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The original was posted on /r/paranormal by /u/eviogemini on 2025-12-03 07:45:22+00:00.

I’m 42, living in Colorado, and a few years ago my life split open in ways most people only read about. In 2020, everything I cared about vanished at once—my best friend died of cancer, my sister moved halfway across the country with my niece and nephew, and that same day my 19‑year‑old cat passed away. It felt like the universe ripped out every emotional foundation I had left. I’ve carried trauma my whole life—abuse, addiction, anxiety, depression—and when all of that loss hit at once, I collapsed inward. I started using the morphine my friend left behind, and when that ran out, I turned to fentanyl from the streets. Everything spiraled until pneumonia nearly put me in the ground. One fever‑soaked night, suffocating and desperate, I whispered into the dark for help—from anyone or anything listening. Something listened. The mattress dipped beside me—slow, heavy, intentional. No footsteps. No breath. Just presence. After that, the house changed. My new cat, who always slept beside me, suddenly refused to enter the bedroom. She’d stand frozen at the doorway, eyes wide, following invisible movement with her head. Things shifted in the house—shoes fell, small objects moved, faint whispers brushed the corners of my hearing, and one morning my ceiling fan came loose from the ceiling and hung above my bed by a single cord. Then the shadows came. They began as flickers. Then shapes. One night I watched a small shadow figure leap onto the closet shelf like it was made of ink and smoke. But the moment that carved itself into my mind forever happened at the stairs. I was standing at the top of the staircase, looking down into the dim living room, when a shadow figure started moving—fast and chaotic—jumping from furniture to furniture, swinging, darting, almost playing. It moved with a speed and fluidity that made my skin crawl. And at that exact moment, my cat came running up beside me and pressed herself against my leg, rigid with terror. The two of us—me and my cat—stood there together at the top of the stairs, silently watching it move below us, and her reaction matched mine exactly. She saw it too. After that, something in me dimmed. My spirit felt smothered, like an inner light had been switched off. I tried sage, crystals, black salt. I even went to a crystal‑shop healer who used a pendulum—she told me something was there but wouldn’t respond to her. People assumed it was psychosis from drugs. But opioids don’t create moving shadows that animals respond to in real time. Something was genuinely wrong. Out of desperation, I found the Denver Shamanic Healing Center and met Bryan. Talking to him felt like someone finally speaking the same language I’d been drowning in. He told me he sees attachments most commonly in people whose energy has been shattered—severe trauma, grief, addiction, and people who work around death and chaos all the time: law enforcement, first responders, and clients who do crime‑scene cleanup. Those energies cling to broken, exhausted, unprotected people. He’s not a lineage shaman—he was trained by Peruvian shamans after going through his own brutal attachment years ago in Moab. When I arrived, he had me lie down on the table. He held a pendulum over my chakras. It didn’t move. Not once. Not even a tremble. He didn’t say it was rare; he simply said that every single chakra was blocked, and when everything is shut down like that, it’s a sign that something heavy is attached. Then he began the extraction. The air thickened around me. My body started to sway even though I wasn’t moving. Fast whispering filled my ears—panicked, unintelligible. When he worked over my chest, especially the left lung where my pneumonia had been, the pressure felt like something resisting him. When he moved to my hand, something tugged at one of my fingers—I had to have that spot cleared twice. He used selenite, tobacco smoke, spirit water, and rhythmic shaking passed down from his teachers. I could feel tension in the air like a struggle happening inches away from my skin. And then—suddenly—it stopped. He told me the attachment was gone, sent back to the underworld. I broke down crying, not from fear, but from a relief that felt like my soul was finally breathing again. My body felt light. My mind clear. My spirit open in a way I hadn’t felt in years. The next day I checked into rehab. Stayed a month. Got sober. Almost two years later, I’m doing hot yoga almost every day, rebuilding my life from the ground up. My home is protected with selenite and black tourmaline, and I live with boundaries, intention, and actual peace. I still battle addictive patterns, but I will never return to opioids or that darkness again. What Bryan did didn’t just remove something. It woke me up. It relit something inside me. It was a spiritual resurrection—my turning point. And I am endlessly grateful that people like him exist in this world—people who dedicate their lives to removing these heavy, frightening energies from those of us in the darkest, most desperate moments of our lives, when no one believes us and we’re abandoned or dismissed. These healers step into terrifying things that most people refuse to acknowledge, facing ridicule and skepticism while still choosing to confront the darkness on behalf of others. Their courage to protect themselves while pulling these energies off people who are barely hanging on is something I will never stop being grateful for