One of my best friends in my youth was a Jennings. His mom spoke with a Cockney accent (I'm in Canada) and she told me of a time in England when she was visiting a friend some distance away. The town she was in was new to her. Before they rounded a corner, she described a shop that was three or four buildings down the next road prefacing her statement with attestation that she just 'knew' the shop was there. She described it in detail to her friend even to the type of flowers hanging above the shop door. When they turned the corner it was as she had said.

I don't think you're crazy or out of your mind. I do think you need to come to grips with your past. For some reason or other you're dragging some heavy baggage with you.

When I was 12 years old I had the following experience.

"            My grandfather was my dearest friend and closest companion. He shared his life with me and took the place of my absent father. When I had problems, Grampy helped me think about them and solve them. When I needed direction or guidance, he seemed to know, always. I absolutely adored him, and to this day I weigh the personal attributes of all other people against the mettle of his character. He was not a perfect man, and God knows he could drive a person to distraction, but he was my Grampy. We spent countless hours over the course of the years fixing the television. I would hold the mirror while he fiddled with the back of the TV. It was something we did together that was very special and meaningful to me, and it taught me lessons I could never have learned on my own: Lessons about helping, figuring things out, understanding the words people use, manners and speaking.
            My grandfather took ill. He had black lung caused by his coal mining days, and cancer caused by the cigarettes he smoked. I knew he was sick, but I had no idea how sick. I had gone to him so, so many times in my youth when I was misunderstood or troubled, lost or confused, alone or hurt. I could no more conceive of a life without him than I could conceive of a universe without God. And at the age of sixty-three, I can feel tears in my eyes as I try to write about the time Grampy came to me.

The living room was silent. The shades were drawn. The television screen was dark. I floated across the floor, stood beside my grandfather's chair and stared at the TV. I didn't know what I was doing there; I just knew it was where I had to be. Time evaporated. How much or how little went by I have no way of knowing. A mist formed beside the television we had repaired together so often. My grandfather's face appeared from the nothingness, and he smiled at me with a peace, tranquility, sadness and compassion I have only ever ascribed to beings of kindness and angels from the other world. And I knew then what Grampy had come to tell me. I awoke in my bed with the most terrible chilling anguish a human being can experience. I spoke with no one, and two months later the unthinkable came to pass."

I wrote that real-life experience as part of a short story about my grandfather. It is not embellished or exaggerated. Perhaps writing about it as you have done will help exorcise the demons. Yes, people will be skeptical. However, it ain't about them. It's about you.