It’s 8 hours later and I’m back to where I started this day… sitting on the couch, (in the left corner of it) wearing my new slippers and being bundled in my favorite afghan. I’m dressed for the day, somewhat, but I’m coming off of a fitful sleep. I laid down after dropping off my Kait for her first day back at school. Then drove home – a 90-minute round trip adventure – and crashed into bed, feeling the effects of little sleep.
My mind was met with dreams that tossed and turned my spirit in tumultuous ways. This often happens when I lay down to rest during the morning hours after a night of no sleep. I’m haunted by insolvable quests and horrible monsters.
I now have tension gathering between my eyebrows, tiredness lingering in my bones and grit in my eyes. Music with words or flutes is overstimulating. I feel agitated and… angry.
I think the anger is coming because I just read a blog of a person who has sometimes popped by my blog. This blogger is sharing a healing journey of such a graphic nature, it makes my book, Above the Clouds, look like a G-rated Disney movie and, if you’ve read my book, then you are able to judge the severity of the content on this newfound blog. It is content that I can only read in parts before I find myself raging against the machine.
In all of my work with clients who are healing from childhood abuse, no matter how many tales have been unfurled at my feet, I have never grown immune or desensitized to the horrific nature of the beast within some people that can do some of the things that have been done to our children. I have never been able to reconcile myself with the atrocities that some children have had to endure, all while knowing that beneath the appalling stories that surface for them to share, there is most likely a myriad of others haunting the far reaches of their DNA.
I feel angry that children are not kept safe. I feel angry that children are abused. I feel angry.
Being a long-term member of the conscious thinking movement, I have often heard it said that we choose our life path prior to coming here and that we pick every person and every element of our lives at the same time. This theory always butts up against every other belief I have, as well as my tender heart, when I sit before a client who is telling me that he was severely beaten within an inch of his life at age eight or nine for dropping the sewing machine he had been forced to lift off the shelf that was two feet higher than he could reach on a chair, so he had to get the ladder and scale down it, while balancing with this machine that was almost twice as heavy as him. Why, if he got to choose this life prior to being born into it, WHY would he choose to live in terror and pain?
It is the one tenet of the conscious thinking world that I have battled with since the beginning. I can see that being a very viable possibility for my life – that *I* chose my life – but that is because, even though my life has been difficult and painful at times, most of that has been a direct result of my own choices after I had developed a logical brain. My pain did not happen in my childhood. My abuse did not happen in my innocence. I was not stripped of my purity and my tenderness through abuse, violation and degradation. So, I don’t know how to make that one belief work for those who have had to live in fear and pray for that locked door to stay locked, with the monster outside the room instead of inside it.
So here I sit, back where I started today, but in a much different frame of mind – feeling raving mad.
The sun is shining and, therefore, I’m going to go out into the cold winter day and see if I can get some of this stink blown off me. Perhaps a shift will come with it and I’ll understand what this little detour was about.
