Before I began to heal,
I wasn’t angry–
no, I couldn’t touch that
because that required will
and a kind of passion
You gotta outsmart
and that is where
I began burning.
Trauma doesn’t run
its course and
You don’t bloom from it.
You bloom in spite of it.
And there is something to be said about a body that keeps moving.
Before I began to heal,
I wasn’t angry
I couldn’t touch it
because that required will
and a kind of
passion to move.
You gotta outsmart
and that’s where I started
run its course
and return you.
You don’t bloom from it.
You do inspite of it.
And there is something
to be said about a body
that keeps moving.
My father arranged me to frame despair
in the shape of a shell–
he said it
would make me look pretty
as he dropped my gutted pearl
into the water,
closed me in his palm,
and took me home for dinner.
I’d curl up in my empty body late at night
when the heater kicked in
and line my dolls up on the smooth
belly of the shell,
sweating and organizing and kissing them,
trying to make room, trying to love
and a forgotten piece in me would move–
like an isolated bubble, a pressure in my chest rising
until it hardened into a globe of glass,
and I fingered the marble
in my pocket each time he made me nervous.
My skin hardened into porcelain.
My lips a painted curve.
The girl in the womb and the doll in the house
looked at each other in the mirror,
and I was the mirror
I was a million different faces;
this cannot be explained any other way.
I became the dolls on my bed and
in their small house in the corner
I became their holidays and patterned wallpaper;
I became the patterns of my behavior–
trained, obedient, good.
I became the shell at the dinner table,
sucking up silence like the ocean.
I told myself
if I had nothing,
that’s what would come back.
And getting nothing back
meant you didn’t have to love.
And what was love to that girl
with her marble
and no pearl.
Listened to Luis Alberto Urrea’s podcast at Tin House “Hymns for the Broken”
and I didn’t know how it affected me or any of my feelings and comprehension until after writing this post.
Grapeling–this post is because of you; thank you for taking the time to
making my feelings finally emerge and surface. It’s been a while.
I told myself if I had nothing, that’s what would come back. I spent too long after filling my hands with what I thought I could keep, only to find that what was within me was beneath the soil, deep in bones. All I had to do was stop. Stop giving myself away. –me, this morning
“Don’t you know–everybody’s broken. That’s what makes us holy.” –shaman in Mexico
LEONARD COHEN SANG “THERE IS A CRACK IN EVERYTHING, THAT’S HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN.”
“–and those bad men that tell you to be ashamed…take their drills, look for the scars to re-wound you–But she says ‘we kiss you upon your scar to show you you’re beautiful.” –Luis Alberto Urrea, on the Tin House podcast “Hymns for the Broken.”
Write with purpose. Reach out to me. I need you. I am stripped but not afraid.
I write to take my own hand and lead myself back out into light. That is a line from Urrea’s Hymn. He goes into a story about being the misfit, the out-of-place one, the outcast–taken away by guardians into abuse and ultimate shame. This, as he goes on and his voice rises, is why he writes–because a part of him is always going to be in that chair. And I’ve been reading up a lot (for quite a long time now) on finding one’s worth, your possession, the bones of your gut, the mother you are to yourself. And I am taking in and letting go so many things, so many past and done parts of myself that have had their time and I will not retrieve. But I am retrieving the indestructible parts I am made of. And I gotta say, it’s fucking emotional and I didn’t even know it was until Grapeling commented on “Reflecting” –you know what he said? I’m going to cry again. See, I’m so good at shutting off emotions still, that I don’t even know I am until someone says something so beautiful and real and almost painful, and reminds me why I am here; why I write.
He said: “Amy, when I read your work, it reminds me of Leonard Cohen’s line – ‘there is a crack in everything -that’s how the light gets in.’
I looked away, and then read it a hundred times. And put it down again. But it followed me all night and morning. And there I was listening to a fellow writer and survivor’s podcast and he quoted the same Cohen line. And I was suddenly sobbing. Because Urrea then says about himself as a child: “I’m trying to write for him, but I can’t do it. I need you. I can write for him, but you know what I can’t do? I still can’t take his hand, I can’t lift him outta that chair because I’m still ashamed of him. Shame. They teach it to you…for ‘your own good’…and I propose that anyone who changes you–anyone who betrays you, anyone who gets out “the drill” for you, anyone who leaves you, because you aren’t good enough?–is an ASS-HOLE.”
I haven’t been writing but thinking a lot lately, living a life lately. Working in a women and children’s shelter where mostly I feel good about what I do there, but sometimes, like last night, I couldn’t shake it off. I couldn’t not bring it home with me. What I am talking about is awomen all over the world in these situations though. Because what can happen mirrors what happened to me on a very deep, personal level. In the one of two areas I haven’t figured out how to heal from yet. And it’s hard my friends. It’s very big, the biggest thing yet, but the difference is I am able to stand, withstand, and remain steady at the helm. I have become captain of my own ship. Finally. And I don’t want to lose that. But I prove to myself not on purpose but by the cycles and rhythms of my nature that I won’t lose it, that yes I am cracked and sometimes those cracks feel like land mines or crevasses and I am on the mountain about to get swallowed up. And I wait. And I continue with my life. I find joy and sorrow in a forming balance. And getting swallowed doesn’t happen. These words I must tell–my story I must tell–is changing shape. I am changing. And the facts are there are some things you don’t recover from, there are some things you can’t get back anyway–and you do not “heal” in the sense you’d think, you only learn to adapt and live differently so that you not only survive but you thrive. I never meant to write to let light in. I never knew I could–and I’ve heard it once or twice before kind of, but I tell you I can only write what I know and it feels very selfish. Very egotistical. But I also know that right now, there is a girl the age I was when I was shamed and ashamed and wounded, and she’s at the bottom of the mountain not knowing where the ledges are to clutch her little fingers to. And I am writing this for her spirit that is about to break. And there is a young woman who will disappear soon, and I write and I pace and I outline and I take notes and I feel everything I can through my own forms of grounding and meditation and calm.–I do this not for me anymore, well I do it because it’s like the beast or birds in me that never sleep, it must be said and said well. But I do this for her. I am honoring what she is about to experience. I am honoring her suffering. I suppose this is my Hymn for the Broken.
I wish I could meet these girls and women–before, during, and after. And there’s nothing I could say to them, accept that there is love. You will survive, I command it, because you must feel this love that is at the end of that road–whether anyone loved you or not, you loved yourself, because you didn’t give up. You must hang the hell on without knowing why. But hear me. Hear my voice.
“When your lost, and you low, and you can’t get back again,
I will show you you’re so much better than you know….
you think I’d leave you down when you’re down on your knees? I couldn’t do that…
…when you’re cold, I’ll be there to hold you tight to me
when you’re on the outside and cant get in
i will show you you’re so much better than you know
when you’re lost and alone and cant get back again
I’ll find you and bring you home
If you want to cry I’ll be there to dry your eyes
in no time you’ll be fine
…If only you could see into me
when you’re cold I’ll be there to hold you tight to me
when you’re low, I’ll be there by your side…”
Sean Rowe, “By Your Side”
After second grade, I can almost draw the picture of myself falling apart and inward–in my bedroom staring into the closet in Green Bay, lining up dolls, the rituals beginning. But that’s another story. My sisters though, we never made a pact, we didn’t have each others backs out in the open–that was dangerous, and I am not even sure why. Maybe it was a matter of self-preservation. But we didn’t need to make one, a pact. We swore ourselves to each other from the beginning. Like my father driving drunk in the car on the back roads, my door flew open, I was maybe three or four, and I remember Nikki grabbing me so fast and holding me in as best as her little body could hang on. And that’s how she’s always been with us. Our sanctuaries, we knew, were not impenetrable to the one person I feared and hated and loved all at the same time; but they were strong enough to maybe remind us that we had each other, and I remember kind of feeling like the world would only get meaner. And maybe strong enough to have the hindsight that we weren’t going to be entirely OK, maybe not ever, but if we were OK together, then that small sanctuary would have to be enough. And it was.
But in the corners of the sanctuaries we were able to create together late at night when everyone else thought we were sleeping, a sanctuary, a home; we respected how each of us was designed (though we hardly understood ourselves) safety, and sort of a reference to each other like-
“–did you think he should have hit her? OK, I didn’t either, maybe it’s wrong? What do we do?–“ Read More
~the Point, & in a Poem
DIFFICULT DEGREES 2017
(an introduction to a poem/work-in-progress):
My childhood memories consist of either feelings OR images–feelings in my chest of space and a sort of vacuum…like a nameless, empty thing that can be filled by other things, other people, other parts of myself I could easily call upon and discard, but it constantly emptied, and I forever got hungrier–and then transparent in how lean I was growing and not developing but filling, emptying, filling, emptying, knowing the walls of this kind of stomach were wearing thin. I am still learning to or trying to learn my autonomy, and I am not sure I want to find out if that sort of loss can be taken back. As for the visions, well that’s the funny thing–the images are steeped in color and sound and smell and more than ever–the feelings in my stomach. I cannot remember much about three years of being a six year old to an almost nine-year-old in a bigger city except that my sisters were starting to slip, or just did, for a while, there, and I felt cornered and afraid a lot, and the nasty green/yellow stain-like flu in my stomach was all the guilt I carried that I didn’t understand unless I released the temperatures and pressure and acted out through play, which I certainly did. But I kept a tight lid on it. I remember my sister in red corduroy’s rollerskating on tin wheels at my command in our basement after schools, the drain wet in the floor. The more I laughed, the more pleased she was. Somehow my sisters and I went our separate ways after moving there, but managed to remain somewhat fragmented together in the house. But fear wasn’t shared, sadness together over our real father I do not recall, though I remember crying alone for him every night for a very long time between my bed and the wall on the radiator.
My visions and feelings tell me we went from four, five, and six year olds who didn’t have a care in the world with our mother married to our biological father, staying out at the farmhouse with all the aunties, uncles, and cousins–I have a menagerie of body memories of the times in around four or five years, I remember very little, but I remember in a sort of tunnel of clips and sounds and smells–music from the seventies, and Pine-sol in particular
. And my stepfather’s shoe-polish and aftershave.
But after second grade, I can almost draw the picture of myself falling apart and inward. But that’s another story. My sisters though, we never made a pact, we didn’t always have each others backs out in the open anyway, where it wasn’t safe. But in the recesses of the sanctuaries we were able to create together late at night when everyone else thought we were sleeping, we were each others’ home, we respected how each of us was designed (though we hardly understood ourselves) safety, and sort of a reference to each other like-
“–did you think he should have hit her? OK, I didn’t either, maybe it’s wrong? What do we do?–“
We entered into a world we were being taught to fear somewhat
and we were completely unequipped in the ways of maturity and functioning growth, etc.
Three degrees in a similar environment
young summer nights found us in imagined sanctuaries
together, not impenetrable–but strong enough
to maybe remind us that we had each other, but the world
would only get meaner. And maybe strong enough to have the hindsight
that we weren’t going to be entirely okay, ever, but if
were okay together, than that small sanctuary would have to suffice.
We share histories, though of varying mass and degree,
we tried to grow somewhere between always losing the ones
we loved most, believing we deserved loss, believing only we could help ourselves
out of violence and harm, no one else would probably–and our safety
would come later when we grew up, or under the witness of others around.
Losing, abandoned, forgotten, abused, teased and abused on and off as a whole,
once you get beaten down and played so many times and your humiliation comes at the hands
of thee power position and guardian–at the ages we were ate–
What other choice did we have?
Each stage of equations had spun me out
of my paper-doll dress recital curtain and naked into
the polar sun, white and stale metal hospital warmth,
the decay of my closet no longer able to hold or keep me,
my body repelling from and away from the only other option–a sort of
existential annihilating space, empty
with no reference point or gravity, by body
turning and revolving in the infinitesimal system of disorder.
With theory and law as dense as their own basis–
as a small girl with a highly developed survival skill
of withdrawing and disappearing,
I made a map,
charted by the constellations people left
at my door, or in my prescription bottles,
or in the tone of a voice on the phone
that uncomfortably told me they understand,
to hang in there–my awkwardness
a swallowing of tears and humiliation–because then I had to see
myself through their eyes–at what I had become.
A constellation. A brilliant map-
away from the embarrassed acceptance in the eyes of
someone who once loved you but does not
recognize you without your borders
without your smile
without a personality, an identity
you once came equipped with,
–away from him meeting you on the street,
the ache of pretending to not notice their eyes
scan for an exit, scan your face, and
away from their belief that some people
who have gone where you have
never really come back.
Madness, they do not tell you, is as lonely as it is scary.
But a map of that night, that space,
and I started seeing without knowing how
that the answers were not static, they were not concrete,
they were not written. They were not
even thought of–they cannot be touched,
they were sketched stars in reverse,
they were the universes in my irises unraveling,
the answers became something changed-something new-
through the radioactive pulse of my unstable heart,
shedding another degree and sparking a new one.
And after that burning
-like a coal mine…like an oil rig…piping and gloved hands and sweat and noise…
-like becoming skinless, an existential skeleton out in the ether
-after that burning-the last of the burnings-(there are no words for the others)–
a period of mechanical, metallic, empty, screeching and unaided disruption, destruction, separation, breakage, dismantling, the numbering of the pieces and counting what piles were left, broken useless ends and corners discarded into space-out into those starless, stale days;
I do not remember my eyes working;
I do not remember recognition even, or fear;
I do not remember my throat or my hands reaching for some kind of comfort;
what I remember is feeling–feeling a feeling for the first real moment in my life
and it swept across days, weeks, months, years
–tears and pain and anger and grief and sadness I had never thought possible
See I was learning that submission to the dark mysteries
my heart and mind and hands possessed
were wounds in the womb of where I had to first
learn to breathe
My body began to build some kind of structure
that could handle oxygen again, in small doses,
but on the inside there was an entire operating system
new and changed
-scribbling words and reading the medical books in my attempts
to gain control were now almost forgotten,
my stitches up my skin
healing each part of myself into the other stitched up piece.
With each dominant emotion shaking me, another
department in my mind–the worlds of words
had strewn together an open-ended narrative, stitching up
my skin in sentences I had not yet rehearsed–
but the words were coming nevertheless, accelerating
and then pacing in difficult degrees I was
developing a clarity for.
To not be a girl anymore
in a pale nightgown
in the shutting of doors
To be a woman emerging from
with dirt under my nails and the armor that comes
with losing it all and having nothing left to lose but you fight anyway,
scarred face, scarred bod–
unblinking and beautiful into the morning.
I reach for the cycles and circles of degrees like encapsulated bubbles-
bubbles tight with my words that arrive on tongue and lip
with tear and bone,
not measure and foresight,
expectation and pride.
The temperature in my beating body,
a body submissive to where I carefully select new order
with a lightness of touch, combined with the old habit
of dread and preparation.
The temperature is new–a falling down of degrees–
but the changes, the chemistry of this new script, are
becoming new elements entirely–
so I feel with my pen
to chart another way to discover–to discover what I
am not sure at first…
each word connects to new connections
in my body, and my body is binding itself
into something real and whole,
self-possessed and by my design alone.
I have sabotaged and rebuilt
and rewired and started
with a fuel I’d never, ever tasted before–Self-Love.
Self-Love and will.
My body is my memory. My memory is my narrative, which is my story, which has gaps and blocks and stitchings and bridges, best forgotten dark alleys and abandoned farmhouses, but also a shared swing beneath apple blossoms with the two girls that grew into women while I was gone, my sisters, but they waited in the wings until I found mine.
–As I write this, right now, they still gently wait in my peripheral-
the only proof for them of my healing and strength being time and consistency–
they wait, nudging me on always and never, not once, crossing my boundaries they
allowed me to build with them over childhood. As if they knew, somehow, they had faith
in ME, that I’d figure it out my own way, alone, as I knew it had to be done and as all
of us who’ve gone mad know there is no taking anyone with you–they waited, all these
years, letting me set the pace and distance and even how far I was going to push them.
(the first poem Difficult Degrees can be found here, from 2010…my, my, my how things have changed…)
I can’t open up to my psychologist yet. I realized this when I finally took a breath after weeks of relentless cycles of giddiness and tears and I knew it wasn’t medical or needing a check. No. It does this; when something bothers me–in my heart and who and where I am–it manifests in my body until the truth hits. I cried and let it all out to my grams. I told her all my secrets NO ONE KNOWS. And she told me I was still so sweet. That I had to be better to myself, that I would figure it out–because I always have. And I sat for awhile in the silence in the dark and let my mind finally rest. Finally. And it hit me. The time here lately has been a progression of the positive–I am changing. And my “epiphany” was to make a change. I am going back to school with my writing/soc/psych and I am going to teach art therapy/trauma writing to women and children of trauma (Vets w/ PTSD would be amazing). I told my grams “I feel so big inside–whole worlds are opening up in me–but my outer life is so small…” And this decision to finish school and USE WHAT I HAVE BEEN THROUGH TO HELP OTHERS GET THROUGH IT. I know I’ll do it like I know I’m getting better–a well-known FACT.
I wish I could talk to my psychologist, Allison, like this. After all that’s why I am seeing her. I had a sort of assignment because I busy myself so much because I am trying to find purpose in my days, and we started talking about the voices I have heard. THe challenge is to try to listen to them, and to not fear them–see what they say. And somehow, last night (I’ve sought out the old woman and small boy that talked in my head and i can’t find them) so last night I stopped thinking, I just listened. Listened to the heat click and kick in, my breath, Emma’s sighs from sleep in the other room…until I noticed a relaxing familiar hum coming beneath the real world, and the hum is what’s really real. A woman was talking, she didn’t sound old. I kept listening and tried so hard to remember what she was saying for later but i knew if I did try I’d lose it, so I just listened. And it at first sounded like my older sister Nikki talking about the television or something, But the voice came closer, and more clear and I knew who was talking in my head to the others–it was me. ME. And I remember I said something about finding something and I had it the whole time. I don’t understand but I don’t think what she/I said was of any importance. But it was me. My voice.
WHAT THE FUCK
But I am not afraid–I am utterly curious. The mind fascinates me.
Thanks Grams, for sorting out my tired head, you in your yellow floral sweater you used to wear with the embroidered collar on it. I miss you. I love you. Sorry I haven’t talked to you out loud since I was in the mental ward, but I know you see into me–you see me getting better. Rest in Peace.
Dolores Gurske (Aug 2008) with my girl, Emma at Flying Eagle camping resort–she knew from the beginning that Emma was going to be hilarious, and one hell of a little kid. The way she looked at her.
My relationship with my mother is a book in itself. This is not a post about her or me but rather about the deep waters we get ourselves into in a desperate search for love. All of us–my two sister, me, and my mother–desperate for love. We fail to remember we can receive it from each other, well at least me and my mother. You can read my poem about my mother HERE (Mama It Was Too Late) and another, HERE (70s Soundtrack). OK, one more HERE (A Trauma Theory). It was like so many moments, so many years, built up this moment here that happened a few weeks ago–asking my mother to validate me for her abandoning me when I was abused as a five-year-old but more-so when I was sixteen. How she chose his side, chose to believe him over me. I found myself pounding my fist on the table and screaming through tears “My life is fucked!! It’s FUCKED because of what you and “” did!” After the screaming match and her denying everything, me storming out after her sarcastic apology, my sister stopped me and told us we had to once and for all, deal with this burden and talk it out. (I was quite proud of her by the way). My mother fell apart. “I did the best I could! If that’s not enough for you I’m sorry but I did what I had to” (i’m summarizing). I was so still and controlled suddenly. “No,” I said, “It wasn’t enough. Not for me.” She said I hope I know what this feels like some day as a mother and I said that I wouldn’t because I would never abandon my Emma and side with her abuser. Not a chance in hell. She kept saying how she did her best or what she thought was best and that she was having trouble with her mental illnesses then (screaming at me like I should cut her slack for manic depression) and calmly, coolly, I said something I’d been waiting to say for years: “I don’t feel sorry for you.” It bit at her, but she yelled “I don’t want your pity,” spitting words at me like I’m the problem, as if I’d always been the problem. I think I’ll always be the problem. I told her I wasn’t doing this to assign blame and hurt but that, as a part of my healing from C-PTSD and everything else, I needed validation for what I’d been through and how I’d reacted and for what I didn’t receive. I wanted her to be there for me through this NOW and help me and try to understand what I’m going through instead of making it all about her. “Everything is not about you, Amy!” and calmly again I said “Mom, for once, this is ALL ABOUT ME. I’m the victim in this, not you.” And she broke some more saying “I know, I know.” I saw for the second time how fragile and weak she is. I thought back to her decisions, her generation of marriage and children and abuse, her view on life, her 1970’s please-the-husband-children-come-last. At least that’s my take. This is the woman who, I think out of desperation, married my alcoholic biological father out of fear of being alone and unloved, always feeling like the ugly duckling, not believing in her beauty. He was slow and a drinker. What drew her to him? Yet she was smart enough to leave him. And foolish enough to marry the man that was after me from the beginning. She was desperate. For love. Absolutely desperate, she was willing to sacrifice my well-being in order to maybe have more financial support and someone to “make her feel pretty” as she told me a few months ago. Yeah, I wanted to say, he made me feel pretty too. Ugh. I feel like she’s never known who she is, like she felt she wasn’t worth it. Why? Why is/was her self-esteem so low? So non-existent? (pause: my theme song is playing right now as I type: “Loser” by Beck, hehe). I can’t help but feel like her spite for me is because I’m stronger. I’ve always been stronger. She knew I rebelled and hated me back then because I stood up for myself when “—” was sexually abusing me. I wouldn’t have it. Yet I was under her finger enough to promise I’d never tell anyone as she asked because I wanted her to love me. I’ve always tried pleasing her and walked on egg shells and “made everything shine” for her and comforted her telling her what she wanted to hear because I wanted her to love me and have an ounce of respect for me. “You wish I were dead don’t you? Look at you! Look at you!” she screamed as I stood there ever so calmly. Her fears she tried transplanting on me. She wanted them to be mine, like she wished it were true. Why? I said she was wrong, and that I loved her, and that all I ever wanted was to be worth it enough for her, worth saving, and I never was, and why not? She couldn’t answer, it was too late for that answer. She showed, didn’t tell. I wasn’t worth it enough to save, to protect. I was just a kid, an offspring. I wasn’t supposed to have emotions that mattered, I wasn’t supposed to argue her values. And if I did, shame on me. She’s such a tough, mean, bitter shell on the outside and weak and scared inside, like a child. And I’m trying to learn to not be so concerned about that child anymore. She’s a big girl. She needs to face up to what she did and own it. I’m not going to own her shit anymore. And after this falling out or in, it became so much easier. I was watching a woman so desperate for love all her life she was now angry and bitter, believing she has no choices to better her life, and she’s right back where she started as a young, weak breaking woman because she didn’t have the balls to grow up, to experience the other love in her life she was offered. Love only meant men, as if they were the only creatures that mattered. I don’t pity her anymore. And she knows it. And goddammit that feels fucking good. A weight was definately lifted between the two of us, but there’s still so much ice in the air waiting and I don’t know why. Maybe because I know I’ll never get what I need from her, and I’m not even sure what that is. Love. Worth. Unconditional love. She doesn’t have that for me. Her love has conditions. For me anyways. I doubt she’ll ever read my essays and poetry about what I’m going through (as my sister told her to do if she wanted to have the courage enough to read it all to understand me–she said “would you read it if it were about you? and Jodie said Yeah it’s gonna hurt but she should read it if she wants to be there for me). Yeah, she’d read it if I was worth it. She’s so afraid of looking into the mirror, afraid enough to not put me first for once because that means facing the truth. And living in lies is living a dead life. I once told her when I write (she was upset because a post was somewhat about her) I told her I’m not gonna hide the truth, the truth in what happened is the reason I write, and I was in no mood for protecting her good name so it wouldn’t hurt her. Believe me I’ve already censored myself plenty in order to protect her….from her. My sisters and I have worked over-time protecting her from her. She does good for a few years, and always falls apart, and we’re the ones picking up the pieces and raising her, trying to get her to believe in herself, to believe she has choices, and she hates us for it, shuns us, gets back on her feet, and is bitter. We can’t really win. We’re always waiting for the next shoe to drop. Only we’re getting older. We’re looking at our lives, and deciding for once that we matter too. What do we have? Fathers that left us, abused us, abandoned us, and a mother that toys with our heads and hearts but at least she never left us. So what to do? All we have is each other. We have to make this work. I have to find in myself my own mother (again) and accept who she is and what I get from her. She’ll always think my intentions are evil for some reason, when all I ever wanted from her was to be loved unconditionally and be worthy. I have to find my worth in myself, and that’s hard, a battle every day.
Talking with my mother now is not about me being in control of that situation. It’s about being as honest as I can without totally losing compassion. Back when I was being abused and she turned on me, she used to say “Amy you reap what you sow.” Now I’m saying it to her in my head. She’s reaping what she sowed.
- I Need Encouragment (ptsdcreativewriting.wordpress.com)
I owe this blog post to WIL over at Write into the Light, in her post “My True Self is Not Mentally Ill” where she begins by listing what she likes about herself (a hard thing for us all to do) and discusses how we see our true Self and then shares an amazing video by Mooji from Mooji Answers (you can ask him questions, read his Buddhist (?) insights and all amazing shit). It’s centered on how our Self is NOT ILL, our person, our body is, not who we are. Go check out the video at her blog. After I watched the video I went like crazy over to YouTube and looked Mooji Answers up and I came across this video of his on fear, called “What are You Afraid Of?” Some parts that really, really struck me were:
“The mind must have something to threaten you with in order to hold you hostage…and only when you, the beingness, the consciousness, the presence, which is not a person, believe yourself to be a person, believe you’re merely the body-mind instrument and functioning then this thing comes out of fear–once you touch “I am the body”…What is innocence? it’s useful because it is required by consciousness in order for consciousness to taste experiencing (without the body, no experiencing) but somehow something takes places–identification with the instrument and then the consciousness falls into this modification : “I am the body this is me” and then a TRAUMA ENTERS INTO THE BEING, IT FEELS “NOW I’VE COME INTO TIME” THE TIMELESS BROUGHT ITSELF INTO TIME AND ANYTHING THAT TOUCHES TIME, FEAR WILL COME, BECAUSE TIME HAS BEGINNING OR SOME END. THE BODY HAS BEGINNING, HAS END. …
When you believe “I am this body” then fear comes and can continue threatening you. How can the being-ness that has fallen under the hypnosis that “I am the body-mind” wake up from this? Setsang. In setsang, the waking room.
…how can that which is unbound have no beginning? no real concrete existence? Spirit–comes into fear, by holding onto time…NOT FALL ASLEEP INTO THE HUMAN MODIFICATION, IT MUST REMEBER WHO I AM, AND THAT IS DISCOVERING THE DIVINITY IN YOUR OWN SELF, THE TIMELESS AND THE DEATHLESS…”
CHECK IT OUT: