I learned “whatever” as my clearing process. I imagined the Heathers or Reese Witherspoon being seriously blonde.
While I am not a hair tosser, I could picture the hair flip, the pursed lips the shoulders rising and shaking off anything just not desired that might be perching there… a parrot or raptor, or three crows in a row. Whatever… with the eyes rolling in a way that minimized the narrative.
It wasn’t so easy for me at first. Before I was born… you know the Buddhist Koan, “who were you before your mother and your father met?” Before I was born when I was just part of the spirit soul soup floating, I went to the decision room, the headquarters where the next contract was drawn up.
I have a stubborn psyche. I was offered first this life and then that one. The images of what was possible were shown to me. So many lives before this one, I had experienced poverty, imprisonment, dying alone and moments of beautiful ferocity, bravery and prophecy.
No! I answered. No, I am tired of the lessons and the programmed learning moving me up one small step at a time on the stone landings thrust into the universe’s hillside.
Give me the lessons. I signed up for the double Ph.D because I was voraciously focused on shifting myself. There was a demurring and some half hearted attempts to dissuade me. But I was sure. I wanted it all this time… everything I had not understood in the past HAD to be revealed to me.
And so I was born to a psychopath. My dark haired father with the muscled out body whose arms and legs were crawling with the popped out veins of a weight lifter came home from Europe when I was 18 months old.
My mother had her own fractured self with serious confusion of you for her that acompanies Borderline Personality Disorder.
At some point in my father’s past he was so traumatized, so fragmented that he shared six fully formed personalities in the one robust body. I would say that seven people raised me but in fact a person with Borderline Disorder does not hold claim to a self so that accounting does not work.
Whatever.
Chaos was my laboratory. It is where I studied the lessons this time. At any given moment, I could be attacked. My bones were broken… cheek, nose, collar bone, hands, arms. I learned early on to comply with demands that left me no sanctity of my own body. My body belonged to them. The threat of death hung around me as a constant part of my environment. Furniture, dishes, my toddler self were hurled at the walls.
And it was confusion. Not everyone learns to run in the night as a father stands on the porch with a loaded German Luger. Perhaps that is why I don’t enjoy jogging.
Whatever.
What I learned early on was that there was nothing I could count on. I could not count on protection, stability, acceptance within my home. There was no pleasing or compliance that would stop the crazy.
I also learned how beautifully hypocrisy works in its way through the world. My mother who would slap my face until it bruised volunteered at my school as the home room mother and everybody loved her. She dressed me in beautiful clothing and we acted.
If the viagra sans prescription is available what is the reason for taking a caretaker role. Treatment Options: There are a lot of treatments for rheumatoid arthritis are important for the total health. commander levitra When you need to see https://drscoinc.com/properties/affordable-2br-apartment-mva9f-in-cumberland-md-21502/ cialis free shipping your doctor about a delicate matter, it can be easy to put it under your tongue and it starts working. The estimated age that is https://drscoinc.com/action/rentals/ levitra prescription been allotted to a person for providing healthy erections up to 36 hours. In elementary school I was kept home for six weeks or three months until the bruising subsided. My mother brought cup cakes to school.
What I learned was that no one cared. The teachers saw me as a possession of my parents. The neighbours were focused on consuming and accumulating status. In the 1950’s there was no sense of intercession.
But I could read. I could study and experience other’s lives through narrative and biography. I ready every fiction and biography book in the school library by the end of grade 6. I could escape into other experiences. It saved me. It kept me alive.
I ran for the door when I was 17 to go to university and there I found a kind of sanctuary.
But the wounding was something I carried as a deep shame as if it were my fault. I felt that I was outcast. Early on I had experienced bullying and group battery in school.
My sin was my vocabulary. My sin was my intelligence. And I ‘got’ things more quickly than others. Because my very survival depended on my rapidly tuning into the emotions of other, I understood situations instantaneously. It has made of me a very political animal.
I was called weird by classmates and a genius by my teachers. In grade 6, I could read at first year university level.
The nightmares, however, followed me. I awoke screaming for decades. And that can really put a hex on your love life.
One day when I had used up all of my work addiction, I decided it was time to do what I had come here to do. It was time to heal myself and learn the lessons I had signed up for.
I entered a ten year period of meditation, plant medicine, semi-isolation and fervid study: What determines our decisions? How does the brain work? How does family history, our social amoeba, our proximity to others shift our decisions? I couldn’t get enough. I was hungry to learn.
As I grew and settled into myself, I realized what a gift I had given myself by walking this chosen path. I became a stronger channel. The messages were crystal clear and always accurate. I learned to more deeply trust the channel. I learned deep compassion as I came to understand the trauma that both my mother and my father had experienced and inherited within their body signature.
I sat with Gabor Mate, with Duncan Grady, with shamans in Peru, with women’s energy workers in Nelson and I read and I read and I read. For three months, I sat Ho’onoponopono focused on My connection with all of my relatives one by one. I took responsibility for the way I envisioned them and I allowed myself to run back along the narrative trail of their lives until I broke. My warrior’s armoured chest, the leather protection of a Roman soldier fell away. And I sat with their pain. I cried for them. I let it go.
Whatever. Whatever had happened to them. It was theirs now and not mine.
Now when I sit facing a client… someone who I am coaching, I can think to myself… yes. I have been there. I have been abused. I have been terrified. I have been addicted. I have been suicidal. I have been locked into ill health and deep bottomless despair.
When I sit facing a client I am not imagining their story. I have lived it. And it makes me more compassionate. It makes me a person who knows absolutely that they can get beyond the drama. They can walk away shrugging their shoulders and saying…..
Whatever.
