My AuDHD Memoir: Chapter 1.1

The Spirit Dream | "A Panther in the Glove" CH 1.1

Intro | Chapter 1.1 | Chapter 1.2

This is a real tent revival photo. My great grandfather is fifth from the left.

It is simple to ache in the bone, or the rind—But gimlets—among the nerve—Mangle daintier—terribler—Like a panther in the glove. — Emily Dickinson

My great-grandfather was a tent revival preacher famous for his altar calls, and my grandmother, his daughter-in-law, was cut from the same cloth.

It bothered her that my parents didn’t go to church, so she tried to make up for their failings by telling me stories from the Bible whenever she got the chance.

On Christmas Eve 1964, it was the story of the Magi.

I don’t remember if she read the story straight from scripture or if she knew it by heart—but as she spoke something happened.

The air began to sparkle. I felt a palpable, resonant current wound gently through the room. I knew that we were not alone.

And that’s all it was, just a breath of energy, but that energy was so distinctive when I felt it again, decades later, I knew it.

At the time, of course, I only knew that something unusual had happened and that—like so many other things in life—I couldn’t explain it.

The next morning, on Christmas Day, my grandmother gave me a very special gift—a beautiful white leather-bound Bible that closed with a shiny gold-tone zipper.

I was only eight, but I was no stranger to reading. So I began with page one, as you would any other book. Immediately drawn in, I read straight through to Genesis 3:8—and stopped.

And they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day: and Adam and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God amongst the trees of the garden. — Genesis 3:8 (KJV)

I read and reread the passage, struck by the certainty that this story was older than any I’d ever heard before. I felt a sudden awareness of vast expanses of time and the almost irresistible pull of a great, unexplored mystery.

I had no idea why this particular passage affected me that way. But I had sensed the mystery. And I continued to chase it.

I went on to read Genesis and Exodus and bits and pieces of the Gospels on my own. But while I loved the stories and the language, there was no more magic.

So I moved on.

I read ghost stories and Gothic fiction. I played with the Ouija board.

My favorite shows had paranormal themes. I never missed Bewitched, Alfred Hitchcock’s Ghostly Gallery, and the long-running paranormal TV show Dark Shadows.

But while I loved exploring all things mysterious, everyday life was difficult.

I was sensitive to the supernatural, but I was sensitive to everything else as well.

I tasted the plastic in bottled milk. Fluorescent lights made me queasy. Noise overwhelmed me. Wool was so abrasive it burned. Polyester petticoats cut into my waist like tiny knives.

To me, these sensations were very real, but whenever I tried to explain them, I was told that I was wrong.

Not, “I’m sorry you experience this.” Not, “I don’t feel that way.” Not, “how odd.”

Wrong.

And so, as time passed, I learned to keep my feelings to myself.

I stopped talking about fabric and lights and the taste of plastic. When I was bullied, I kept quiet. When I cut my knee riding my bike, I hid it until it was too late for stitches.

When I was sexually assaulted at the age of nine, I accepted the cover story I was given and got on with my life.

This wasn’t a decision. It was a process—one that was as much a part of my development as any strangling vine. It was how I learned to mask.

But I had no idea that what I was doing was in any way unusual.

I thought everyone had the same sensitivities. The only difference I could see was that other people were apparently strong enough to handle the edges.

So I made a Herculean effort to handle them, too.

But the sensitivity remained.

I felt an almost mystical connection to nature. I loved walking in the deep woods with the crows calling back-and-forth overhead. I swore I would know my grandfather’s farm blindfolded. I felt the energetic shift between forest and meadow and marshy lakes.

And even though I was already on my way to becoming someone else, I trusted the energy.

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This is Chapter 1.1 of my AuDHD / spiritual memoir The Spirit Dream. I was going back and forth on whether to publish the memoir or not and was suddenly inspired to publish it here on Substack. New installments post about once a month!

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You can read the Spirit Dream intro here:

About the Memoir

I was very late-diagnosed with autism (2022) and ADHD (2025) and the affect of that diagnosis and the way I view myself and my writing was far-reaching. Writing The Spirit Dream was my way of putting it into perspective and finding meaning.

The Spirit Dream is a neurodivergent memoir about spirituality, creativity and the long road to becoming the person I was meant to be.

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New installments of The Spirit Dream are now posting every two weeks!

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©2026 Barbara Graver. All rights reserved. This is an original creative work. Do not reproduce or redistribute without the written permission of the author.