Goodbye to You, The Death of Me

Why don’t I want to say goodbye? Send you a text and tell you sayonara.

Afraid I suppose, of your reaction, from 7,000 miles away.

Although honestly, I’m afraid of seeing you in person too.

I don’t want to see you.

I want to have a week free of you. Of your texts, of your phone calls, of your presence near me. Of wondering who you’re sleeping with tonight, of who’s touching you tomorrow.

While I hate to point fingers and label blame, the reality is that something about you, affects me more than nearly anyone else ever has. In such a repulsive way too.

I don’t just lie a little, about eating lunch here or liking that color shirt or .. whatever, perhaps even little lies are big lies, but.. the big lies, the really big lies, are all around me when you are here. And you don’t seem to care or notice.

How can you not care?

How can you be so disconnected from us all? That you don’t care if you lie with us, near us, to us, about us..

And why is it so hard to say goodbye to you in spite of this?! Am I really so frightened of what happens without? Without you? Without your support… without your hook into my life.

I guess that’s it, isn’t it. Am I ready to let go of all this space, all these things, to be free. If that is, indeed, what it takes. And will I be free, or will I just find your replacement, another you to teach lessons to another me.

I say I am ready; because living this way leaves me so pale, so… faded. Yet I can’t send you the text I want to, the email I think I should. Or find you where you are, and tell you the truth, my truth, a truth.

That I finally understand you will never, ever change, in this lifetime. That once burned shame on you, 25 times burned… holy shit, what am I doing with you?!

I am scared, of what your response will be more than anything. If I will have to watch my back, look over my shoulder, check my mail, watch every truck that goes by, just to see if it’s you lingering there.

Though perhaps our past should show me more of you and your behavior than anything else.

I thought I’d feel angrier at you right now, but maybe that’s having some space. Or maybe that’s me trying to protect myself. To shield myself from the truth of your lies.

That you would lie so much, that you would tell such things about me to others, to other women you sleep with, that you would treat me this way. A way that if you did it to my mother or my aunt, or my best friend, I would consider how to end you. But to me? To me.. I fail to defend myself.

Someday I will say goodbye, and the death of me now, will be the birth of me, then.

 

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The fear driven life (Fear of Transformation)

transformation-butterfly

I needed, or wanted, or.. wanted and needed to write today, either, and, or I’m here, and lucky you!

I’ve been working through a lot of fear recently.

Fear that leaving my recent “occupation” to create my dream online and in the waking realm will be foolish. That I won’t be valuable outside of, well, the bedroom.

Fear that financially I should wait, or save up, or just suck it up (and ok, not entirely literally there) and sloooowly take one step at a time to get my new plan in motion.

Fear that if I don’t take steps on it now, it will fade away and be too late.

Fear that continuing down that other path would lead me to hate the world, or die of it, or both.

Fear that others will think this a silly idea of mine and won’t support it. (Though so far I’ve met amazing support)

Fear that I’m not taking care of others by taking care of myself.

I’ve been meditating, walking, talking (as my therapist can attest to, and my dear S.O.), thinking, pondering, letting go, waking up, moving on, and finally.. meeting myself in the place where I am truly terrified.

There is a crossroads within, in which several of me from the past are gathered, and they are afraid.

They are the me of my younger years, about 5-8 I’d say.

Afraid of speaking up, of making others uncomfortable with my truths.

Afraid of asking for more, never sure where food will come from or if the phone bill will be paid without my suffering.

Afraid because I feel unworthy.

Afraid that there may not even be a car, or a tent, to sleep in tomorrow.

Afraid that my stepfather will come back in our life, that she won’t be strong enough to say no.

fear

Though I’ve touched on it in other posts, I suppose the time has come within me, to say more.

When I was just a little girl (and actually I hear the song Que Sera start up in my head here.. oy), about 4 years old, and my mother married my stepfather, my life as a happy, cheery, upbeat child ended. Not only was he violent, and verbally abusive with a wicked alcohol problem, but somehow he found his way to know folks involved in child pornography and so this way, did I.

These are details I can’t go into, and perhaps I wouldn’t if I could, maybe, simply because I don’t recall much. I simply recall long car trips with him feeling so lost, so sad, wishing I could disappear or die. He’d tell my mom we were going to Disneyland, but we never made it that far.

I remember old warehouses, an abandoned artichoke factory I believe, dirty mattresses and cameras. And that, is about it.

My behavior changed, of course. I no longer loved to run around naked as a jay bird, happy with the sun on my skin. I hated to see photos of myself, particularly partially undressed (as most babies and toddlers are in pictures now and then), even a bathing suit was too much skin, even years later.. I destroyed every picture I could find like that. I stopped singing. I felt completely alone even surrounded by others.

During this time my mother was in a deep depression and my family was afraid (there’s that fear again) of speaking up and saying something that would upset her. She didn’t always find herself able to work, and so the income of my stepfather was all there was for a while, and some of that came from what I did I know.

But in this lack I was afraid.

Afraid of eating too much, of not being able to afford more, of not being worthy of more.

Afraid of only being worth someone elses pleasure, and not my own.

Afraid of his temper. (You couldn’t even wake him up.. my mother would prod him awake with a broom handle, they didn’t even sleep in the same bed)
Afraid of speaking up and making my family uncomfortable, or sad.

When I was 7 I started taking food from other kids lunch bags at school, my mother was baffled because she packed me a full lunch, but I was always hungry for more.

Eventually I went to see my own therapist, as I’d started to tell my mother I wished I could die.

After she finally left him around 8 years old, we were homeless for about a year. Occasionally we’d stay at a friends for a week or a month or so, but usually there were limits on how long we could stay. We often stayed at motels down by the beach, due to a voucher program at the time; funny how staying in one of the most beautiful places in the world could really be so dark and frightening.

My 9th birthday we were “camping”, because some friends had a tent and sleeping bags we could borrow. My friends didn’t know those particular details, but they showed up and we had a camping party.

I remember after my mother went to the food bank around this time, finding some exceptionally nice treat in the bag, and feeling like I had to eat it slowly, carefully, because I might not get it again, ever.

So much of this was created by my mothers own fears. Of being alone, of not being worthy, of not being good enough that someone like my stepfather, so bruised and battered, would change, or heal for her, of not being enough, of being successful on her own, of being deemed an unfit mother (I didn’t often go to the doctor, and was treated for many things at home).

And here I am, at 35, finding that my fear now? Is centered there.

Afraid that without giving my body away, I won’t be liked.

Afraid that I won’t be worthy of another income, of making it on my own, with my own business.

Afraid that asking for more, more money, more health, more food, more support, more guidance; is asking too much, and that I’m … selfish, and bad for even thinking of it.

Afraid to share my story, my stories, be they pleasant or otherwise, for fear of not saying it perfectly the way they want to hear it.

Afraid to share my dreams, should they be too grand, too bright, too filled with joy and life.

Afraid to stand on my own and be capable, powerful, loved. That the only way to survive is by the grace and gifts of others, not my own.

Yet here we sit, at this crossroads, my younger selves and I. I’m ready to move on. I’m ready to create a new world. After all, there is a new way to see this world and I can see it, live it, and breathe it; if only I can release the fear that doesn’t just slow me down, it holds me back, it drags me down under the water, so fast, and so fierce, so that I’m drowning with no way up.

I’ve been taking baby steps forward, beyond the fear. Though I feel it still, sometimes overwhelmingly so. I’ve run from it my whole life, hidden from it, treated it like the black sheep in the room and done whatever I had to do to keep my head above water, so that I didn’t have to face it.

So I sit with it, with them, and I allow that fear, their fears, to be acknowledged, to be loved, to be acceptable and worthy. There is nothing more I can do for them, but offer them all I am now, the knowledge, the love, the hope I have here, in this moment, that everything will be ok. That they can walk away from the fear and in to light.

eagle

And I leave with that, and lead with this, one of my favorite writings of all time:

Sometimes I feel that my life is a series of trapeze swings. I’m either hanging on to a trapeze bar or swinging along or, for a few moments in my life, I’m hurtling across space in between trapeze bars. Most of the time, I spend my life hanging on for dear life to my trapeze-bar- of-the-moment. It carries me along a certain steady rate of swing and I have the feeling that I’m in control of my life. I know most of the right questions and even some of the right answers.

But once in a while, as I’m merrily (or not so merrily) swinging along, I look ahead of me into the distance, and what do I see? I see another trapeze bar swinging toward me. It’s empty, and I know, in that place in me that knows, that this new trapeze bar has my name on it. It is my next step, my growth, my aliveness coming to get me. In my heart- of-hearts, I know that for me to grow, I must release my grip on the present, well-know bar to move to the new one.

Each time it happens to me, I hope (no, I pray) that I won’t have to grab the new one. But in my knowing place, I know that I must totally release my grasp on my old bar, and for some moment in time, I must hurtle across space before I can grab onto the new bar. Each time I am filled with terror. It doesn’t matter that in all my previous hurtles across the void of unknowing, I have always made it. Each time I am afraid I will miss, that I will be crushed on unseen rocks in the bottomless chasm between the bars.

But I do it anyway.

Perhaps this is the essence of what the mystics call the faith experience. No guarantee, no net, no insurance policy, but you do it anyway because somehow, to keep hanging onto that old bar is no longer on the list of alternatives. And so for an eternity that can last a microsecond or a thousand lifetimes, I soar across the dark void of “the past is gone, the future is not yet here.”

Its called transition. I have come to believe that it is the only place that real change occurs. I mean real change, not the pseudo-change that only lasts until the next time my old buttons get punched.

I have noticed that, in our culture, this transition zone is looked upon as “nothing”, a no-place between places. Sure the old trapeze-bar was real, and that new coming towards me, I hope, that’s real, too.

But the void in between? That’s just a scary, confusing, disorienting “nowhere” that must be gotten through as fast and as unconsciously as possible.

What a waste! I have a sneaking suspicion that the transition zone is the only real thing, and the bars are illusions we dream up to avoid the void, where the real change, the real growth occurs for us. Whether or not my hunch is true, it remains that the transition zones in our lives are incredibly rich places. They should be honored, even savored. Yes, with all the pain and fear and feelings of being out-of-control that can (but necessarily) accompany transitions, they are still the most alive, most growth-filled, passionate, expansive moments in our lives.

And so, transformation of fear may have nothing to do with making fear go away, but rather with giving ourselves permission to “hang out” in the transition between the trapeze bars. Transforming our need to grab that new bar, any bar, is allowing ourselves to dwell in the only place where change really happens. It can be terrifying. It can be enlightening, in the true sense of the word.

Hurtling through the void, we just may learn how to fly.

Butterfly-Released

Oh what tangled webs we weave… (The lies we tell)

when first we practice to deceive! – Sir Walter Scott

I’ve had Sir Walter Scotts quote running through my head today, and have loved it since I was a little girl. Though I didn’t always find it easy to apply to my life.

“If you tell the truth you don’t have to remember anything.” – Mark Twain

My mother was one of those, and still is for the most part, that is so affected by lying that she rarely will tell even the whitest of lies, or even a lie by omission. As she’s aged she’s less likely to find it as uncomfortable to lie by omission but telling a straight out lie is just not in her comfortably.

I, however, grew up lying. I lied, I lied a lot. It made other people happier if I didn’t speak the truth, my truth or the truth, it didn’t seem to matter.
So if I thought/believed that by lying someone else would be better off, I would do it, without a 2nd thought.

truthlies

Throughout my 20’s I learned (mostly through ridiculously angry fights with my partner) what I was doing, and how it was actually harming me. How I was repressing my truth, my light, my joy. For everyone else but me.
And how bitter I was becoming over it, how I was killing myself slowly, if not softly.

By the time I hit 30, lying became something I had to put energy in to, thought in to how or why or when. And I grew increasingly uncomfortable with the straight out lies, though I must admit the lies by omission are much easier to sneak by (myself).

At 35 I find I loathe lying, even by omission. I’m left so utterly uncomfortable by it that I feel nauseaous, even with a lie by omission.
I finally feel comfortable saying things such as, I really don’t want to eat there, or I really want to go home not out to a movie, or.. the little things, or so they seemed, that were actually quite big things over time.

masquerade

And when others inevitably show some irritation at me not doing what THEY want, I just don’t take it on anymore, it doesn’t worry me like it once did. Perhaps because now I see how much I began to hate the people I thought I was lying FOR. Making them happy in the moment was really just that, in the moment, and it didn’t last.
So I wasn’t happy, and they weren’t happy for long, so what was the point?

Considering my recent “career” choice, it is often necessary to not share everything, and even lie – for general safety of others around me. And I’ve come to hate what I do.

Not simply because of the omissions of my life, but because I’ve come to realize that most people lie. A lot.

Even the one other person in my life, aside from my mother, that I believed to always tell me the truth, even when I didn’t want to hear it; has been lying, a lot.
And another friend I love dearly, seems to lie habitually – and hey, I understand this, where it comes from, but.. it still hurts.
Neither of them knows how much I really know about the truth, or what I see to be the truth (the facts vs. their stories).

imagesKLC9CJ12

So I’m in a conundrum, allow them to continue their lies? Confront them? Never speak to them again? (I can’t imagine this last one really happening)
Am I lying by NOT telling them that I know what they are doing?

Yes, I do still find myself telling those “little white” lies and occ. lies by omission, so perhaps I have no ground to stand on, despite my efforts to be as honest as possible, as often as possible, especially with these two people.

I suppose it doesn’t mean I have to continue to be in their company, truthfully it makes me uncomfortable to be around others whom I know to lie (whether to me or to everyone else is not really the point, is it?), and I realize I’m lying to myself to believe that to ME they must be telling the truth all of the time.

Perhaps the only answer out of all of this, the only, well, truth, is to be true to myself, true to others, and let the rest go.

Knowing we’re all a little bit afraid of what happens when people discover our truths, and accepting that.

 

“Teach me to behave like the orange which, though crushed and bitten, fails not to impart its sweetness.

Battered by unkindness, bitten by carping criticism, or hewed with hard words and cruel behavior,

teach me yet to pour the unceasing sweetness of my Love.” – Paramhansa Yogananda

 

Otherwise, I might have to move out to the country, keep my critters as my only company, and become a hermit..

Well, that doesn’t sound so bad some days.

The whirlpool vortex of Depression

(Did you know Vortext is a “new” word? Typos CAN teach us lessons..)

As I sit here procrastinating on the creation of my dream site and all the content for it – and I was pondering the value of plagiarism in society and in the act of creation (more on that later), I was reminded of how easy it is to get sucked in to someone elses depression.

I’ve spent much, most?, of my life depressed. It’s only been the last 3, maybe 4ish, years that I can say I spend more of my time happy, upbeat and positive (or at least mildly neutral) than otherwise. From the time I was 6 or so, perhaps even younger if you listen to my family, I went from a happy outgoing little girl to a rather quiet, sometimes morose, ghost.

There are many.. explanations for that, of which I’ve talked about in some detail already.

But I came to realize fully recently how often my mental, emotional and even physical state of being is something I diminished for the sake, or seemingly so, of others.

I’ve read so many supportive quotes, texts, prose, wonderfully full vibrational thoughts on not doing so:

I will not die an unlived life.

I will not live in fear of falling or catching fire.

I choose to inhabit my days to allow my living to open me;

to make me less afraid, more accessible,

to loosen my heart until it becomes a wing, a torch,

a promise.

I choose to risk my significance;

to live so that which came to me as seed goes

to the next as blossom

and that which came to me as blossom,

goes on as fruit.

And I read it, and reread it, memorized it and held on to it as truth.

But I was an awful lot like the character on the dark road, alone, in the middle of the night, with but the barest of even a small pen light to guide the way, whistling in to the shadows, jumping at every twig that breaks and every leave that rustles in the trees. Repeating to myself that everything will be ok, just keep walking. And yet, deep inside, feeling terrified and wishing I could just run all the way home and never have to look any deeper in to that darkness.

Because I was depressed, and while I would read the words and know their truth, I could not live it.

As I was washing the dishes yesterday I grasped that I have, for the better part of 30 years, taken on so much from others – feeling I was sparing them somehow.

As a child it came out as being somewhat subdued, not demanding anything extra, anything more than my mother (who could barely crawl off the couch at times, much less even muster up food or sustenance of some sort) could possibly give. Which was next to nothing.

As a teenager it came out as being sick, caused I know by insane amounts of stress overloading every aspect of my being until I literally collapsed from exhaustion, and offering my mother a confidant, a .. kindred souls experience.

In my 20’s, under the weight of nearly two decades of chaos, I spiraled in to depression and often found myself in arguments, fights, full blown episodes of utter blackness, not often helped my a partners belief that life is hell on earth and nothing good comes of it. (It’s hard to see the bright side when no one else wants to even imagine it let alone hear about it)

My 30’s has been a parting of the clouds, a release of the need to provide others with support I .. well, I don’t believe in.

Yet standing at the kitchen sink I saw that I still do this, in small, twisted ways. And that it’s still killing me slowly, although that’s been picking up pace too.

When my husband is depressed I’m far more likely to watch a movie with him, or play a game, or just (ho hum) putz around online, rather than choose to put energy in to my dreams and my projects and plans – because I don’t want him to be alone, to feel so lost and depressed.

Not just because I know how it is, and oh boy do I. But because I have, since I was a little girl, tried to make everyone else feel better, to dim my light, to suffocate the fire, to crush the blossoming hope, so that they wouldn’t feel so.. alone.

Yet I’m now able to see how very little this actually benefits anyone. Them, or myself. And that I’m ready to be a bit more, well, selfish. And be happy, doing what I need to do, what my heart longs to do – from that state I am far better situated to offer a helping hand to others.

It’s a lot easier to lift someone up when you yourself aren’t drowning with them. Which is what depression really is, drowning in emotion, in sorrow, in loss, in anger, in apathy. And it’s so easy to get sucked in to that if you don’t secure the rope your throwing out at them first.

I wish my love, my hope, my happiness, my simple (awesome? sorry.. sarcasm) presence alone would be enough to light the way for someone lost in the darkness; however now I finally see, and know, how important it is to be the light for ones self, and to so be it for others.

It beats stumbling around in that darkness, alone or together, eternally lost and afraid.

Dancing with the Ghosts

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I have been so angry, for so long, at so many people – including myself.

It wasn’t something that you’d see from just looking at me, it was something that was simmering, submerged deep within.

I remember when I was 12, and in Childrens Hospital for a while, I told them how angry I felt. They suggested I take it out on one of those large, exercise balls (you know the kind people can sit on), hit it and not hurt it.. and I was getting more and more frustrated with them as we discussed this, because taking out this rage, this anger, on a bouncy ball.. was not going to be enough.

I wanted to break something, I wanted to take a glass and throw it, watch it shatter in to a million tiny pieces – something you couldn’t fix. I wanted to do this over and over.

They looked at me, alarmed, as though somehow they saw someone much larger, much .. more, than a 12 year old girl, in front of them. I don’t think that I ever expressed the depth of my anger again to someone, anyone, for over 20 years. Somehow it was easier to add it all to the growing rock of anger held deep within.

And up until recently, that’s what I did. Even when my therapist/guide suggested we have a special session to address the anger, I held back.

My dreams were even, clearly, showing me a need to work on it, to let it go.
I’d be traveling somewhere, ready to go, going to move on, when someone or even something, would stop me and tell me that I needed to let go of the anger before I could go to the next place in my journey.
Of course, I’d feel a bit frustrated at that (in my dreams and in waking life), but… I got the messages.

Though I needed to let go of the anger, it felt as though it had taken on an almost super nova capability. And that if I dared to open the door to it, in any way, it would consume me and everyone around me.

As much as I had worked past a lot of anger, a lot of pain, sorrow, hate, hurt and abandonment – I could still feel this amazing ball of terrible energy within.

 

Pissed off at a family that stood by and did nothing, at a mom that was involved more than I’d like to admit, at a father that dissapeared, at all of the people that do nothing… at everyone and everything that wasn’t as my little girl self felt it should be..

I knew that all of these people were simply coming from a place of their own pain, their own fears, their own angers and hurts, but it didn’t matter – they didn’t take care of me, when I needed them most. When they knew I needed them.

I began reading Wishes Fulfilled by Wayne Dyer, and talks about how we hold on to energy (anger, joy, all of it) for so long and that after a while, who we were angry at (or whatever) is gone, even if it was at our self.
That every cell in the body has actually changed and been replaced.

I was feeling this resonate at some level deep within. In a way, it brought so many things together, so many thoughts and memories, so many emotions (energy).

And then something happened this past weekend.

I went in for my, now, regular acupuncture visit and I talked about how my legs were still experiencing so much discomfort and it started in my hips and lower back – it has been a sensation as though my legs are stuck in ice. And it had been getting worse. So he decided to work on my spine this time. My Qi has been out of sync for some time and I felt it.

I felt it there in my lower back. It wasn’t some injury done recently, or sitting poorly in my chair, or not doing enough Yoga… (all of which have some truth though)

I felt my anger, I found where it had been resting. Where it had been hiding, growing, consuming me from inside out.

Then it all came together. And apart.

I discovered I’ve been angry at ghosts. My own and others. That I had held on to them, and they to me. That I’ve been dancing with these ghosts of anger for most of my life, caught up in some sorrow filled angry melody.

I found that I was ready to let them go. Dancing with them as I have, has had it’s own beauty, but that I am ready to dance with the living spirits now.

Now, suddenly, when I try to touch on those ghosts of anger again – they have been my dancing partners for over 30 years after all, I don’t feel them as I once did. I feel them as they are, Ghosts. Wisps floating in the wind. I can’t even manage to conjure them up as I once could, as I once did, even mere days before.

And I can finally see my anger inside (I can SEE it), as a .. piece of darkness, like a lump of coal in my stomach and back. I see it dissolving, slowly, resisting even at times, but it is growing smaller and smaller.

I told my therapist I was afraid of this loss, yet also afraid of calling them back.

I have been dancing with these ghosts for so long, now I wonder if I’m dancing alone. Or who’s dancing with me at all?

Maybe that’s ok though. Maybe.. in dancing alone, I will discover my own dance, a dance of joy, of love, and hope. I know the ghosts are always waiting, but I’ve been waiting too.

Letting go (Heaven Help Me)

Recently I was feeling some serious blockage of energy around my heart (chest pains), my lungs (heaviness when I breathe), and my central chakra there (I couldn’t see it clearly). I’ve been working on it, albeit somewhat slowly, but concerned that I couldn’t quite “feel” my way through any of it.

When someone brushed over the throat and heart chakra/centers I felt a wonderous relief and a sense of opening, yet it was brief and I could still feel this lingering darkness.

It wasn’t simply a haunting spirit, a demon, a pain from eating the wrong foods, or an infection.

Yesterday after a long and involved therapy session, I realized..

It was me.

For all of my work on letting go, on forgiveness, on opening up and loving further, deeper. I’m really, really, REALLY angry. Yes, I felt the energy of a few specific people lingering with me, but it was my anger towards their actions, their behaviors, their words, that I’ve been holding on to.

And I could feel it yesterday while laying back, gently probing the sense of darkness. And I knew what it was laying there in my heart. It wasn’t just angry adult me, mad at terrible drivers or people being cruel or whatever. It was the younger me, furious at the world, at the people around me.

Today I woke up with a sensation, that was almost depressed. But it wasn’t “just” that. I let myself fall back asleep, briefly, curled up on the couch. I didn’t push my errands to happen, I didn’t stress that the books aren’t back at the library or the shopping for my trip isn’t done.

I just let myself be.

Words we’re afraid of – Todays word: Psychic

the_land_of_dreams

There are some words I’ve noticed that bring up reactions in others, in ways I wouldn’t always think possible.

Even words like Love, Hope, Dreams, Spirituality, can bring up emotions that at first glance are quite fearful, afraid, hurt and unpleasant. Our feelings can go in quite the opposite direction – we fear Love, we feel there is no Hope, our Dreams seem useless and Spirituality is akin to ditziness or obsession.

Recently I was dancing around the word Psychic, as I have for much of my life. This may not seem like a word such as Love or Hope, but it is a simple word that has a very distinct reaction for many people. And as I was pondering this last week I came across another writer who felt the same way, a reference to not liking “psychics” or those that profess themselves to be Psychic.

It wasn’t because of the person themselves, but the word, Psychic.

psy·chic
ˈsīkik/
adjective: psychic
  1. 1.
    relating to or denoting faculties or phenomena that are apparently inexplicable by natural laws, esp. involving telepathy or clairvoyance.
    “psychic powers”
    synonyms: supernatural, paranormal, otherworldly, supernormal, preternatural, metaphysical, extrasensory, magic, magical, mystical, mystic, occult More

    “psychic powers”
    clairvoyant, telepathic, having second sight, having a sixth sense
    “I’m not psychic”
    • (of a person) appearing or considered to have powers of telepathy or clairvoyance.
      “I could sense it—I must be psychic”
  2. 2.
    of or relating to the soul or mind.
    “he dulled his psychic pain with gin”
    synonyms: emotional, spiritual, inner; More

    antonyms: physical
noun
noun: psychic; plural noun: psychics
  1. 1.
    a person considered or claiming to have psychic powers; a medium.
    synonyms: clairvoyant, fortune teller, crystal-gazer;

I’ve grown up with a very eclectic background, Psychics were friends and family members.  Though at times this didn’t mesh with my own observations, or .. psychic vibrations. In fact I watched most of those that named themselves Psychic be ridiculed by those they loved, and often respond to their own fears in such a way that I shied away from the subject entirely.

One of my long time favorite sites is: http://www.mysecretpsychiclife.com/sample-page . Yet, right there in the page name, it says secret. And if you read any of the other folks posts on her site you’ll see she isn’t alone, many people are “secret” about their Psychic nature.

I’ve realized over the years it isn’t the person we have an issue with, usually. It’s the word, Psychic. Change it to “She’s a Medium, or a Channel” and the response, though perhaps still iffy, is less agressively negative.

And I’ve come to believe that it is the idea, often blown up by movies and books, that what we hold secret within ourselves might be fully witnessed by another human being. This Psychic might be able to see our deepest, darkest longings, desires, fears, cravings, and know us as we are.

This terrifies most people, for whatever reason(s) we believe we are inherantly broken inside and are scared of what happens when the rest of the world finds out. We put on makeup, clothes, get our nails done, hair done, eat a certain way, gain weight, lose weight, workout, tone up – all to present an image to others, that we’re ok, that everything is fine, I blend in, right?

But a Psychic, might be able to pick up on who really hides behind the masks. And then what? Well, that’s different for each person.

My mother prefers the word Empath, to Psychic, or so I’ve noticed in our conversations. And many of the women (especially) in my family have been.. well, Psychic – or Medium, or Channel, or.. Empaths. Few of them have talked about it openly and this has led to a real pain in the family and in the women.

I grew up hearing stories, with a sense of ghost stories around a campfire, these are the spooooky tales of the family. They weren’t embraced, or even really investigated. My great-grandmother would use playing cards as tarot cards (it’s how it was often hidden along the centuries) and give dead on accurate readings, she was even a member of a very well known spiritual practice, yet this was hardly talked about, if ever, until after she died.

Unfortunately as a child I didn’t know how to separate my own thoughts and feelings from those of others, I didn’t understand that what was popping in to my head wasn’t always mine to lay claim to. This is a very confusing world, but add in other peoples thoughts and feelings and it’s downright suffocating.

I was terrified that everyone else was psychic and must know what was going on in my head – this must be why they treated me the way they did, looked at me the way they did, thought the things they did, or hurt me the way they did. They must know what’s inside and punish me for it. (Isn’t everyone psychic?)

What I often ran from was the label I received as a child of Psychic, many friends and family told me, my mother, the rest of the family, that I was psychic, and powerful. I didn’t feel powerful, and I certainly didn’t want to feel more of what was going on around me – I spent most of my life blocking everything else out.

I believe most people have Psychic senses, but through their own pain and fears (much learned through childhood and other peoples pain and fear) they have blocked this other sense of knowing, of feeling, out. Sometimes it seems easier to believe we are all alone, in whatever is going on.

We are not alone, just sometimes, lonely.

It’s only been this year that I’ve really, actively, acknowledged and worked on clarifying what is my energy and what is anothers – and sometimes this isn’t even energy from someone/some being living.

Yet I don’t know that in waking hours, person to person, I would regularly use the word, Psychic. My therapist/healer/waking guide prefers the term Medium or channel. My Mother, Empath.

For me?

I’m a Psychic, a Medium, a Channel, an Empath and a Conduit. I don’t claim any super abilities such as the man that claimed he could stop a train with his powers, and I won’t judge you as we pass for your thoughts or feelings, I won’t try to force you to believe in me, or yourself, however… I will allow myself to be as I have always been, just without the mask more often than not.

Which will entail a lot of learning and growth – my biggest issue recently has been how to communicate in waking hours messages I get in my dreams, and from others in my dreams. How do you approach someone with such a subject?

“Hi, you don’t know me but I dreamed your name and information you have for me, can we talk?”

“Hi, I know we haven’t talked in years but your recently deceased father just came to me in a dream and said he has a message for you.”

“Hi, we’ve hardly talked since we were kids, but I dreamed of a terrible accident, how, and when. With all the details and news stories attached. Don’t go here on this date, or drive in this car…”

Obviously, I have to work on communication a bit.

And stop being afraid of the words.

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