsies a light kick. By the time you approach 30mph, you kick it up a tick. After that, you're just a smoky grey blur on PCH. It's almost April. I'm feeling about 45mph ... I can't wait to hit full speed. 

Abyssinia, kittens! Keep bettering yourselves!

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