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.

 

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.

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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.

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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

Holding on and Letting Go

As I’m heading in to my 5th colonoscopy (and 3rd upper endoscopy) tomorrow morning, with all of the fun prep involved (ahahahahahahaha… oh fark it, it sucks), I’ve been pondering the energetic reasons for finding myself here.

I’m not able to move things through my digestive system (so what am I not letting flow in my life?), except for an episode every 4-6 weeks of violent, uncontrolled, purging from both ends. If I don’t take laxatives, or large portions of enzymes and avoid a HUGE and growing list of foods, and an enema now and then.. I can go weeks without, well.. going.

At my last ER visit they discovered something in my lower left abdomen..

I’ve had digestive issues since I was at least 6 or 7 years old. When after a trip to that bastion of great cuisine, KFC, I ended up with what is still to this day the worst case of purging I’ve had, the toilet bowl was such a deep red, it was terrifying – I remember it nearly 30 years later, that and the intense pain and discomfort.

For whatever reasons my mother had at the time (fear of discovery of a home issues, my stepfather being so drunk she couldn’t leave, ?) I didn’t see the doctor right away, much less visit an ER.

When I was about 11 I noticed that I often had to “help” things along – I won’t go in to the details because it’s just not needed.

I’ve read about others who’ve had to do this as well, and recently my aunt told me that not only did my great-grandmother have serious issues (ending in colon cancer) but that my grandfather, and my aunt have had nearly the same exact troubles. So, hey, I’m not alone! Hmm.

However about 2 or 3 years ago I noticed it wasn’t just slow or sluggish or.. a sense that I needed to help my body move the waste out and on, but that I wasn’t feel ANYTHING at all at a certain point. In my lower left abdominal area to be precise.

And not long before this, I’d begun to have recurring dreams in which I’m shot in that area, usually leading to death. Or a fading of consciousness. They continued until last year, when I’d lost all sensation in that area.

It isn’t as though I feel I have to go, but I can’t. I don’t feel anything at all.

Which leads me to wondering what I’ve killed off inside myself, and what I’m holding on to, unable to let go of. Because I do believe it’s all tied in together.

And what is my family holding on to – what did I choose to take on and deal with? 4 generations having the same exact troubles.

Here I thought I was making such progress in letting go, in feeling worthy, yet it has become clear (or not so) that there’s still some deep work to open up to.

I was frightened of tomorrow for a while, terrified even, in part because of such uncertainty over what will be my 12th procedure/surgery where I fall asleep (are the odds still in my favor?). Also because I wonder what they will find, or won’t find. And what then?

Surgery would just be a temporary fix to what is obviously a hundred year problem (if not longer).

I want to heal the wound that has haunted my family. Free us from this bondage.

And someday? I’d love to be free to use the bathroom without delay, discomfort, or the nothing at all… I’d love to be well.

 

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.

Saying what we Need to Say

Sometimes what we want to say, isn’t what we need to say. And often what we Need to say, we don’t.

Having been told/shown/taught most of my life, whether directly or indirectly, that speaking up is not something we should do; learning to speak up, to say what I need to say, or even want to say – has been a tremendous, continuous, lesson.

I’m sure my increasing difficulties with my thyroid and swallowing are related to 30-some years repressing the words.

And recently between friends, family, online or no, therapists, spouses and the synchronicity of the universe I have found that saying what we, what I, need to say is very important.

However! I have learned that there is a monumental, HUGE, difference between what I want to say and what I need to say – and that often times I let myself get caught up in between the two.

I want to tell you that you can be an insufferable ass. I need to tell you that I want to be treated better, or to be left alone.

I want to tell you that if you hit your kid again, or kick your dog one more time, so help me God I will come after you myself. I need to tell you that I understand your pain, but that you’re only causing it in another, amplifying it – that you are capable and worthy of so much more.

I want to tell you that all of those years of verbal arguments and abuse have left me feeling dead inside when I see you, or speak to you. I need to tell you that I love myself more than you now, and I’m moving on.

I want to tell you that your political leanings are misguided, short-sighted and narrow-minded. I need to tell you why I believe the way I do, that my view is different and that’s.. Ok.

I want to say that life is beautiful, full of hope, sunshine, daisies, warm puppy kisses and gentle laughter. I need to say that life is all of that, and sorrow, tears, anger, pain, depression, loneliness, and most of all Love.

But often what I need to say will lead to things I have suffered my whole life to avoid. It will leave others feeling the need to cry, yell, run away, hide..

I want to say something that will uplift, and bring hope. But what I need to say may be the dark night before the sunrise, and not the sunrise itself.

Sometimes what we need to say, what is festering beneath the surface of our lips, hiding behind the shadows of our souls, is not pretty, or friendly, it doesn’t feel loving or gracious. It is the truth of who we are, of what we do, the lives we lived, the dreams we’ve had, the memories we’ve never shared, the hopes that linger.

So how do we speak up? How do we communicate to others what we are, literally, dying to say?   Because I believe that what we hold in, what we hold on to and repress, kills us. Oh it may not end in death tonight, or tomorrow, or in a decade, but it may very slowly show up to stay. From the cancer that eats us from within to the sense of a life never lived, there is a death that occurs as we hide the words within.

Perhaps for some it will come as a Blog post. Or a graveside confession of years past. Maybe it will come in a therapy appointment, or a courtroom confession. You can try a letter, that you write but never send (or maybe you’re brave enough to send it!), and burn over a candle, or a bonfire.

Maybe you will find it in you to share it with others, living or otherwise, human or otherwise…

I hope that whatever I need to say, I say as I want to say – clear, honest, but loving and true. It is far too easy to say what I want to say, and not only address the wounds but tear them open or cause new ones.

I need to say how deeply I was hurt by your choices Mother, but that you are perfect, and that I’m grateful to be your daughter, without you I wouldn’t be here. I need to say I love you, but I’m not in love with you. I need to say I miss you, every day, and though I may not think of you every moment that passes, you are forever a part of me. I need to say that though you hate yourself, I’m thankful for you, for what you see as pain caused to me, to others, what you see as reasons to hate yourself, are what led me to find my own way out, to grow in to someone stronger, yet softer, than you. I need to tell you your driving skills are horrible, but I understand you hate driving.

I need to say how firmly I believe in God, the Divine, the all-encompassing light of the universe and all that is – I also believe in Buddha, Krishna, Allah, Diana, Jesus Christ, Hashem, Mother Theresa, Fairies, Ghosts and things that go bump in the night. All as expressions of the One, Spirit.

There are so many moments in life when what we need to say, when we need to speak up, never a sound, nor a word, is uttered.

Say what you need to say. And know you are never alone, in any of it, happy or sad, seemingly good or bad, dark or light – you are never alone – and what you need to Say, someone needs to hear you say it.

Permanent Paw Prints across my soul, or Saying goodbye to best friends

Most days the four legged, furry, paw print leaving friends I’ve had throughout the years will cross my mind – and I will smile, fondly, sometimes bittersweet for they are no longer with me.

I’ve grown up with critters of all sorts around me, I believe that they, and the nature I often found myself wandering in (usually with them or because of their presence), were the saving graces that lifted me out of my dark nights.

We currently have two furry angels honoring us with their lively company (and a third outdoor friend that has decided to adopt us), we recently had to say farewell to a third feline friend. And though I think of him every day, some days the missing him crawls in deeper, the longing for golden glances, soft paws and gentle mews is like an infinite crevace.

I will share someday, soon perhaps, the story of his life with us – it was beautiful, and too short. But today is for saying goodbye, and for the how of it’s coming to us.

We had decided, earlier this year, to move back to our home state of California, to sunshine and green grass – less gray skies and muddy ground. Where I hoped the rays of the sun and the fresh air, sans mold 9 months out of the year, would help my cats as well as myself.

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In early March I had a dream, in which my cat (Mute, the name he was given by others, though he was NEVER Mute) came to me. In this dream he fell asleep on my chest as a I lay on the couch, with the clear message he would never leave my heart and would always be with me. I assumed this was a sweet reminder that while I traveled I need not worry of him, for he would be there.

He had a lump in one of his lymph nodes that had grown a bit, but he was showing no other signs of illness and the two blood tests we did showed only minor elevations – suggesting probable infection but not much else – we were told to just observe and see. When I flew to CA in mid-March to look for a place, Mute began to limp, something he’d never done before.

My husband got him in to the vet immediately, where they discovered he had lung cancer, that had progressed through over 80% of his lungs. The vet, and the specialists, were shocked and amazed he wasn’t showing any other signs of being so sick.

Here I was 900 miles away, trying to find us a place that I hoped would offer healing, unsure of what to do at this point. Keep looking? Stay where we are? Look closer to our old home? Chemo? Surgery? More natural remedies? What… can we do.

I knew now the dream of just a few weeks before was a gift, and a warning. He was letting me know he would always be with me, in my heart, even if not in physical being/presence. Though many of the cats, and dogs, in my life have journeyed with me spiritually, Mute was especially unique and tuned in to my energy in a way no other critter had ever been.

After weeks of watching him, discussions between us, God, the vets, friends & family… it was clear that Chemo** would only prolong his death, and his little body would be even sicker from it, we would gain only months and those months would not be healthy ones for him. We made the appointment for the vet to come out to our house and help us say goodbye there – one of the hardest choices to make.

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I agonized the entire time over this, if perhaps we should take him to CA and see how the healing energies here would help, or if we should stay and give him more time at home, or of course if Chemo was in fact the solution (though the cancer was too far progressed to be cured I thought perhaps that and prayer and energy healing would be … enough).

For days before the vets arrival we took him outside, sans harness & leash as we’d gone out with for years before (he had become a “privileged” indoor kitty with many outdoor walks and adventures), he wouldn’t go more than 20 feets past the house – not typical for him at all. And the sun? Graced us with four wonderful days of sunshine like we hadn’t seen in almost a year…

The day of the vet visit, we spent more time outside. When he wen’t back in to rest (he was sleeping so much more than before) I tried to ply him with his favorite treats, catnip, salmon bits and bonita flakes. He wouldn’t touch any of it. And after I tried the third time he turned and looked at me, in a way that only he could do, and I knew… he was ready to go.

Even if I wasn’t ready to let him go.

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He was barely 8 years old (give or take a year) and we had thought he’d be with us another 8-10+ years, that he would outlive the “senior” cat in our house and be an older brother to the youngest, most recent rescue addition.

His departure was quiet, and peaceful, aside from my tears and sobs after he was gone.

In the months following I would have many dreams after a day of deep sorrow over missing his presence, in which he/his higher self/guide would visit me briefly and let me know I needed to let him go – that holding on to him in this way was holding his soul back from the .. whatever he was doing after he’d moved on. That he would come back in his time, not mine.

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I wished to dream of him, to have him in my life somehow, but I understood. And I would let the tears flow, and then focus on the good, healthy, joyous, light energy of his life, and our lives now before going to sleep – so as to leave his soul to rest. (literally)

He has come back the past couple of months in my dreams, as a visitor and companion, even last week my husband said he had a dream with this beloved cat – he is with us now and then, hanging out with all of us, two legged and four paws.

It is so hard to let go of the illusion of this physical manifestation, that even though I have experienced the energy/souls/spirits of many others (animal and human in particular) throughout my life, I so dearly miss their presence in my waking hours.

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I miss their kind words, the smells in their kitchens, their smiles, their soft fur, gentle purrs, sweet chirps, tender kisses and just their general… presence on this planet. I know that I will see them again, if not in waking hours, or in my dreams, then in the next phase of our friendship – whenever that may be, wherever that may be.

But I still miss them, every day, in little and big ways. And saying goodbye changes, but does not get easier.
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Mute gave to me the example of loving others, even after they’ve hurt you, abused you, abandoned you. That one could still love and be loved. His presence and life, showed me a light in the darkness, and I will be forever honored by his decision to be with us – to make us his family as he did.

Though I still imagine him out in our new, wonderful yard, and sometimes I swear I see him out of the corner of my eye…    I hope, and I pray, I can share that with others as he shared his life, and love, with me.

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**Please know, we had been giving him many natural/herbal supplements for some time before this, due to his ongoing issues with other health concerns (many infections and such from his early life as an almost solely outdoor cat) – Chemo was not the only possible healing route for us – simply one of the only ones the vets could offer beyond what we’d already been doing.

Firing my Demons

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When I was a young girl I found myself in the company of many demons, their teeth were sharp, their words daggers to my heart. They filled my head with fears over what ifs, what if this happens, what if they hear what I’m thinking, what if they know what I can do, what if they don’t like me as I am, what if.. an endless supply of fear.

They did such a fantastic job, at some point, I hired them to be my gatekeepers. Not only would they continue to keep the me from the world, they could now keep the world from me – I let them rage at others, I let them build a wall, a gate, even a moat to keep us all apart.

Eventually though, as must happen to all phases, to all parts of life, the walls began to crumble, the water dried up, and the gate is rusting.. my dreams and my cats became my sunlight, my view of green trees and verdant fields of lush green grass and clean, flowing rivers. And I realized I didn’t much like my employees, these demons of mine.

So I’ve begun to let them go.

Unfortunately over the years I brought on many demons, and so they’ve collected up a bit, they cover many shifts and some come and go as the seasons change, so, I know I’ve got a bit of a process going forth. I tried communicating the changes to the first demons, hoping they would spread the news, but seeing as this is a demon communication network, the word hasn’t gotten around and when it has, it has gotten jumbled a bit.

So I will continue to be honest, and clear, and firm. And I will let them go, one by one.

The gate, the walls, the moat, will all dissapear on their own with no one to guard them – though perhaps I will decide to tear it all down, there is a natural course of things that will take care of them as well.

We’ve had some crazy adventures, and some interesting stories to tell, these demons & I, but I’m ready to find some new stories, and experience some new adventures – to hear some new voices in this world of mine.

Veronica Yem

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bNomadic

Travel Around. Be Nomadic

Globe Dreaming

To travel is to live.

Domina Victoria Rage

Professional Seattle Dominatrix & BDSM Blogger

Just Visit Siena !

My Siena Guide

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