Like many others, I tuned in to “Quiet on Set,”, which revealed the hidden abuse of child stars behind the scenes. This series, particularly resonant with those of us who grew up in the ’90s, prompted a profound reevaluation of the shows from our youth. The recent revelations about “America’s Dad” and other beloved public figures have been shocking, exposing them as predators and casting a shadow over our entertainment icons.
The realization that numerous adults were present during those times yet remained silent—or worse, silenced those who spoke out—is staggering. The documentary was an eye-opener for me.
However, this morning, an article caught my attention. It discussed the discontent among some cast members of “Quiet on Set” regarding the lack of communication about the series airing on ID Network. A few are now expressing regret, stating that had they known it would be aired on ID, they would have declined to participate. They worry that their stories, and the gravity of the issues they raise, may not be receiving the serious consideration they warrant.
I’m perplexed by the weight given to the network broadcasting our stories. Whether it’s the investigative lens of “2020” or the crime-focused gaze of Investigation Discovery, isn’t the essence that the narrative is conveyed with fidelity? If the harrowing journeys and the shadows of abuse endured by the victims are brought to light, why does the channel of delivery stir such debate? For the regular ID audience, who are connoisseurs of crime and inquiry, the platform should not dilute the potency of the message, but rather serve as a conduit for the voices that demand to be heard.
To quote Alexa Nikola, she states:
“We have to live with our stories and how they were treated by ID and Maxine forever while they see it as leverage for future projects…. There’s nothing bingeable about trauma.”
Yet, my perspective diverges. In the tapestry of today’s society, it is the threads of sensationalism, horror, and trauma that enthrall the masses. This voracious appetite for the macabre is what dominates the zeitgeist. It’s a melancholic reflection that the integrity of these stories may be under scrutiny, doubted perhaps by viewers, or even the very individuals who bared their souls. It’s the underlying dread that their confessions might be dismissed. However, contrary to their fears, the world has indeed taken notice.
As the final credits of “Quiet on Set” roll, the echoes of the revelations linger in the minds of viewers. The series, a tapestry woven with threads of courage and vulnerability, leaves an indelible mark on the collective memory of a generation. It stands as a testament to the resilience of those who endured, and a call to action for an industry in dire need of reform. While the platform of its unveiling—ID Network—may be debated, the imperative message it conveys transcends boundaries, urging us to listen more intently and advocate more fiercely for the silent voices that have only just begun to speak.
A cry pierced the air, a symphony of irritation and mild alarm; it heralded no menace, only the onset of a deluge of tears that dared to breach the ramparts of my heart, long fortified. There, in her vibrant fuchsia chariot, the little girl and her companion sat, teetering on the edge of too-grown for such whimsical rides. Midway through their suburban odyssey, the spirited steed faltered, its electric lifeblood drained, leaving dreams momentarily stranded.
“DADDYYYYYYY!” He was still inside, and these young ladies had a block to drive.
Suddenly he bolts out of the house as if he had been catapulted but some unseen force, hops down the four small steps, landing on the sidewalk with a WAP! Within seconds he makes his way down the sidewalk and around the back of the Jeep. Grabbing onto the back, he begins to run, pushing them down the sidewalk and sending them all into laughter.
This is the moment that I burst into tears.
It dawned on me then, the stark realization that the bond I yearned for with my father was a dream unfulfilled, now lost to time. A year and a half had passed since his departure. His health had always been fragile, leading to numerous scares, but our estrangement made these moments less poignant. In truth, he had been absent from my life; thus, his passing did not leave a void. On the day of his passing, my tears were not for the loss of a beloved father, for our love had never blossomed. Instead, I felt a peculiar sense of curiosity. Visiting him a week before, I saw a man unknown to me. He lay silent, eyes closed, hands twisted in pain or discomfort, his mouth agape. Caretakers attended to him, wiping away drool, moistening his lips, offering water through a sponge.
A solitary encounter with him became memorable when I played a song from my childhood from the movie, “An American Tale,” which we cherished. His reaction was unexpected—his face contorted, tears flowed, and he emitted sounds of deep distress.
Before me was a stranger, a man whose life had barely brushed against mine. I didn’t know his favorite color. I did not know his favorite food. I didn’t know what genre of movie he preferred. I knew little of him—his likes, dislikes, or passions—save for his love of music and women. Whether his feelings for us were born of love or guilt, I could not discern.
I’m not going to say that he never tried, but there were certain wounds too deep, etched onto the soul of my being that wouldn’t allow for that to fully happen. There were rare occasions in which I had been the one to try. I’d reach out to him with a plan of action. We’d talk for hours going over what our lives had been up to that point and sprinkling in how we had to try to fix it, this, us. We’d hang up the phone, I’d feel light, and accomplished. That bit of motivation would then be followed up with silence. He would disappear and we wouldn’t speak for what would be for a couple of years after that. This would be our pattern until the day he died.
As a reader, I was aware of the potential regret of not connecting with him, a sentiment echoed by my family. Yet, now that he is gone, it is not regret that weighs on me but a profound disappointment—a longing to experience the sorrow that eludes me, the natural grief of a child for their father.
For months after he died, I would anxiously wait for the moment everyone had been warning me about. The moment of missing him, of yearning to hear his voice, or to hold his cold hands (his hands were always cold- “Cold hands, warm heart” he’d say!) but that moment never really came. I would try to sit in silence and see if I could feel his presence. I’d try my hardest to pay close attention to my dreams to see if maybe he’d visit me there. I soon realized I was reverting to childhood, always waiting for him, wanting him to visit, always being met with disappointment. So, I gave up again like I had years back.
Perhaps I won’t grieve as I did upon witnessing my neighbor, his offspring in tow, navigating a bubblegum-pink Barbie Jeep under the somber March skies. Yet, there’s solace in the breakthrough, a quiet epiphany embraced in solitude. It was a moment graced with a tender reflection of him, untainted by even a whisper of bitterness.
Flipping through a kaleidoscope of snapshots, it’s like a whirlwind tour of the many ‘me’s I’ve been! From the zany outfits to the cast of quirky characters I’ve moonlighted as, it’s been quite the show. Take the beach life, for example. When you’re young, the beach is your stage, but it’s not all sunshine and seashells, especially if you’re flying solo. The local beach brigade? A motley crew of sun-toasted, merry-makers in their golden years, toasting to the good ol’ days with a never-ending happy hour. They’re living it up—or so it seems—riding the wave of yesteryears, chasing a mirage of ‘more’ that’s just a bit too far out of reach.
Ah, paradise—a solo gig can feel like a tropical time-out. Days blend into each other, an infinite loop of sand, sun, and the same ol’ sea. Sure, Florida was a blast with its endless summer vibe, but even paradise can get old. How, you ask? Well, imagine the same sunny script, day in, day out, even the palm trees start to look like party props after a while. At first, it’s an exotic escape worth every sacrifice. But give it time, and you start to wonder what you traded in for this beachy dream.
Then comes the moment of truth, drawing that line in the sand—literally. To stay or not to stay? That is the beachy question. It’s like the ocean’s own siren song, luring you back to its shores. I’ve packed my bags for Florida not once, but twice, and I’d be fibbing if I said a third encore isn’t tempting. But hey, if I’ve waved goodbye twice, there’s gotta be a reason, right? It’s the same back-and-forth with my hometown—how many farewells and reunions can one have?
Gazing at these piles of photos, the faces, the places, it’s clear there’s a whole world out there waiting for me to dive in. I’m jazzed about discovering my next grand scene. Until then, I’ll keep on trekking, little adventures at a time. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find my next ‘spotlight’ in the most unexpected place.
Letting someone peek into my personal diary is like spotting a shooting star – it’s special and doesn’t happen often, especially for a private person like me. But it’s no surprise when I get all steamed up because the person I’m sharing with turns the spotlight on themselves. Even more grating? It’s not their debut performance – we’ve been through this act more times than I can count, particularly with this family member. So, what’s the encore?
Maybe it’s time to close the diary.
The answer is as clear as a bell. If it only leads to a tug-of-war, then why bother opening up? Why even start such an intimate dialogue? I do it because the person I cherish is the one I desperately want to have an equal exchange with. A conversation where we both have the floor, taking turns in the spotlight. That’s not asking for the moon, is it?
Yet, it seems the limelight always finds them. Today’s lightbulb moment is about guarding my personal chapters. If someone is genuinely interested, they’ll inquire. If they don’t, then my rule is silence.
Followed, quite predictably, by absence.
I hold the reins, and sometimes I just need to remind myself of that.
Why are we so obsessed with broadcasting our identity, like a peacock flaunting its feathers? So, I started trading plasma for plane tickets (cha-ching!), and I couldn’t help but notice the usual suspects shuffling in. There’s this itch, this compulsion to not blend into the crowd, even though I’m queuing up right alongside them. I may feel opposite, but in reality, I am no different from any one of them.
I was naive to the allure of ‘easy money’—it’s like catnip for the cash-strapped, the so-called outcasts of our oh-so-judgmental society. But really, how did that slip my mind?
The drill’s a breeze: strut in, sign up, and as long as you’re not a walking zombie or a protein-poor iron-deficient, you’re as good as gold! Ninety minutes and voilà—you’re a bit richer, and all it takes is a 48-hour breather before you can cash in again.
And here I am, a drop in the bucket of eclectic souls. We’re incognito yet bound by a secret pact: none of us are here for the noble act of donation. Nope, it’s all about the greenbacks.
I dish out one-liners, lock eyes with the staff, and put on my Sunday best (without making it obvious, of course). It feels like a charade, a confirmation of the ego lurking within us all. Despite our altruistic airs and empathetic hearts, we’re slaves to validation, seeking approval in the gaze and thoughts of others. For a rebel like me, who prides herself on shrugging off public opinion, it’s a bit of a bummer—a nudge reminding me that, deep down, I’m just another player in the game of life.
“I wonder where my heart will land, and if it’ll land where my body lies.”- Natal Galvan
They are among us, yet they fade from my sight. No longer do I perceive the addicts; instead, I see the individuals they were, the selves they long to reclaim, the potential they possess. Their narratives are woven into their attire, their distress sculpted upon their visages. Occasionally, I discern the tears that mar their cheeks—tears ignored, for who casts a glance their way? What does it matter? Those tears are silent pleas for aid. Yet we don’t acknowledge their existence.
For some, their prospects were snatched away; for others, surrendered willingly. Their anticipated futures dissolved, leaving only the anguish of the present. Some occupy the desolate corners, chilled and damp; others wander the byways, seeking a path to renewal. Hope has eluded many, their strength waning. Among them are veterans who once battled for our freedoms, entrepreneurs who steered vast enterprises, individuals blessed with joyful beginnings, and those seemingly destined for relentless hardship.
If you pause to contemplate a moment in their lives, your soul cannot help but be burdened, for our imaginings pale in comparison to their stark realities. Thus, we must embrace compassion and empathy. Rather than averting our gaze, let us offer a simple smile—a beacon of hope to sustain them a moment longer.
They are all around us, invisible to some. But I see them—I see the humanity that endures within.
They say that the beginning of the New Year was actually in April. That’s why they have April Fool’s Day, in celebration of those (fools) who clung onto the old date of rining in the new year, between March 25th and April 1st.
I feel it. I always have. I’ve never felt January 1st to feel any different, let alone “new.” It was simply another day; a break allowing us to unwind from the hectic holidays.
It could be the fact that winter hasn’t really touched on us yet. It feels warmer than it should for the month of February. It’s tricking my mind that spring is coming. Yet, the weather isn’t the only thing that has me feeling oddly fresh and new. Something internally is buzzing with activity.
After some hibernation, I’m coming out more energized and authentic. It started by setting up boundaries that long ago should have been placed. Once I created a bit of space, I hung in silence. You can’t imagine the amount of noise there is lingering around you until you remove the chatter.
The silence is peaceful and, at times, even awkward. I embrace that feeling of awkwardness because it’s one that I don’t have often. Questions arise, you begin asking yourself, what now? Then, within the silence, you hear whispers of answers.
Stillness and calm have not only a soothing effect but a fulfilling one. You begin to answer the questions that have always swirled within your mind. Without the noise to distract you, you begin to learn your wants, desires, and who you are within this body.
My new year is beginning with the spring equinox. I’m revamping my life. Although there are things I have to still take care of slowly, I’m letting some of those things just be. They’ll take care of themselves, or shall I say, life will take care of them for me.
New projects light the path in front of me. New routines are bringing me excitement and fun, and although I’m not completely tossing out the “old,” I’m just not looking back there as often.
Self-care is of top priority as of late. Not because it’s a new year. No, this wagon left the station way before the spirit of the holiday season came upon us. Awareness crept back in October after realizing that I had let go of a lot of my own rituals that kept me rooted, balanced. Since then, I’ve been slowly getting back into the swing of things, my swing for all things. A little more mediation and yoga here, a float in a sensory deprivation tank there, a day of getting pampered with a massage and facial on another day. The money that I have spent throughout the last couple of weeks have been well worth it because the feeling of being whole again has been utterly priceless. I noticeably have released a ton of tension, and have learned to really romanticize my day, gifting myself moments of pleasure and joy instead of leaving it in the hands of others to do it for me, to then be disappointed when it doesn’t happen.
Taking control over my own happiness isn’t the only thing I’ve been up to these days. I’ve also been making sure to set boundaries. Noticing myself creep back into my old co-dependent ways, I immediately had to set boundaries with those closest to me. I’ve been allowing too much negative talk to thicken the air around me. I’ve been allowing for people to take and take until my cup has run dry. Oddly enough, it’s these very same people that’ll say “Nat, you should really think about taking some time to yourself. You seem like you’re depleted, and you can’t keep giving if you’re running empty,” not realizing it is them who are sucking me dry. Within the same breath, they’ll ask more of me, “By the way, do you think you could read my cards for the month?? I feel like I need a reading to guide my way. I’ve got a new job lined up and I need to see what I’m working with. Thanks.” they demand, tipping over my cup, tapping it ferociously trying to get every last drop out of me.
I’m relearning how to say “no” and mean it. I’ve played dumb to situations as to not have to pick up responsibility that, in all fairness, I shouldn’t be asked to pick up. I try to remain, at times, unassuming and unaware, paying close attention to the things I want to engage in, instead of focusing my energy on what others need me to focus on for them, the takers. Although it’s been a bit disappointing to catch myself slipping back into their claws, I’m happy to say that at least I caught myself. Noticing the regression just in time, before any real damage has been done, is the key to getting back to using the tools given to you, to help you get back to enjoying your time here. So now that I’ve noticed, it’s time to take back my time and my Self and get back to living for myself.
Waking up between the 2:45am and 3:38am is the time I rise up randomly, wide awake, thoughts demanding my attention. It isn’t typical for this to happen to me but when it does, I can expect to not be able to get back to sleep for another couple of hours. It’s a moment in time in which I can proudly show myself how lazy I’m not, because instead of giving in and getting up, I lay working hard to get myself back to sleep. But, until I do, this is where I find my thoughts sprinting from one topic to the next without warning. Mentally, my brain takes a trip to places I rather not visit, trying to take swims in deep pools of negativity.
Last night was one of these nights. I had to keep reminding myself, “The Universe has your back…. Everything is ok… You don’t know the future, so don’t be scared of the unknown because it’s going to be so GOOD….”
I know that I’ve reached a point in my life where something is going to happen; I am at a pivotal point in my life. With so much that has removed itself from my life, I am now very open to any opportunities that come my way. I am excited for this, or at least I tell myself that I am excited. Yet, I definitely know that there is a huge transitional period that I’m entering, and I have to acknowledge the fact that, yes, I am a little nervous. No matter which way I turn, I know that I will be once again, starting completely over. I’ve started my life over numerous times, so it’s almost second nature to know what to do and how to go about doing it. I can’t argue that romanticizing starting over once again is difficult this time around. I’m at a point in my life where I’d like to start building my nest, yet maybe this is showing me that here isn’t the place.
Day two of the new year and I’m contemplating life and my current choices, waiting and resting while I allow for new opportunities to present themselves to me. I guess, if I really think about it, I’m right on track.
I just recently returned from my annual haunted vacation with friends. It’s something that we have been doing for the past few years. We live in different states so once a year, over the course of the year, we compile ideas of places where we would like to visit that are either very haunted or extremely spooky. This year we decided to venture off to West Virginia and our first location of three was the abandoned amusement park near Princeton, WV.
Not many know of or have heard of Lake Shawnee outside of those who live nearby, though the history of this abandon amusement park is quite rich. Before opening as an amusement park in the 1920’s, it was home to Native American Indians, more precisely the Shawnee tribe. Eventually, when the amusement park opened up in 1926, it had unknowingly been built over an old Native American burial ground. It is said that because of this disturbance that the land was cursed. In my opinion, I don’t believe that it is the Native Americans themselves that have cursed the land but, more so, the energy of the tragedy that followed thousands of years later. A tale as old as time, and so tragic that one cannot help but know that, it is this story that contributes in the curse that seemed to have befallen over the park.
Hundreds of years ago, the Clay family, the first family to settle in this area of West Virginia, had established their home on this very land, and so it wasn’t very long after doing so that the Native Americans decided to take revenge on the family that had stolen their land. The Shawnee tribe sought their revenge in 1785 by immediately killing off two the family’s children, and later kidnapping a third and burning him alive at the stake. Michael Clay, their father, quickly sought revenge on the Native Americans killing a few of the Shawnee Indians.
Centuries later, the land was bought and made into an amusement park opening up in 1926 and stayed operation until 1967, in which it ended up being closed down due to failed health inspections. Throughout its operation, there were three noted deaths at the park. Two of the deaths involved drowning (one little boy was found at the bottom of the pool after his arm was caught in a pipe, while the other had been a little boy left by his mother for the day and when she returned to get him, he had been found floating at the bottom of the pool), the third death was of a little girl who had been riding the swing ride at the time and her swing had collided into a concession stand killing her instantly. A fourth death has been speculated but has still not proven, or at least directly linked to Lake Shawnee, and that is the death of a gentleman who had been coming down one of the lake’s slides when he went over the side, smashing his head onto the cement at the lake’s edge below. The park featured a Ferris wheel, a swing ride, a swimming pool, the lake, concession stands, as well as cabins for overnight stays. The park was the first of its kind in the area and was very popular, especially amongst the local residents.
After being closed for nearly two decades, the park was reopened in 1985 after it was purchased by a former employee who previously had worked for the park. However, due to increasing insurance rates, it was only three years later that the park had to be closed down for continuous insurance rate hikes. The owner, Mr. White tried to continue running the park by sponsoring fishing tournaments as well as off-roading events. It was throughout this time where construction for the mud bog, that they unearthed human remains, later confirming that the land had served as an old Indian burial ground. Since then, further disruption of the land has stopped, and it has continued to serve as a site for archeological investigation.
Today the park is operated as an abandoned amusement park by the son of Mr. White along with a few other local residents. The park is operated as a non-profit organization and all money made after paying their overhead is donated to local charities individually picked by those who run the amusement park.
In order to gain access into the park, you must first make an appointment ahead of time. The park is operated voluntarily by those with full-time jobs. Access into the park is based around availability of these volunteers, and although you would be able to make an appointment for virtually any time or date, unless you make an appointment you can guarantee that you won’t be making it onto the property and will only be able to observe very little from the property’s fence.
When visitng the park, we opted for the overnight stay but this is not the only activity offered. You’re more than welcome to do a simple day tour of the property. Upon our arrival, we were greeted by your host whom we spend 90 mins with going over the history as well as a tour of the lay of the land. Our host ended up being the son of Mr. White, the owner who ran the property from 1985-1988. The passion behind this man towards the old amusement park is something to marvel at. He posseses tons of artifacts such as original jewlery and arrow heads found from the Native American burial sites, as well as authentic pictures from the time of the park being in full operation. He had plenty of stories to share, which he doesn’t publish, so in order for you to hear the stories, you must take the tour.
When our tour was completed, we were left to our own devices. We stationed ourselves in the outdoor dance hall area. There is no electricity other than the lights that are set for the park, which are not many. On the night that we had our stay, the weather dropped down to 28° and so we were in luck to have had a fire pit there. Our host also provided logs of wood free of charge, although we did end up leaving cash for it.
Our paranormal experiences were mild; however we did experience some. It was a windless night, and we were able to communicate with spirits through an old plastic toy pinwheel. It had been left years ago for the spirits of the children who have passed on to play with as a sort of offering. We don’t know exactly who we were communicating with, but they used this pinwheel to let us know that they were there and listening.
Knowing the park’s history and staying on that property overnight is probably what was most eerie of our stay there. We weren’t attacked by ghoulish ghosts. We weren’t run off by scary shadow figures. With its overgrown vines taking over the old attractions, and the morning and nightly mist that is there to greet you, you cannot help but feel a bit of unease. If anything, the cold and the darkness of the night was what ended up being the most frightening experience of it all.
For those that know ghost hunting, you know that while on your hunt, you are not going to sleep at all. Even if we wanted to sleep, the cold hadn’t let us. We were excited to slowly see the sun come up and with it just a bit more warmth, but not by much. After concluding our investigation and thawing out some around the fire pit, we headed off to our final spot, the area of the Native American burial ground where the memorial stone stood.
The stone itself has a unique story to it. Back when it was first discovered that this land was sacred Indian land, the landowners were trying to find the perfect memorial for it. A 6-foot stone was placed on the land temporarily to mark the memorial. That very night that the stone was placed on the land, it rained and over the night and next day they discovered that the stone had sunken 3 feet into the ground. If you look at the stone from a certain angle, the stone looks like a Native American’s head dressed with a feathered head piece. Once the discovery was made of the stone and its unmistakable image, the stone was left as the memorial stone where it is there to this day along with offerings left by those who have toured the park. I, myself left an offering as a “thank you”.
Visiting Lake Shawnee was a memorable experience that we will take with us forever. Simply meeting our host was something short of magical experience considering the energy that fell from him was radiating and contagious. If you ever find yourself in this area of West Virginia, I highly recommend a visit to the park whether as an overnight guest or to take a short day-tour. I promise you won’t forget it.
Natal Galvan 
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