Why I Write What I Write
Why I Write What I Write
I was asleep at the wheel of my own existence. I had made a very conscious decision to take all of the pain, the fear, the trauma from the life I lead before my marriage and pack it away, as if it were as easy as that, to perform my most important role to date; the dutiful wife and devoted mother who would do it all. Unfortunately pretending is not growth and I proceeded to wither and fade as I slipped into a life of disconnection and depression and convinced myself that this was somehow better than the life I felt I had been rescued from instead of realizing it was only different not safer or better. Believing that I owed this man my life and every part of it and deserved nothing real in return would be my first and biggest mistake. I had failed to recognize the fact that I had saved him too, given him a new start too; and so, we began this life devoid of legitimacy and ran ourselves right into mutual insanity.
That’s the actual transaction that came from our lack of authenticity to ourselves or anyone else for that matter. We both came in damaged and unwilling to try to be better. We both made it easy for the other to stop trying to grow. We were doing these things to one another in the mistaken hope that it would finally make us happy to just accept things. I began trying and failing to crawl out of the hole I had jumped into with both feet and my eyes wide. It was one pathetic half attempt after the other. I lacked the courage of my convictions and I lacked the will to fight anyone any longer or to stand up for my needs as an individual and not just his counterpart. What followed was nearly twenty years of stagnation, disconnection, disinterest, and regression. What would follow would be a folly of blunders and missteps to make the most straight-faced person ever laugh out loud at the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
Then something amazing happened, I ran out of time. I had a routine outpatient surgery, during which I was only supposed to be put into a twilight state. Something went wrong, I woke up and they had to put me into deep sedation. It took me so much effort to be awake that I went home and went to bed until I was awakened by the need to be ill. I was in the beginning stages of sepsis and double pneumonia and I would lose the battle momentarily that night.
I for a moment lost my chance to ever get it right. I was not expected to survive the coma they placed me in to give my family time to say goodbye. For many reasons that I will try and cover in this blog I have been awakened to my need to dissect and dismantle the wreckage of my past both before and during my marriage, and finally one issue at a time come to resolution in my heart. I’ll cover my decent into madness, along with my emanation from the darkness, the reasons for it and my ongoing emergence from the mist that was my fear and my apathy in my efforts to live authentically and at peace with my soul.
My Last Night as That Broken Girl
By the time I finally arrived at the E.R. I had been losing the battle to breathe for several minutes already. In fact I was working so hard on trying to get just one good breathe that I have no memory of how I got from the car to the counter. I remember the look of utter dismay on the face of the woman behind it though. The doors to the next area swung open and I was wheeled into the triage room. The next thing I have a clear memory of is the nurse first thinking I was hyper ventilating as at first glance it did appear as if I were having a panic attack, there was a fair amount of panic in my eyes as I battled for air, that’s for certain. “I need you to breathe in through your nose and…..” I cut her off and try to speak. As I try and reply without sound or breath, “I ca breathe” The nurse guides me onto the table by my shoulders, pulls my shirt over my head and with that I lost my breathe and then I lost consciousness. I was losing the battle to survive. It was not time! It couldn’t possibly be! I had so much left to do! I was a mother. I had children who still needed me. I had children still at home. I was a wife. I couldn’t just abandon him with everything. My God, I was only 45 years old.
None the less I was dying. I was actually DYING! I was placed into a medically induced coma, and my prognosis was bleak. My husband and children were told that I would not survive, and to perform any life saving measures would be traumatic and pointless. They began the vigil that was to bring me to my death in peace. They would press on in spite of the fear and pain they were feeling to care for and nurture me as long as I was with them.
What comes next is a bit less clear to me. It’s a complicated menagerie of memories, coma dreams, imaginings, and conversations or reunions with spirits from my past who I now believe have always been with me. The only thing I can say with absolute certainty before I go any further is that I am hoping to come to a better understanding of what happened to me through my writings here, on my mission to have met myself in a place of peace in the end.
What does that mean exactly? It seems a rather dramatic statement, doesn’t it? The thing is, it isn’t actually dramatic at all in this instance. I had consciously made the decision to live the unhealthiest life I could manage for long periods of my adulthood in the sincere hope that I would become ill and be granted a merciful end to a life I had suffered tremendously through. With short intervals of “I’m getting healthy for good” thrown in for good measure, I spent my entire twenties and a decent part of my thirties water free. Literally, I drank no water ever, at all. If it wasn’t Coke, I didn’t drink it. Unless, of course, it was alcoholic and contained massive amounts of sugar, then it was even better than a Coke. My diet consisted of fried food, carbs, caffeine, sugar, packaged junk, Vegetables were occasional items, and after every killer meal more sugar always accompanied by nicotine for desert. I was a chain smoker as well. That’s how disconnected from myself and my body I had resigned myself to be. To be connected to myself or my life was not a possibility at that stage in my evolution.
In truth at this stage I lacked the ability to even begin deciphering the wreckage from my past. I had never been safe or secure enough before now to even try. As a reward for bringing safety and a sense of security to my terrifying world, this wonderful damaged guy who loved who I convinced him I was with everything he had available to him got a front row seat to the process of demolition and rebirth unaware he had even purchased a ticket.
As a result of my inability to deal with my past, I spent years trying to pretend I was a different person than I had been when all of the horrible things I had suffered occurred. But I hadn’t done anything to actually change who I was. When that stopped working and the tumultuous and life wrecking process of trying to actually become whole began, the fallout was crushing. My reaction to the stress and what felt like interference from my husband resulted in my sanity waning. That including my subsequent self harming behaviors caused my children to suffer. Because I was a damaged person, I caused my beautiful, innocent children damage that I am actively invested in repairing.
I love my children fiercely. They were then and they are now; everything to me. I feel their pain as it is my own and so I had as a matter of survival, tuned out everyone’s emotions as they pertained to me, and as a result I failed to recognize the damage my utter refusal to seek healing was really doing. My children grew up worried about their mother instead of the other way around. Not that I didn’t worry about them. I worried obsessively but would end up choosing instead to punish myself rather than change. I just stuffed it down and did something self-destructive to make those feelings go away!
I would proceed over the next decade and a half, to indulge in anything that might make me feel good. This would come out in many destructive and damaging ways throughout my twenties and thirties. This would eventually culminate in alcohol abuse, an intense and long-lived addiction to methamphetamines and cocaine, a dependence on anti anxiety medications, and marijuana that I am still coming to terms with. Although I understand the value of living a completely sober life I am not yet capable of managing my anxiety naturally but I continue to work toward the day when I can manage without help from a substance.
In the mean time I accept my limitations and allow myself grace. I spent years hating myself once the reality of what these things and the damage they had caused really meant began to permeate my bubble of invincibility.
Almost immediately after my second marriage, I began consciously resigning from living due to my belief that I was just never going to live a happy productive life. Our relationship had begun in whirlwind fashion. Passion and exuberance were just a natural part of the unfamiliar feelings we were both experiencing. Effortlessly we melted ourselves together. It was a first for us both. For him my energy and boldness combined with my dependence on him for everything was irresistible. For me, his innocence and his steadiness coupled with his gallantry was seductive and comforting. We each offered the other something always longed for. But we were also doing everything as the people we wanted to be for one another instead of being who we really were. Neither of us had an ounce of self-confidence and so we felt the need to pretend and act as if we were more whole than we really were. This is always a recipe for disaster.
The reality of who we really were began to taint the perfection of our projected and perceived selves shortly after we moved in together. We were on the verge of realizing this when I became pregnant with our first child. He proposed and I of course accepted. There really was no other answer to give, I was not capable of even caring for myself properly at that point. It was not within my rights to refuse his proposal. My child deserved more than just me. So, with that we married and put on our best happy together faces and began trying to forge a life.
After our first daughter was born, I began a deep dive into the darkness of the damage I had suffered in my life before my marriage. I had been waiting for the perfection of this happy life I was certain would just happen for me for too long. I was filled with disappointment and resentment, coupled with the misdirected and bitter indignation for my unrelenting melancholy born of my circumstances.
I was so empty and needy, I was so desperately longing for someone to fill the emptiness I had left inside of myself not realizing that only I could do that. He on the other hand was too damaged in that arena to ever meet my expectations or my needs at that time, even if they had been completely reasonable. It was indeed the perfect storm.
He had grown up under extreme stresses and with no sense of personal security and he had had his heart torn out by his two wives previous to me, so his emotional availability was conditional at best. I rarely met his conditions. I am passionate, emotional, and had a burning and intense urgency for connection and he was completely opposite. The utter soul shattering discouragement I felt when the weight of that miscalculation on my part hit me led to my submission to a life without the fire I had depended on for so long to keep me alive and drive me to be more today than I was yesterday. It became frightening to try. The sting of disappointment when I tried and failed became my Kryptonite. I eventually relented and just stopped trying. My mind began screaming. My soul began shriveling. My heart grew calloused and I learned to pretend I was happy.
This would be the beginning of my slow decent into dying daily. The decision to embark on this journey had been mine and mine alone. The decision to accept less than what I knew I needed in order to find my way had been a conscious one. My self loathing had won out, I had chosen someone who would need me to need him so desperately that he would shy away from encouraging me to grow out of a fear I might grow away from him like the others had. I had chosen this. I was more comfortable as a shadow than I was as the light. I was so afraid that I couldn’t that I stopped trying. I chose this life and I chose it for a reason. I was afraid to go forward and I needed someone to hold me back. So, I began my life of feeling incapable, overly emotional, vulnerable, and broken. My life of choosing to die a little bit more every single day. My existence steeped in a sincere desire for it all to just stop. Dying daily was just simply killing me!
The View from That Front Row Seat
So, in the last section I spoke of the front row seat my husband had landed in but not knowingly purchased a ticket for. I feel like that is something I need expand on just a bit:
“At this stage I lacked the ability to even begin deciphering the wreckage from my past. I had never been safe or secure enough before now to even try. As a reward for bringing safety and a sense of security to my terrifying world, this wonderful damaged guy who loved who I convinced him I was with everything he had available to him got a front row seat to the process of demolition and rebirth unaware he had even purchased a ticket.”
I met my husband in 1992 and at that stage of my evolution, I had already escaped my parents home, where I had been severely abused by a mentally ill step father who had stated that we would not both survive living together for much longer. I was over being afraid of him at that point. Being afraid only made it better for him. He was a very sick individual, and my mother overlooked it all. She became a champion gas lighter for her man! So basically by age 16 I decided anything was better than going to prison for killing him. I definitely was not going to be killed. My brilliant alternative was to move into my high school boyfriend’s parent’s home and then we got married when I was still only 17 and he 19.
We both knew it was doomed before it ever actually began, but as young lovers often do we fooled ourselves into believing that love was going to be enough. We were all passion and incredible love that turned into ridiculously overheated arguments born of our absolute lack of common ground and even more intense resentment and disdain on both parts.
By the second year in, it was already over; we just hadn’t admitted it yet, at least not to one another. So, we would first, and at my relentless insistence bring a beautiful baby boy into the world. He was my first true love. But he was born with a heart condition that the doctors missed. He turned 9 months old in the intensive care unit before passing away. I wanted to die with him. I was alone again. I would never hear his voice or feel him run into my arms. His laugh was gone along with my heart and soul.
We would go through three years of breaking up and getting back together, all of which happened explosively and passionately as we were just spinning out of control off into vastly different directions. Not before we had a beautiful baby girl who we put a genuine effort in for, but too much had happened. She was two when we decided to divorce, nearly four before we actually pulled it off.
When I met my current husband, I had morphed into what I would say was a good person who had been forced to behave badly to survive. I believed that manipulation and portrayal of an alternative self rather than allowing the real me to ever be seen or heard was the only way I would ever possibly be loved. I knew at first blush that I could be my good alternate with him. He was, in fact almost exactly what I would have cooked up in a lab in true weird Science fashion were that actually a thing.
That is not to say I wasn’t who I told him I was, I had completely gotten off of Meth by myself and stayed clean of it. I was NOT a willing participant in the lifestyle I had been forced to become part of, so I skipped around that part, and he looked intentionally around it. Therefore I didn’t feel guilty about it yet. Unfortunately I never really put any actual thought into what I should have been doing at that point to better my life and grow from the doing of it. I instead found someone so willing to be the best thing that ever happened to me, but had no clue what I actually needed to keep me safe, and accept me flawed and somewhat a phony. Looking too deeply was just not in his purview and I counted that as an asset then.
We met at The Silver Saddle restaurant and bar. It was a smokey, seedy, dive bar in the center of town where anyone who was single, twenty-one or older and had either no desire or no means to make it to anyplace more desirable would amass on the weekends. I started out as an unenthusiastic patron. It was the only place for a girl with no home, no car and no one who gave a shit to find someone to go home with. I had been exposed to some of the most deplorable men imaginable and suffered deeply at the hands of many of them in my time as a homeless girl. I had been reduced to this subhuman level very soon after my separation from my first husband due to the simple realities of having no one to call for help and my complete and utter helplessness. I got afraid at one point after an encounter with a couple of hunters in town for the weekend, and really tried to make a go of it working and staying with my brother and his wife to no avail. I was too much for her to handle having around. So, I migrated back to my people there at the Saddle and asked for a job.
That’s where we met, I was waiting tables and he was playing music. He wasn’t a patron and he didn’t know me as the girl who’ll go home with anyone. He was there because it was the only bar in town that had a stage; he played drums with a country/rock band on weekends. He had recently gone through his second divorce and had been really destroyed in the process. He hadn’t really dated anyone since his divorce, was shy and awkward, he was damn good-looking but had no clue, so he was not cocky or threatening. That alone gave me butterflies. He was so shy he had someone ask me for my number for him. After the life I had been struggling through, I thought that was wonderfully charming and quaint. Then he blushed the first time he spoke to me, breathlessly. To meet someone who was too shy to talk to me and actually blushed the first time he did was all it took to sell me on accepting his request for a date, so after one casual greeting I had piqued his interest enough to ask me out and I accepted. I hadn’t been with or even around a guy like him that I could ever recall. Looking back I wish that had been enough to make me feel safe enough to be me and to share my true story with him, no deleted scenes. But that’s not what I did. I did what felt safe to do; I began building an alternate he could love. It is something I’ve always done.
So, we moved in together within two weeks of our first date. He was overwhelmingly attached and tuned into his every emotion for a long time in the beginning. He went to work talking about sparks and me being the one. I played housewife and did everything just like I knew he wanted me to. I was safe and I had security for the first time ever. I would cling to him like a life raft in a hurricane and eventually it became too much. He was everything to me then, but me; I was too broken in so many ways to genuinely be an asset at that time. I could clean house and do laundry like a pro. I was a typical crazy bitch in his bed, and I made him feel like a man. But I was clingy because I was still so terrified of being alone again and jealous for the same reasons. I was terrified there was going to be someone less me just waiting to take him from me. I had shown him my crazy side once, and threatened to leave him once. That was all it took in his fragile ego state. He would pull all the way back away from me before he allowed me to cause him the kind of pain his two ex-wives had.
He became detached and cold by the time our first child was born. I became wounded and lonely and desperate again. But I was safe and so I would never ever consider trying to actually be happy if he felt threatened at all by the effort. I would continue to go without a soul to connect with as my lover, not because he wouldn’t let me in but he couldn’t. I would go without someone who wanted to talk about life and the feelings we were having, so, I would shut down all of the parts of me that made me alive. My independence and self-reliance was terrifying to him, so I avoided growing and withered away for years. He would never have asked me to, he would never want me to, but he did need me to.
So he held season tickets to the undoing of Victoria, he held season tickets but rarely showed up to the game. He was like a Cubs fan that just couldn’t bring himself to watch the team lose again, but didn’t want to turn his tickets over to someone else just in case the team started winning again.
That is not a statement against him or his character, he is one of the most honest and honorable men I know, it is just an integral piece of this puzzle that happens to be necessary for completion of the bigger picture. I am not a victim in this in any way. We both had twisted motives and pure intentions. There are no bad guys in my current story, only players. Being who I am and staying authentic to me is not optional any longer. Hence, the second part of the title Living Fully.
What does it mean to be living fully? Well, for me it is an ongoing journey to living fully. I spent more than the first half of my life pretending to be alive on the outside while the things that made me alive were being strangled and released and strangled and released on the inside of my stagnant soul. Brought to the brink of extinction and then allowed to flourish but only in vain. There was always another thing waiting to crush me. That was because I had a box of darkness bulging and gibbous with sorrow and pain just waiting to spill its contents all over my life. When it did, I would hide myself away, abuse something intoxicating to make me feel better, harm myself or cut all of my hair off or something equally absurd, and then I would emerge carrying the same God dammed box. I hadn’t bothered to try to sort anything out or organize anything, just repacked the same pain and sorrow and resentment and went forth.
I’ve worked here and there during the beginning and middle of our marriage, but mostly not. At one point I owned and operated a boat detailing business and made a huge success of it, but had to go on bed rest during my last pregnancy which would mean I had to close up shop. Sometimes it was me who just couldn’t manage to keep a job, other times it was him who didn’t want me to gain my independence or build my confidence to the point I could do it for myself. It was a self-defense mechanism but it still caused harm to the relationship either way. Either he was spending his time at home resenting me for not working, or I was spending all of my time resenting him for having so many things in his life besides a home and kids. He was working six days a week as a marine technician, and was of course the best and the fastest. It seems so very petty now but then I even resented him for his successes if I’m honest. He also still had his weekends booked playing with his band; I was stuck at home with the kids. His family was all around us but he refused to ask for babysitting. So, the dance continued for over ten years of our lives together.
He began doing meth recreationally with one of his band mates. He didn’t try to hide it, he asked me to do it with him. He had no idea that I had had a problem and broken myself from it, so it was an innocent enough suggestion. Sex on meth when it’s not against your will is unbelievable after all, and inhibitions do not exist in the absence of fear. Little did he know I knew what his motives were and it felt like a solution to the aching hunger I had deep within me. It felt like a way to get inside of him finally. So, I eventually gave in to his persuasion. I made another conscious decision to give in to what felt easy. So we began doing meth together in the bathroom of the home where we were raising our kids and faking it completely now for everyone else. I learned very quickly that great sex is not connection. We became completely unable to even consider having sex without it, and when we did have sex it was definitely reminiscent of my past tweaked out nights of hard-core everything and no holds barred but softened at the edges and always within my firm control. It appeared on the surface for a while that it worked for us in a lot of ways, but I am an addict and he is not, I was addicted to sex and only getting it when I was high. I was addicted to the meth, so the duality of those two conditions made it impossible for me to even pretend to care a lot of the time. So there was dysfunction on my part that he didn’t suffer and once again the power dynamic shifted even farther in his favor and against mine. It was just the natural result and neither of us had intent. Life is composed of a shitload of unexpected fallout as I have learned to my chagrin.
Eventually, we would realize the error of our ways and to both of our credit we stopped doing meth completely and never looked back. It didn’t make things any better after we stopped. We almost instantly reverted back to being that couple from some fifties sit com who barely relate to one another unless it has to do with someone else in the family, and go through the motions intimately to keep up the pretense that we were making progress. I would soon insist that he quit playing on the weekends. I was so tired of being alone and isolated but had too much fear and angst to do anything to change it. I was afraid it would either cause friction or I would fail, or even worse I would make a connection like a device that’s been searching for WiFi that suddenly comes into range and betray him. So, instead I held him back with me, and he submitted knowing that it would be another thing he could add to the list of things he had done for me. It was another HUGE mistake along this path to alienation. I would develop intense guilt as a result of his intense resentment at giving up his biggest pleasure. Down the rabbit hole just a bit further now………
So, there we were, two damaged vessels abandoned at sea long before colliding in the tumultuous seas of lust and dysfunction that would become the prison of pain and disconnection within which I would surrender to a life sentence. I was guilty of a multitude of sins worthy of spiritual imprisonment after all. I believed that by my selfishness at times and jaggedness always I had by default forfeited my right to be happy unless everyone else was also happy with me and my choices. I was a mother who felt legitimately guilty due to the utter ridiculousness of the life I had somehow accepted for us all, including him.
I have an overly developed sense of empathy that drives everything I do. I don’t like to label myself an empath because it seems everyone these days is an empath. As one who does suffer the pain of true empathy in my physical being, I in response to feeling the emotions I incite in others tend to develop an innate sense of responsibility for the happiness of those I love. I was never included on that particular list however, I was not of the opinion that I was in any way deserving of that same consideration simply because I had never known it myself.
I had had such pristine and frankly, juvenile fantasies of life with a straight-laced guy who was nothing like anyone I had ever met, that when reality began to emerge through the fog of wishful thinking and illusions it was decimating to my spirit. It made me feel like I had completely failed at my only chance at self-respect and self acceptance, and so my thoughts would turn to ending my pain and removing my poisonous trail of wreckage from the lives of my innocent victims. Self loathing became my security blanket. I began to savor the misery of my existence. It felt right that I should suffer the consequences for my uselessness and utter ineffectiveness as a whole. An eternity of suffering was my accepted fate. What other options did I really have anyway? I was still the same girl I had been before we met without him. I was all alone in the world except for the children I didn’t feel worthy or capable of raising alone. They did not deserve to suffer for my misgivings. What I failed to realize, and what I have struggled to forgive myself for is that the damage from observing and feeling the dysfunction that we tried to pretend was function was damaging them even more deeply.
I had begun struggling with these facts and the weight of them about four years prior to my forceful rebirth into clarity without any real sense of direction or enthusiasm to change what I felt powerless to affect. I had taken the liberty of giving up on trying changing anything and began trying instead to accept the things I cannot change. That was a crime and I had offended against my children and yes even my husband. I had failed the children in numerous aspects and I had failed to act in my best interest and make my marriage a more equal and harmonious arrangement for us both because I had been so discouraged in so many ways so many times. I was weak and powerless and good for nothing and to no one. That was who I truly was then because that was who I truly believed I was then. The day I ran out of time was the last day I would be able to live with the energy attached to this mangled existence I now knew was not the life I had been honed and forged in fire for. I have a message; it is a unique and vital message. Multifaceted and diverse in its very nature as it has been my life’s work to compile the information derived from suffering and perseverance in the face of extraordinary horror and suffering from which I have been granted one of a kind insight into the workings of the human spirit.
My education is one not offered to many. It has been hard-won and not for the faint of heart. It is an education both devastating and invaluable. It is one that I have been given the honor and the second chance to share with others. I was spared certain death so that I could share my message and show by example that it literally is never too late to live the most authentic life possible and have the peace you desire as long as you have breath in your lungs and a heart that beats within you. Living fully is not the end game; it is the heart-felt authentic undertaking of this very personal journey itself that living fully requires nothing more and nothing less.
Oh the Wonders I Have Seen
As I said in the begining I was in a medically induced coma for six days and I was not expected to survive the damage already done to my heart and lungs. At one point my heart was operating at 5% and it was not improving. I was slowly shifting from the energies here and closer to the collective. It was comfortable and warm there. It was an intense and illuminating light that began to envelop my energy and begin the dance of intertwining my energy into the collective gingerly and slowly. There was no fear and the deep seated angst I have carried as my constant companion throughout my life had evaporated in the glow of the collective. I was still being pulled by the loving energies here at the same time, so I remained tethered between the dimensions. While I hovered there in between, I was moved to see the truth of everything I had suffered; I was given the knowledge that I had never been alone through any of it. I was for the first time ever elevated above it all and that’s when I realized I had been chosen to suffer and overcome as a teacher and a light worker in the darkness.
I have been trying to figure out the best way to describe what I now know to be the dimension beyond the veil of this reality. The realm where the collective of all energies past and future reside commingling, always maintaining the slightest connection to the energies here in the realm of the living, all of them maintaining a connection through the energy we put out into the collective and draw into ourselves from it.
I have a visual that I find helpful:
You know those clear glass spheres that have an electric arc inside and when you run your fingers over the glass the arc touches the glass where your fingers glide? That is what the collective reminds me of. The way I experienced it, I was aware of all of the energies but connected to specific energies there. Some I knew and loved dearly, others I knew but had no present knowledge of, which leads me to believe that they are energies of souls that have yet to be of the flesh. I felt complete and utter serenity there. I was enmeshed within this collective but just outside the whole collective en mass. My connection to the energies here in the realm where everyone I cherish was sitting a diligent and dutiful bedside vigil, to at the very least love the shit out of me while I was still breathing, even if it was only possible with the help of a ventilator, was holding me tightly and persuading me homeward.
I owe my life to the intense and indomitable pure loving energy that flowed into me through the veil drawing me ever closer to returning. I believe that this too was a choice that I made. I gained wisdom and knowledge and had a renewed sense of purpose, and I knew exactly what my mission and I was committed to finding my way to resolution and peace. I believe now that everything beyond the stage in my life when I was literally helpless and therefore at the mercy of the world as it is, is the result of a direct and intentional choice to act or react to anything at any given moment; even the choice to continue living or not.
This is the knowledge that is the catalyst and the driver behind this mission of mine, accompanied by the acceptance that I and I alone must begin to at least try to share what I have suffered and overcome in order to learn. The knowledge that this irresistible urgency I feel, driving me to share every step it has taken me to obtain the knowledge I posses, and to impart it to you for the enrichment of the collective, and in return every soul in existence no matter which stage, is of grave importance to the energy collective has given me purpose.
Uncovering every hidden or buried incident, baring my heart in all of its ugliness and its beauty, in an effort to lend my knowledge to the issue of childhood trauma and the damage it continues to do throughout the life of the victim. How, as a trauma survivor with no recovery present, the ability to navigate the treacherous landscape of adulthood with no real markers to help one gain the perspective needed to make good and sound decisions becomes what feels like a losing battle. To reassure you, that is not the case. I know I say this repeatedly, but as long as you are alive you are not out of hope, EVER!
I died and returned to share this knowledge with any and everyone I am able. I was given a second chance, against all odds, to bring this light into the world and to do everything in my power to spread this light far and wide. If you are with me I bless you and welcome you. If you know someone who is searching, invite them. We will never stop rising as long as we aspire to be light.