Troy

“Can I have permission to enter your body?” Troy asked. I raised my eyebrows and looked questioningly at the ceiling. I glanced at my client while weighing what he was asking. I was thinking, “This (my office) is a safe space. I am infinitely protected here. If he wanted to harm me, he couldn’t be here. I have to trust.”  I replied, “Ummmm, I’ve never done this before, so this is a first. I guess if you don’t interrupt me (giving Reiki) or my client, I’m cool with it.”

His entry was uncomfortable. I said, “Back off a bit, will ya? Jeez. Slow it down.” Followed by, “I’m getting queasy. Back OFF!” That discomfort was over in a matter of seconds and soon we were one.

Sounds like a porno, doesn’t it? I’d be good at writing one but no, this isn’t that.

Troy is the deceased fiancé of one of my new clients. He came to her during her first session and then again to her second, which was on the anniversary of his death.   He asked me if he could work through me. He also said he wanted to be able to touch his lady love (my words). My client agreed and so did I. I apologized to her letting her know this had never happened, so I wasn’t sure how I would react. I wasn’t sure if I would be a babbling idiot. She smiled and giggled and told me not to worry about it.

Troy told me he was also here to give me an energy upgrade. I said, “In the past these upgrades have knocked me for a loop. I’ve got clients after her; I have to be able to function.” He smiled and nodded saying it wouldn’t be a problem.

He told me to concentrate on a circle of color. The color could be anything I wanted it to be. A marbled blue-green appeared. He told me to focus and concentrate on that and only that. When my mind would wander, he would gently coach me to return to the colored circle. I was vaguely aware that my hands were hovering over my client’s lower abdomen. I saw that I was trying to scrape away dirt, oil and debris. I was shown an image of cleaning a very dirty window so my client could “see” (deal with) the issues residing there.

Blue Green RoseI returned my gaze to the colored circle and watched as a thin red line appeared around it. Then it morphed into a rose bud and stem. It began to grow marbled roots which started as single shoots and then quickly branched out into multiples. I watched as those roots grew and spread quickly. Troy told me that these roots would help me reach more people. He also said my Work would be changing.

I was filled with giddy excitement. I thought, “Heyyyyyy. I’m not feeling any worry, anger or resentment. There’s no hatred or jealousy where I am. There’s no blame or guilt. I’m in a place that’s all love. I feel euphoric and empowered. This is amazing!”

I sensed Troy’s energy leave my body. I was rocked by what he had shown me and what I had felt. I thought, “This is cutting edge stuff! Man, girl, you’ve come far. You’ve really grown.” A feeling of being proud overruled my humility and I almost cried.

Then the dense, lower emotions returned. I felt disoriented. What the hell just happened? I did the only thing I could think to do and that was to bellow for Kyle. He popped into my office holding an unopened bottle of Mountain Dew. “What’s up?” he asked. I said, “Kyle! Oh my God. Kyle. Is this guy for real?” tossing my head towards Troy’s white shape. Kyle glanced at Troy and returned his eyes to mine. He twisted off the top of his soda bottle and said, “I dunno. Ask him.”

“KYLE!” I demanded. “YOU ask him!” Kyle stopped short of rolling his eyes as he looked at Troy again. “Dude? Are you for real?”  Not helpful, Kyle. Really. Not helpful. He flashed me an impish smile, shrugged his shoulders and said, “You are a cool chick.” With that, he vanished.

I looked at my client who was unaware of all of this. I turned my attention to Troy who had now regained his see-through human form. He was standing next to his lady. His left hand was lightly resting on her arm. My nerves quieted as I saw the look of love he wore upon his face. He turned to me, smiled and said, “You just got a taste of what heaven is like.”

(mic drop)

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Entity

We have our home professionally cleaned once a month and have been with the same company for almost a year. I’ve had the same team of two fantastic gals come each month but for some reason, one of the gals was different this time. I didn’t think anything of it, after all people do get sick. I was just thankful I could walk on our kitchen floor without my socks sticking to droplets of apple cider.

Later in the evening, after my little miss was asleep, I went downstairs. We live in a small rambler so it’s not as if I’m descending into the bowels of Hell when I do this. About half way down the stairs, my brows knit together and my steps hesitated. In my mind I was saying, “What is that?” and I tilted my head to the right as if to hear better. I didn’t see anything. I didn’t hear anything. I didn’t smell anything but I felt as if something was off.

When I made it to the foot of the stairs, I innately and immediately extended my left arm in front of me and put my fingers to the ceiling thus signifying the universal sign for “stop.” I don’t know why, but I started intoning a Reiki 2 symbol that I use to purify a room prior to giving students Reiki attunements.

I turned the corner, arm and hand still out in a powerful, protective stance and walked towards the room where our sump pump, freezer and furnace is. The negative energy became stronger as I approached the door. I was utilizing the light from the stairs and remember chastising myself for not turning on the ceiling lights.

As my right hand reached for the doorknob, I knew whatever I was sensing was in there. With my left hand, I flipped on the light switch and with my right, I simultaneously turned the door knob. I jumped into the brightly lit, light silver-green room like a ninja. I crouched low, had my left hand and arm out in front of me while the right hand was balled into a fist and my arm was cocked back, ready to punch someone’s lights out.  Man, I’m telling you I was ready to do battle!

There was nothing there. Well, nothing I could see with my squinted physical eyes and I didn’t WANT to see anything with my spiritual eyes. I straightened my stance, dropped both my arms and kept repeating the powerful Reiki symbol.

I grabbed what I needed, raced towards the door slamming it as I went through. For a nano second I thought about leaving the light on and just procuring my safety, but energy conservation is too ingrained in me. I have (cough) been referred to as the “Light Nazi” on an occasion or two. My Devil be damned attitude was no surprise and I shut off the lights.  As I was ascending the stairs, two at a time, I thought, “What in the hell is wrong with me!? I’m acting like a child. What was THAT?!”

I am not prone to drama nor am I prone to hysterics, although that’s what I tried to tell myself it was. Then the spiritual part of me kicked in and said, “Has this ever happened in the 9 years you’ve lived here?” No, never. “Then what is different?”  That is when I checked the signatures on the work order and discovered a different person had entered our house.

I decided to see if lightening would strike twice. Don’t idiots do this in horror movies and then die?!  Well, ode to Nightmare on Elm Street, I descended the stairs once again. I felt the negative energy. The hair on my arms stood up. I looked around but didn’t see anything. I was muttering the powerful Reiki symbol inside my head. I went into my home office and the energy was unadulterated. It felt untouched and pure, just as I had left it. I whirled around, squinted my eyes at our normally energetically inviting theater room and briskly walked towards the stairs. As I did so, the hair on the nape of my neck tingled and rose.

In the safety of our upstairs well-lit living room, I grabbed my phone to text my husband. I discovered I was trembling. Ok, well, that’s not normal and neither is the physical response I experienced downstairs. I dropped the phone onto a chair and called my Guardian Angels (The Guys). I stormed, “What in the FUCK was that?!” I pointed my finger towards the heavens and demandingly growled, “I, and this house and all those that reside within are supposed to be infinitely protected! That was the deal! I put myself out there and do your Work, YOU are supposed to keep my sanctuary SAFE. What in the HELL happened!?!  Better yet, just GET RID OF IT NOW!”

My eyes closed and my head tilted back. My hands and arms rose slightly from my sides, palms facing the ceiling. I took in a deep breath and felt my entire body quiver with righteous energy. After about 10 seconds of this, I heard a feminine voice with a hint of a smile softly say, “It is gone. You are safe.”

I opened my eyes and said, “What WAS that?! Holy shit! WHAT WAS THAT?!” And before they could answer I said, “Never mind! I don’t want to know. I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to know. Thank you for getting it out of here.”  I then proceeded to infuse the Reiki 2 symbol in all the doorways and windows. Protection, baby. Protection of the energetic kind.

I thought about contacting two married friends of mine who are both intuitively gifted. I wanted to see if they thought the entity was gone; I wanted human reassurance. But then I decided my Guys have never lied to me and so I was to trust in them. Besides, the energy in the house felt different. I still wasn’t about to go downstairs. That would wait until morning when it was naturally light outside.

As I was going to bed, I had this passing thought that I should get our gun. That was how real this threat was to me and to my sleeping little miss. I snorted inside of my head, rolled my eyes and thought, “Oh good one, Melissa. As if a gun is going to do anything against an entity. Chaaaaaaaaa.”

As is my way, I talk with my Guardian Angels as I am falling asleep. I heard them say, “Do you trust?” and I was like, “Dudes. For real. Are we going to have this convo again?!” Then I was infused with the knowledge of what took place on a spiritual level. Have I mentioned EVER (being factious here!) how thankful I am that I can see things from a spiritual perspective as it vastly differs from what we think is happening on the physical realm?

The sweet miss (or misses) who came to clean our home left a part of herself here. She didn’t do so intentionally, it was as if she sloughed off some dead skin, only this “skin” looked like a leach on steroids. I didn’t want to see the entity but my angels felt it best so I could understand what had happened.

I was shown this tentacle type of thing, sort of like you would see in a Sci-Fi movie. It looked like an alien octopus had one of its conical appendages lopped off, minus the suckers. It was shiny, black and writhing. “Death throes” is what I heard.

I knew this miss had been going through something horrible and that part of her was dying. She (no coincidences) came to our home, our HIGH ENERGY home to be rid of a succubus; something that was no longer needed. This entity had crawled into our little used basement room preparing to die. I messed that up when I came downstairs and felt it.

So to make this a little more clear, the substitute cleaning miss, on some level, knew our home would be a safe place for her to rid a portion (or all) of her burden, her darkness. She had outgrown or no longer needed it. She trusted we would be safe and the gal she replaced, the one who knew the energy of our home, trusted that this would be for her replacement’s highest good.

I am at peace with what happened. I am at peace knowing that our home, filled with laughter and tears, felt like a safe haven for a woman to begin (or continue) her unburdening transformation. I am at peace with my angels lowering the frequency of our home to allow this to happen. I am at peace knowing that we provided a safe place, outside of my Work, for someone to heal. I now understand why my Guys asked earlier, “Do you trust?” They were trying to calm me or remind me all is not as it seems; there is a Higher Power at work here.

 

Sober

“Expectation is the root of all disappointment.” Uhhh, yes. Yes it is. When I stumbled upon that timely sentence (thank you, Fargo Forum!), I realized I needed to stop all expectations regarding Trinity. If he said he’d be home for supper, I didn’t believe him. If he said he’d help me with a project, I didn’t believe him. If he said he’d pick up our daughter, I didn’t believe him. No expectations, no disappointments.

One night, after working late, he brought our daughter home. He was horribly drunk and thought making himself something to eat was a good idea. He burned everything. It took some time for his glassy eyes to focus. His words were slurred even though he was trying to appear somewhat sober. In my head, I thanked God for getting them home safely.

The next day, when he was less drunk, I calmly told him he had crossed the line by driving drunk with Ceta. I said, “Look. I don’t give a damn if you kill yourself in a car accident, but you may NOT kill our daughter. She is a miracle and you may not hurt her.” In my head I said, “If you drink and drive with her again, I’ll call 911 myself.”

I asked him if he could tell me how much longer he planned to drink. One year? Five years? “No. Not that long” was his dejected response. I said again, “Can you please tell me so I can plan accordingly?” He replied in a soft dispirited whisper, “Someday I won’t drink.”

I looked into having him committed. I researched what I needed to do and ultimately I decided I couldn’t control this. I wanted to call his doctor and tell him the truth about how much Trinity was drinking. I was the only one who would have been at an Intervention so that wouldn’t work and besides, I had been steadily doing that throughout the years.

One day, after leaving work, I sat at a red light and looked at a lady in a white, four-door car. In my head I said to her, “Do you think about your marriage ending every second of the day, every day? Do you? Do you wonder if your marriage is going to make it? Does it consume you like it does me? No? I didn’t think so.”  I swiveled my head and looked at a sparkly blue Chevy pickup. I mentally asked the driver if he constantly worried about the success or failure of his marriage. No? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

“So,” I thought, “what the fuck am I doing? ENOUGH!” I made up my mind then and there, sitting at that stop light, that I was done worrying about it, too. I was going to put all my energy into focusing on trusting and believing this marriage was going to be successful. I told God and my Guides, that I was leaving it up to them. The light turned green, I pressed my foot on the gas pedal and I felt lighter than I had in years.

Not long after my stop light revelation, I heard my husband mumbling to himself as he was making coffee. He said, “I’ve GOT to get a life.” I didn’t say a word but my eyes rose from the newspaper I was reading. I felt something changing. I stared at his back with squinted eyes trying to figure out what it was. Could it be, with that simple mumbled comment, he was acknowledging he had a drinking problem? I lowered my eyes back to the newspaper, lifted my left eyebrow, pursed my lips and thought, “Huh. How you liking life, honey?”

Soon after that he came home and said he had contacted the VA about alcohol in/out patient treatment. Uh huh. Sure you did. Riiiiight. He said he’d left a message for them and they were to return his call.  Yup. Sure. I bet they’ll “drop the ball” and you’ll never reach out to them again and then it’ll be their fault that you’re still drunk. Without any of the hope and excitement I was feeling, I said, “Good for you, honey. Let me know what they say.” Disengage and have no expectations. If you’re the spouse of an addict/alcoholic, this could be your motto.

But he DID contact the VA and they DID get back to him. Whaaa? Apparently, he was ready to ask for and accept help. I remained optimistically guarded. This wasn’t my first rodeo with an alcoholic cowboy. But true to his word, he did report for an alcohol evaluation and he did enter treatment.

He elected to detox at home. The VA allowed him to do this as he still had a good support system. Most alcoholics have lost their entire family by this time and just have a few enabling “friends” in their life. I watched as the DT’s took hold of him as he slept on our couch. I watched his body shake violently. I watched him reach for the garbage can to empty his stomach. I watched him walk to the bathroom on unsteady legs, like a newborn colt. I heard him moaning in pain while he fitfully slept.

I watched as this man desperately struggled against the siren song of the internal alcoholic who whispers, “Awww, come on. You can have ONE drink. It’s just one drink and then you can stop. I promise.” While remaining emotionally cautious, I watched him fight this invisible demon and found a growing respect for him and for all recovering addicts/alcoholics.

There was already something different about him; he was gentle again. He was embarrassed at how much he drank and how far he had fallen. He was thankful I was still at his side. He told me that I got through to him when I told him he could not drive drunk with our daughter ever again. He tells me that made a powerful impact on him.

Early on in his recovery, I was standing at the kitchen sink (this, apparently, is where I’ve been struck with a lot of intuitive information throughout the years!) and I saw/heard/knew that by Trinity choosing to become sober, he changed our daughter’s life for the better. She was no longer going to be a slave to alcohol. He had broken the cycle. THAT is some big spiritual whoop-ass, my friends.

I said to God and my Guides, “Holy shit! That’s HUGE! Oh my gosh! Thank you for showing me that glimpse!” My respect and admiration for him tripled. By facing his demons, by no longer choosing avoidance, by trying to heal, he was not only making his life better, but mine and our daughters, too. Talk about a new perspective, huh?

We recently watched the movie, “My Name Is Bill W.” It’s about the gentlemen who started AA. It was powerfully moving for me. I found myself wracked with tears at one point, not bothering to stifle or hold them in. I was crying not because of something the alcoholic was dealing with, but something his wife was dealing with. It hit way too close to home. It also helped me understand I’m not alone and that this disease doesn’t discriminate. It helped me understand how much the personality changes when a person becomes an alcoholic.

It wasn’t long after that movie I started recognizing my anger towards him. For so long I shoved that emotion (as well as others) under the table as I wasn’t able to effectively deal with them. But now it was coming out in full force. I was angry for so many reasons and that anger was working towards resentment. Once resentment takes hold, your marriage is in a death spiral.

I took our 5 year old to skating lessons one evening. My favorite deceased person “randomly” showed up and sat down next to me. I tried to be all casual and off handedly said, “Oh! Hi, Kyle. What’s up?”  His smile was infectious and his blue eyes danced. He said, “Not much. How about with you?”  I knew he was there for me as he certainly wasn’t there to watch my little miss skate backwards. For about a nano second I thought about lying to him and then I realized it was demeaning to both of us. I said, “Well, I’ve been better.” He said, “What’s up?” and I internally replied, “I’m having a bunch of anger issues towards my husband.”

Without losing a hint of his smile, he telepathically told me to let it go. I immediately got defensive and flustered. I hurriedly gushed, “But anger is a stage of grief! I’m supposed to go through this!! It’s normal!” His smile was softly fading and his laughing blue eyes became tinged with seriousness. He repeated, “Let. It. Go.” I blinked, took in a deep inhalation and mentally smiled at him. I, with humbleness and genuineness, softly said, “I love you, Kyle.” His mega-watt smile reemerged and he vanished instantly.

At a recent open AA meeting, my husband spoke loudly and clearly, “My name is Trinity and I’m an Alcoholic.” It jolted me, kind of as if I was being roused from a trance. I immediately knew he was going to wipe alcohol’s bastard ass all over the dance floor. I hadn’t yet heard him call himself an Alcoholic. I hadn’t yet heard him own it.  But when he did, I knew it was real. A sort of peace came over me and all the nagging “what if’s?” and fears disappeared.

Trinity is early into this living sober thing (day 90!) and he tells me he will never have another drink. I believe him; he’s just stubborn enough to pull this off. He is also facing the cause of his drinking, head on (play on words there, people! Did you get it? HAHA!). Boooyah, soldier! Boooyah! His humor, playfulness, respect and kindness have all returned.  I see him watching our daughter sometimes and I know he’s thinking about how much time he’s lost with us, how much he’s missed out on.

His brain and his body will continue healing from alcohol’s destruction for up to two years. I’m so proud of this Army Ranger who will now fight for his sobriety every day in a culture where alcohol is a staple.

 

(He has given me permission to publish this story in hopes that it helps others.)


 

This is the third of a trilogy of blogs: Alcoholic, Alcoholism and Sober

For background reading pertaining to these blogs:
Kyle
The Guys (Guides)
Priestess

Alcoholism

After the debacle of my starter marriage, I made sure my eyes were open when I started dating my forever husband. He, like me, was a mild social drinker. He would have a glass of wine at night, maybe a beer, maybe two.  We would have more on weekends or when we were out with friends. Somewhere along the line though, something changed for him. During our first couple years of marriage, I noticed he was drinking 5 to 6 beers a night (Miller Lite, if you can even call that watery beer a beer. I’ve become such a beer snob!).

If you’ve been a reader of my blogs, you’ll understand how Trinity has helped me heal my own pain throughout the years. You’ll also understand how I have empowered him to do the same. He has been instrumental in me becoming the woman you know today. He has successfully done what others could not; he has helped me find and use my voice effectively. I, through gritted teeth, often tell God and my angels that they can knock off the “using my voice” lessons anytime.

I would tell him how frightened I was by his usage of alcohol. He would, in the earlier years, agree he was drinking too much and he would back off.  About 3 years ago, though, that all changed. A six pack of Miller Lite or two glasses of wine was no longer satisfying. He had moved on to Heineken, Guinness and then the high-alcohol content craft beers, not to mention bottles and then boxes of wine. As days moved into months, his consumption increased in direct proportion to my fears.

As Trinity’s drinking exceeded even his maximum, I became frantic. The way I was approaching him wasn’t working so I took several steps back. My husband has helped me overcome so much…and here was another way he did so. Instead of feeling as if my (and our daughter’s) safety was threatened by his alcohol usage, I backed off. I decided I could no longer count how many beers he had, I could no longer call it out to him and that took tremendous pressure off of me. I stepped back from sort of a parental role and decided I had made my fears known. I had been clear about his alcohol consumption and I needed to give him space to figure it out on his own.

One night he came home late and had been drinking. Our daughter was 3. He stood in our entry way with tears in his eyes and said, “I can’t stop with just one. I’ve tried. I can’t stop with just one drink.”  I thought that was it; I thought that was his rock bottom but it wasn’t even close. I would wait two more years before that happened.

After the discovery of his emotional affair in late 2015, he vowed to stop, or at least slow down his drinking. He did well for about a week and then I noticed a beer on his desk at 4:30, then at 3:00, then at noon. It would get earlier and earlier each day.  Towards the end he was drinking at 9:00 in the morning. He tells me now I didn’t know the half of how much he was drinking. For that I am thankful as what I knew terrified me.

I watched our bank accounts dwindle and I refused to say anything to him. My thought was, “He makes money, he can spend it as he sees fit.” As is the way with alcoholics, secrets and hiding things from others are a way of life. What was being charged to our credit card was only about half of what he was really spending.

In September 2016, on my birthday, he was arrested for DUI. When he told me about it, I thought two things: “This is going to financially fuck us without lube.” and “Thank you, GOD! Thank you! Maybe this is what he needs to finally get some help.” But it wasn’t. In fact, he repeatedly stated that he was only at .09 and “that’s barely over the legal limit.” He missed the point entirely. For him, .09 was barely breaking a sweat; it was his normal Blood Alcohol Content. He hired an attorney and pled down to reckless driving.

My reaction to his drinking was subconscious but I was experiencing real PTSD because of it. I didn’t put these pieces together until an amazing counselor at the VA pointed out that I felt like everything I wanted or had obtained, my entire way of life, my existence, was once again being threatened by alcohol.  This was the counselor my husband and I went to after I had my anxiety breakdown. He also witnessed my physical distress as my body shook like that of a scared dog. It was him who suggested I might be in fear for (and fighting for) my life.

(Jim, if you are reading this, I thank GOD for you every day. I didn’t have the knowledge to work through this one and you helped put some of the puzzle pieces together. There was no coincidence that I found you. Thank you for helping me heal.)

Jim pointed out that I have lost (almost) everyone I’ve loved due to the highly addictive bitch called Alcohol. They have either physically or emotionally abandoned me or I have had to leave them. This explains why I have Abandonment issues in this lifetime, doesn’t it?!! Alcohol(ism) is in both my maternal and paternal sides of the family. On a scale of 1 to 10 of how terrified I felt due to Trinity’s drinking, I was at a 12. This was a mouth-goes-dry-eyes-go-wide-body-tremors-flight-fight-or-freeze kind of 12.

I hated who he became when he was drinking. Couldn’t he see how this terrified me? Didn’t he care? Where was the man I married? He’d be horrified at the thought of hurting me. It turns out, the man I married was still in there, but his brain chemistry had changed so much that he no longer cared about anything except alcohol. He didn’t care about his health, his work, his marriage or his children; he just wanted to escape. He became mean, impatient and angry with the world. He would use vulgar, lewd and harassing language in front of our daughter. He constantly reeked of booze and when he would touch me in ways I viewed as volatile, he would belligerently laugh as I rebuked him.

He was really bringing out the big guns to get me to leave our marriage. He was fighting against growing spiritually and dealing with his emotional pain. He still viewed himself as unworthy and unloveable and he was trying to avoid the spiritual Mack truck that was bearing down upon him.

I had made a vow before him and God that I was never going to leave him and I meant it.  As with his affair, he expected me to leave him because that was what people in his life did. He wanted me to leave him so he didn’t have to face reality. At one point, towards the very end when he was drunk and having a pity party for one, he insinuated he was going to ask me for a divorce.

I nonchalantly thought, “Go ahead buddy. I’m not afraid of being alone anymore. You’ve made me stronger. I no longer fear abandonment. I know Ceta and I will be just fine without you but know this; We’ve been through too much and I’m NOT leaving you. You do it, you call it quits, after all it’s what you do, Mr. Avoidance but I believe we made a commitment to help each other overcome our past life issues. I’ve been there for you and I’ve given you a safe place to do just that. I trust you’d do the same for me. I am NOT leaving.”

The truth of the matter was I wasn’t sure how much longer I could physically do this.

 

 


This is the second of a trilogy of blogs: 
Part 1: Alcoholic
Part 2: Alcoholism
Part 3: Sober

~ For background reading pertaining to this blog:
Anxiety
Unloveable

Alcoholic

I remember a time when I was 14 or 15; a tough age for a girl. I would find full bottles of alcohol hidden in linen closets, under furniture and in the basement. I remember being so disgusted with my mom that I would loathingly pour the alcohol down the bathroom sink drain and refill the bottles with tap water. I would replace them where I found them.

When I returned from school, I remember feeling hatred towards my mom because the bottles were either half empty or gone. I would become incensed and repulsed thinking that she was either too drunk or too stupid to know that I had replaced the alcohol with water and she drank it anyway.

“You stupid bitch”, I would think and I would turn my venom on my mom. Sometimes I used the passive-aggressive techniques I had been taught. I would go for days without looking at her or talking to her. Other times I would let loose on her by screaming and pummeling her with my abusive words. God, I HATED her at times. I hated that she wasn’t there for me emotionally. I hated that she loved alcohol more than me and I hated that I needed her and she had emotionally and physically abandoned me. Hell hath no fury like a hormonal teen-aged girl.

A neighbor once told me years after my mom had died that she had found my mom passed out by our mailbox. She thought my mom had fallen and went to help. My mom was perfectly fine except she was blotto’d. I remember feeling embarrassment at hearing this, even though I was in my early thirties.

My dad was aware, but we didn’t talk about it. Good Lord, no. That’s not what us conservative Norwegian/German Lutheran/Catholic Midwesterners do. We don’t talk about alcoholism, abortion, mental illness, abuse, adultery, or rape. Oh no, that’s not neighborly or polite. It’s icky and ugly and we don’t want to talk about that stuff.  Let’s sweep it under the rug; let’s not tell the children the real story because they’ll never need to know or they’re not “strong enough” to handle it.  Has it occurred to anyone that it’s this type of mentality, this type of secrecy, that encourages these actions to continue?

I used to watch my stoic dad search the house looking for errant bottles of hidden alcohol. I watched as he loaded them into the trunk of our cream colored Ford Thunderbird and left for work. I watched as he would take a bottle out after work and have a few drinks (or several, I don’t remember). And then I would watch as he replaced the bottle in the trunk, shut the lid and hid the keys. I clearly saw the strain on my dad’s face but I did not understand the toll it was taking on him. Although I’ve never walked a mile in my dad’s shoes, I think I may have walked a few blocks.

Each school day, I would leave my mom lying on her favorite pink velvet love seat. Each day, when I returned, she would still be lying there. I didn’t know that each day she would order alcohol and have it delivered but my dad knew. Night after night, morning after morning this process would repeat itself. My anger and resentment towards her, and her illness, grew. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize alcoholism WAS an illness. I just thought she was weak.

One night my mom was trashed and sleeping in the living room. My dad was sleeping in their bedroom and I in mine. I could hear mom weakly calling to my dad, “Merle. Merle! Merle? I have to go to the bathroom.” My dad was maybe 54 or 55 at the time, not much different in age than I am now. Dad got up but not as quickly as mom needed. She tried to make it to the bathroom on her own but fell. She thinly said, “Merle! I fell! Help me!” and that might have been when my dad emotionally snapped.

He grabbed her right arm by the shoulder and drug her across the carpeted floor towards the bathroom. At the time and for years to come, I hated my dad for this treatment. But now, as a parent, as an older, wiser adult and as someone who has loved/lived with alcoholics, I understand his reaction. You can only take so much shit, so much stress, so many sleepless nights, so many worries, so much pent up anger, so much disappointment and so much emotional strain before your mind unravels.

I heard my mom fall and I instantly sat up in my bed on high alert. My eyes were wide in the darkness. Ever mom’s protector, I threw my legs over the bed and raced down the unlit hallway. I flipped the bathroom light on and as my eyes adjusted my mouth fell to the floor. Her right arm was grasped in his left hand and she looked so tiny, so frail. She wasn’t a big woman anyway and had become very emaciated from the alcohol. My dad always appeared larger to me than he really was.

I remember seeing her eyes flutter open and then close. There were tears on her cheeks and she slurringly said, “Merle! You’re hurting me!”  I screamed at my dad to stop it. I remember vainly trying to push him away from her. Everything was moving in slow motion. As I stood in the bathroom’s harsh light wearing my baby-doll shorty pajamas, I felt utterly helpless and powerless. I also felt extreme anger, repulsion and sympathy all at once. A part of me wanted to repeatedly hit my dad and a part of me wanted to pull my own mother down the hallway, too. I ended up doing what I normally did; bursting into tears, racing for the sanctuary of my bedroom and slamming the door.

My mom did get help. It wasn’t professional help, as least I don’t think so, but she did cut out or cut down her drinking. She told me once she’d “got a handle on it.” And I never, EVER saw her drunk again, buzzed yes, but drunk no.

As with most children of addictions/abuse, you either become so repulsed by the action that you would NEVER do it…..or you become that action; after all, it’s what you know. There’s not often a middle of the road for us…it’s usually all or nothing.

In Midwestern American, if it’s a nice day out, we drink. If it’s too cold, we drink. If it’s juuuuuust right, we drink. Having a good day? Drink. Having a bad day? Drink. Having a perfect day? Drink. Started the job? Drink. Finished the job? Drink. Somewhere in the middle? Drink. Weddings? Drink. Funeral? Drink. Breathing? Drink.

I took my first drink at 17. My husband took his at 14. In Midwestern America, it’s what we do. It’s what we know.

 


This is the first in a trilogy of blogs: 
Part 1: "Alcoholic", Part 2: "Alcoholism" Part 3: "Sober"

Priestess

I saw a petite, slender woman clad in a deep emerald green velvet cloak. The hood of her cloak was large and hid her face. Tied at her waist was a golden cord with golden tassels. She walked with confidence, grace and surety. Her pace was not too fast, not too slow.

I heard she was “amassing her fiend*” by finding/collecting people, crystals, small bottles filled with healing potions/herbs/animal parts, etc. This woman had very carefully thought out her selections. I could sense she was very, very powerful and would not be harmed by man or beast as she moved about on her journey.

As I was describing this vision to my client, I saw a pair of large, ice blue eyes float into my intuitive vision. No face, just eyes. I knew they were hers. At that moment I heard, “Priestess.”  My physical eyes widened, I inhaled a startled breath and I sputtered, “Lisa! Oh my GOD! YOU! Lisa! This person is a Priestess! She was/is YOU!”

Lisa, my sweet, spiritual neophyte (bucket list word!) who is gently opening and growing her intuitive self in this lifetime, widened her beautiful hazel green eyes. She swept her arm up over her head and, using her elbow, rose slightly from the Reiki table. She excitedly said, “That’s what the gal from Canada JUST told me! She said I was a Celtic Priestess!”

As a side note, I wasn’t sure if this Priestess was Celtic or not, but later, in USBank’s drive through, I was thinking about this and the word “Druid” popped into my head. Druid? Isn’t that a phone? Since USBank’s drive through is routinely excruciatingly slow, I immediately googled it. Wouldn’t ‘cha know, there IS such a thing as Celtic/Druid Priestess. Win for Psychic Canada Girl and win for Intuitive USA Girl!

I focused my attention on the Priestess, again.  She spoke to me without physically speaking.  As she extended a flawless, well-manicured and youthful hand towards me, she said, “I will help you heal.” In my head, I looked around to see if she was talking to me. It appeared she was. I started to say, “I don’t need healing” but quickly changed my tune and said, “Uhhh. Ok. Sure. Thank you.”  Who am I to question a mega-powerful Priestess from the past who wants to help me heal.

I mentally reached out to take her hand, but it wasn’t my hand that I saw. It was the large, gnarled, big-boned hand of an ancient crone. As our hands connected, I saw the hand and the arm of the crone begin to shimmer. It was as if her skin had become a thousand flesh-colored butterflies and they were all lifting off at once. The process began at her fingers, moved to her hand, wrist and up her arm.  I could hear the audible noise of an atomic clock resetting itself after its battery had been replaced. As I watched the butterflies rise and disappear, I refocused my eyes on the arm. It had morphed into a more youthful hand and arm. It was also much more feminine in size and had no hint of being gnarled or aged.

I looked up at the face of the hand/arm and it was either a completely different woman or it was the crone in her late 50’s. The energy of this woman and that of the crone was different as was their physical bone structure. This woman had very short, coarse, thick, badly cut dark black hair. Her face was smudged with dirt or ash. Her clothes were barely rags. They were moth eaten and way too big for her emaciated frame.  The clothing was also a different style, or era, than the crones.

No sooner had I taken in this visage when the butterflies started fluttering their wings again. They lifted off and I watched as the emaciated woman with the thick black hair dissolved into a young maiden. She was wearing a blue hooded cloak, which was tied with a delicate bow at her throat. Her head was ensconced within the hood but some of her light brown hair cascaded out of the hood where it softly curled around her neck and shoulders.  Her cheeks were pink with the flush of youth; her eyes were blue and alive. Her smile was captivating and innocent and her face was unlined. She was lovely.  She, too, carried different energy than the others.

That is where the Priestess and my interaction ended. I’m still unsure if the women were me at different times during my lives or if they were someone else. It could be that she healed some past-life mumbo jumbo so that I’ll be free of it in this lifetime. Interestingly enough, I had recently asked my Guides (The Guys) to help me with just that.

As I’m explaining this to Lisa, it hits me that she doesn’t have a clue as to her simmering intuitive/healing power in this lifetime. I want to bow before her and she doesn’t have a clue as to her greatness, her immense and unending power. The energy they possess is like Niagara Falls. It is powerful, magnificent, commanding and must be respected. Niagara Falls has changed the Earth’s landscape just as the Priestess/Lisa have (will) changed the spiritual one.

(No pressure, Lisa. HAHAHAHA! Seriously. Don’t even sweat it. You’ve got this!)

* A “Fiend” per Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, 1975, is described as, “A person remarkably clever at something: Wizard.”

 

Unloveable

As a child, this petite freckle-nosed boy with unevenly cut bangs, cried at the supper table one night because he wanted to move back to his old house. He begged his mom, tears streaming down his face, to be able to do so. His mom, who had recently remarried, moved her children into a new home and now his older brother and he had separate bedrooms. This sensitive boy was crying because he wanted to be near his brother.

His mom tirelessly worked two jobs to provide food, clothing and shelter for her two growing boys. Child support wasn’t enforced back then and his dad chose not to pay the measly court ordered amount of $125 a month for both him and his brother. She was a waitress who had a quick smile and even quicker wit. Customers would come to the restaurant just for her. But each night, after working long shifts, she would go home, put her feet up and spread her tip money out on the kitchen table. She would unerringly count it as each penny was precious and needed. Sometimes the sensitive boy watched her openly and sometimes from a hiding spot.

They were all saving for a trip to Disney World. She would put a few cents in the jar as would the boys.  The sensitive child and his brother would do odd jobs so they could put money into the jar. As the vacation fund grew, so did the eight year old’s excitement.

One day, upon returning home from grade school, all the money in the jar was gone. Practicality had taken over and the money was needed for unfrivolous bills.  The sensitive boy felt emotionally crushed and burst into tears. Even though it was promised by a mother who was caught between a rock and a hard place, the trip to Disney World never materialized.

Years came and went. Step-fathers came and went and as this sensitive boy grew into adolescence, he began feeling abandoned by those he unconditionally loved. His biological dad was long out of the picture and his step-dads, some of whom disappeared without a word never to be heard from again, left this boy with unanswered questions, confusion and sadness. He learned not to get attached to them because sometimes they didn’t stick around long.

He often felt unseen, invaluable and that he wasn’t good enough, loveable enough.  He started feeling as if his jock of an older brother got the lion’s share of his mother’s love and that his older brother could do no wrong in her eyes.

As this adolescent grew into a young adult, he started acting out. He would use his fists to settle arguments…or just because he could. He would physically and verbally spar with his older brother. He would seek out women in order to soothe the deep “I’m unloveable” wound that was growing inside of him. Each time he won a fist fight, obtained a difficult award, broke an athletic record, brought more money in than his brother or conquered an otherwise unconquerable sexual conquest, he would mentally raise his middle finger towards his mom in an “Aha! I’ll show YOU I’m loveable” way.

This wound grew and grew. His mom was busy working to make ends meet and to provide shelter for her boys. But the sensitive boy would inwardly cry when his mother didn’t attend his wrestling tournaments but attended his brother’s sporting events. His heart broke into a thousand pieces when she was unable or unwilling to attend his coveted Senior Parent’s Night for wrestling. He wanted her there so badly. His eyes searched the crowd for her constantly, but she was not there.

This hardened the sensitive boy’s heart. He joined the Army and did two tours overseas. He saw things, and was asked to do things – IN THE NAME OF HIS COUNTRY – that no 18 year old…no person of ANY age…should ever, EVER do.

His work ethic was strong and the Army liked his ‘can do’ attitude. He quickly rose through the military ranks which meant more responsibility and more emotional collateral damage. In the end, this Eagle Scout became an Army Ranger, the elite of the elite.

This boy, the boy who desperately wanted his mother’s approval and love, was working hard (whether he knew it or not) to prove he was loveable and worthy. What he may not have realized is that his mom had taught him the value of hard work and a penny earned. He strove to be the best of the best. He strove to learn something about everything. He was an insatiable reader and often felt he needed to prove himself again and again. Everything he touched he gave his all. If he didn’t know the answer, he’d research it. If he didn’t know how to perform a task, he’d learn with each failure. He excelled.

While he was a rock star at mastering physical tasks, he was often a failure at emotional tasks. “Avoidance” could have been his middle name. Perhaps he was never taught how to talk through conflicts. Perhaps he was taught to use passive-aggressive abuse to his advantage.  Perhaps he felt he needed to yell and draw upon anger in order to show his worth.

When it came to matters of the heart, this sweet little boy with the sun-kissed nose often failed. He was afraid to get emotionally close to the opposite sex. He sometimes used women as though they were objects. He often exploited them and once he got what he wanted, he dropped them like a hot potato. He was physically fit, devilishly handsome, had a disarming smile and had learned that flirting and nice words often got him what he wanted. He had found a surrogate way to get (his mother’s) attention and love.

With a failed marriage under his belt, he was serial dating once again. His relationship with both his mother and his brother was rocky at best. His mom said he changed once he came back from the war. His brother said he would always love him but didn’t always like him. He set out to avoid anything emotional at all costs. When things got heavy emotionally in his relationships, he tapped out. He did this until he met a woman who was different from all the rest. This woman saw his childhood pain and his beauty even if he didn’t.

She was tackling her own demons but with his help, she overcame a few of them so she could help him with his. And while she tried and tried to get him to see that he WAS loveable and WAS worthy, he never believed it. Not once. Not in his brain and not in his ravaged heart.

As his relationship grew and thrived with this woman, his relationship with his mother and brother was also back on track.  They were all talking again, albeit guardedly but the peace didn’t last long. His brother was the first to excommunicate him. This sensitive boy – now well into his adult years – took that to mean he truly WASN’T worthy. His own brother; one that he idolized and often tried to best academically and physically, the one person who was in the proverbial childhood trenches with him, had effectively passive-aggressively cast him out.  There was no talking about it, there was no closure; just a symbolical slamming of a door that left this sensitive boy feeling as if he truly was not loveable.

His on-again/off-again relationship with his mother was shaky. She often overstepped boundaries and imposed her will upon her youngest son. She was stubborn, he was stubborn. She was gregarious, he was gregarious.  He was protective, she was protective.

The woman that this sensitive boy married was unsure of her new mother-in-law. She, the mother-in-law, was larger than life, had a HUGE personality and appeared to others as the belle of the ball. But inside, inside of her, something was different; off. The wife sensed it; intuited it. Nobody else saw it, which made her question herself but the wife trusted her gut and was weary. She watched her mother-in-law through spiritually squinted eyes.  You see, she, the wife, was protective of her husband, too.

Months passed with colorful commentary and family suppers; then something abruptly changed. First it was his brother, his beloved larger-than-life brother, who had an angry exchange with the sensitive boy and then cut off all ties with him. This left the sensitive boy angry and resentful for he was learning the value of talking through misunderstandings and miscommunications. On the heels of his big brother disowning him, his mother broke off all contact with the sensitive boy and his small family.

He tried and tried to speak with her. He would invite her to his family gatherings, daughter’s birthday parties. He would leave pleading messages with her on her voice mail to call him so they could work through this. He stopped by her home but she wouldn’t answer the door. He felt confused; he didn’t understand what he had done that was so heinous that his mother would treat him, his wife and their toddler daughter this way.

Months passed and he tried to reach out to his mother again. He left her numerous voice mails, each time asking her to tell him what happened so he could work through it. Each plea for a return phone call was left unanswered. As a final ultimatum, he told her this would be his last phone call to her; he would leave her be. He told her again he didn’t know what he had done so he couldn’t fix it. He asked for her to call him so they could resolve this. He received silence.

This sensitive boy who once cried because he missed the safety of sharing a bedroom with his older brother, was learning first hand that passive-aggressive behavior IS abusive.  He started on a downward spiral. You see he, once again, believed he was unloveable and so he started to do things to push his wife away. He felt it would be easier if she called it quits, that way he wouldn’t have to emotionally deal with any of this. His wife, his Other, was tenacious and graceful and forgiving in ways she didn’t even know she possessed. He loved her more because of this and possibly hated her a little, too.

She wasn’t going to let him slide. She believed in him. She saw his beauty. She had a (spiritual) job to do and that was to help him heal and grow. She still saw him as larger than life, even when he saw himself as unworthy and unloveable. She had loved him forever; he was her brother in a past life and in that past life he was used to running away from his problems. He was a spoiled rich boy who loved the ladies but would never commit. She was the older sister who had the family’s estate and a reputation to take care of.

She would often watch him though a thick paned glass window galloping away on a beautifully manicured brown steed. He was usually in such a hurry to get to a party or his latest tryst that he would flash her a smile and wave to her as he was attempting to put on his fluttering coattails.

He was rash and impetuous. He did not have the responsibilities she did nor did he want them. She would often simultaneously envy him for his freedom from protocol and from his life station and bemoan his impulsiveness and rakishly flirtatious manner. She knew her rapscallion brother would cause yet another scandal and she, the calm, level-headed one, would be left to clean it up.

Back in the now, life moved on. Unlike the past, the sensitive boy kept a place in his heart open for both his mother and his brother. He outwardly and vocally harbored great animosity for his brother as well, they’re brothers and brothers fight but work things out, right?  His mother though, that was a much, much tougher and deeper wound.

One day, his wife intuited that his mother was again sick; the cancer had returned. She told her husband but was quick to say it was only a sense. Weeks turned into months and still he did not hear anything from his mother or about her. Then, one day, his wife happened to be posting a message on her little used personal Facebook page. A post from one of her husband’s beloved cousins popped into view and stated that her aunt had passed. She did not post a name, just that her auntie was no longer in pain.  The wife’s eyes widened as if she needed to see the words more clearly. She knew immediately this was the sensitive boy’s mom who had died.

The wife contacted the unloveable boy and told him what she felt. He reached out to his beloved cousin and she opted to lie to him. She told him it was an aunt of her husband’s that died. She later told this boy that she lied at the explicit request of her dying aunt, his mom.

Two days later, when the unloveable boy was out of town, his wife read in the newspaper what she already knew was true in her heart; his mother had died. She was now forced to deliver the news that his trusted cousin had lied to him and that his mother had indeed passed away.

Later that day, the boy’s wife was blindly struck with an intuitive hit that changed her perception of his mother and brother’s behavior. Prior to this, she had been ranting and railing. She had been shaking her fist and loudly swearing at the departed. She had been crying for the hurting child inside of her husband’s chest. But this! Oh my GAWD, THIS! This information was so magnanimous, so amazing, so perception-altering that she could barely contain her excitement and wonderment.

In a world far away but closer than you think, a pact was made. Before any of them were even thoughts on the horizon, a pact was forged where the youngest son begged his older brother to help him overcome avoidance and self-worth issues. The older brother was all game. He was thrilled his little brother had asked him to help with such a monumental task. He felt honored and humbled. Then the little brother turned to his soon-to-be mother. He said to her, “If my brother fails or if I don’t learn to deal with avoidance, I need you to step in. I need you to help me overcome. Will you do this? CAN you do this for me? Please?” The mother, knowing it was her son’s spiritual growth at stake and as her heart burst with unconditional love, unhesitatingly said, “Yes, I will. You can count on me.”  Then she questioned him, “Are you sure you want me to do this?” And the little boy quickly answered with a large smile, “YES! Oh yes!”

All the parties involved were overjoyed that the sensitive boy was going to tackle avoidance and be given a chance to believe he was loveable.  They all felt as if they’d won the lottery by being able to help him accomplish this.  True to the astral pact, brother and mother (and a few others) physically and emotionally played their parts without fault. The parts everyone played were Oscar worthy. Do not doubt that they did so because his (spiritual) life was on the line. There was no room for error and no room for failure on their part. In it to win it.

This sensitive boy who, for his entire lifetime, yearned for his mother’s acceptance, approval and love now feels betrayed by his own family. Not one of them reached out to him. Not one of them told him his mother was ill. Not one of them told him she had died. He doesn’t understand why his mom hated him so much or why she didn’t want to say goodbye. He doesn’t understand the anger coming at him from his cousins or his brother. They say he treated his mother like crap all of her life and this confuses and confounds him. He treated HER like crap?

What did he do that warranted this treatment? What could he possibly have done that has him questioning whether his family will ban him from attending his own mother’s funeral? Why does his mother’s shrinking family not see he is still the sensitive little boy who just wanted his mother’s acceptance and love? Why is HE the bad guy?

It remains to be seen if the sensitive, “unloveable” boy will realize his own beauty, that he IS loveable and worthy and face/overcome his avoidance and self-worth issues.  His intuitive wife knows, for she is wise in the ways of Spirit, that there will be more (intense pain) to come if he doesn’t. And so she prays. Hard.

Chosen

He can smell the weather, sort of like a snake can detect smells with its tongue. I intuit his intuitive abilities far outreach mine. He can speak and understand, on some level, any language, any language, human, alien or animal. He is a divining rod for deceased people. He can’t stop the frequency he emits and they flock to him by the hundreds. They look like settlers from the 1800’s and they say they are there to protect him and the land.

This man, this externally average Joe is anything but ordinary. He is, I am told, the Elite of the Elite. There are about 20 of his kind in the entire World. Let me put that into perspective; out of 7.5 BILLION people, he is one of twenty.

Each time I’ve worked with him, the Land (I capitalize it as it is a proper title to these folks) is first and foremost during his sessions. “You must purify the Land” they say. Some of his cattle and dogs have died from no apparent reason. When he asked about this, I was told for him to check the water supply.  He did so and nothing was out of the ordinary. And yet, still more cattle perished.

Lights go on and off in his home, he hears noises that don’t have any obvious sources. He replaces the smoke detector batteries more often than you can say “Put nine volts on the shopping list, will ya, hon?” Items will appear or disappear. Temperature changes are a constant. He has built his newer home on land that has been in his family for centuries.

His wife is resentful of what she doesn’t understand but both his boys are aware and accepting. He is, understandably, very protective of his family. He, truly, just wants to be left alone, to be “normal” but that is not to be. He can no more stop what has been started then we can ask the sun to rise in the West. He has been Chosen but, in truth, he signed up for this.

Day and night he sees/feels them. Day and night they come, these settlers. They are building a community there, at his home. They call it “Canyon Falls.” I’m shown a vision of people peacefully and politely strolling on the wooden planked walks of their dusty astral main street.

There are Native American spirits there, as well. They hold to the outer edges of the property and are very respectful of him as they practice the “old” ways. They, I am told, are waiting for him to grant permission to perform their Spring Rite and to help sanctify the Land. I can see their fires and he states he often sees them as well. With that image, I am no longer standing in my office. I am at his farmstead, as it is in reality and as it is with an opaque overlay.

There are two powerful Braves/Warriors standing on either side of his home’s entryway. They are in full headdress, wearing war paint; their lithe bodies are tense, coiled, and alert. Their eyes are vigilant. They both take their post seriously; there is no room for failure.

A strawberry blond little girl wearing braids and a pioneer bonnet softly takes my hand. I intuitively know she is mute. I look at her beautiful, freckled face and she smiles a smile that is years older than she appears to be. She silently turns to the West, extends her other arm/hand and points towards the setting sun. I gaze at her profile which is warmed and enhanced by the orange glow. Her gentle smile reflects complete trust. She is showing me something, giving me a message, but it’s meant for him to decipher.

I sense something from a shadowed outside corner of his house. An inky black, wrinkled, leathery hand emerges. The little bonneted miss holding my hand is gone and I am floating about five feet above the dusty ground. I am not whole, but see-through, like an apparition. I watch as a charred and blackened humanoid face materializes of out the darkness. Something akin to a snarling smile flashes revealing yellowed teeth tapered to points. His two eyes are large, larger than any human I’ve ever seen, more like Dobby from Harry Potter. The sclera is a dingy, dull yellow with a black circle for the lens and pupil.

He says something to me and I think to myself, “Should I be frightened of him?” He does frighten me but I do not fear him. I sense he can’t touch me; he can’t harm me as my energy is much, much higher than his. I tell him we all have good and bad inside of us and he gets to choose what he’d like to be.

I wonder if this is one of or the one that is killing the hapless cattle and causing other negative issues. He tells me he will wait for his time, alluding to upcoming malice. Before I can respond, I hear hundreds of voices speak as one, “The People of Canyon Falls will not allow it. We will stone him.”  With that, his visage slowly retreats into the shadows.  I had this thought that the man who lives here should buy a million floodlights and illuminate his entire farmstead from here to Kingdom Come.

In a blink of an eye, I’m standing in my office again, but the People still hold my attention. They tell me it is imperative that he purify the Land, make it clean again. I ask him about organic farming and he says that’s an option. I tell him it’s not his entire acreage they want purged, but a small portion. That portion is to grow an elite crop of what appears to be wheat. I get the sense that the wheat will feed more people than all other farms combined. It’s pure somehow.

These people are here to protect him, but he feels smothered. It’s hard for him to concentrate and finish tasks and Spring planting is upon him. He has found me (with their help, he says) and has asked that I help communicate with them, quiet his mind and validate he is not going insane.

He is the Chosen and is one of twenty.


Melissa’s Note: I had this humble farmer and big brother Corey (Kyle blog) back to back. I slept until 11:30 the day after our sessions. Those dead people really know how to parrrtayyyy.

Kyle

When Corey tried to schedule a session, I didn’t have any openings until the end of June but I had a suspicion I’d get a cancellation. Sure enough, the next day I had an opening for mid-May and then within a few more days, I had another for the following week. Evidently “someone” had pulled some powerful strings as Corey was able to see me the week after his initial phone call. That’s virtually unheard of.

Corey tells me his brother, Kyle, has been appearing in his dreams and most recently, at the foot of his bed. Kyle said, “You’ve got to call her.” Corey replied he’d do it when he was ready. Kyle, in a voice that brooked no discussion said, “Now” and so Corey did. He laughs and says when Kyle used to say “jump” he would respond, “What boots do you want me to wear?”

Corey’s younger and only brother died in a tragic auto accident over two years ago as he was just beginning his adult life. He was going to college, had a girlfriend and wanted to farm the land. He was just 20 years old when he left us.

Before Corey can verbally ask Kyle says, “There was no pain.” Corey’s eyes widen and Kyle says he was unconscious once his head hit the ground. As he begins to tell me what happened, I feel a blinding headache and then all sensation from my neck down is gone. I feel paralyzed. Kyle validates my empathic feelings by telling me he remembers a sudden bad headache and then there was no feeling after that. He said he wasn’t “there” when the weight of the vehicle crushed his spine.

Corey begins to ask more questions about the accident but Kyle has had enough. He gets a bit testy and says, “No more! I’m done answering questions about my death. Move ON!” This elicits a smile from his older brother who responds, “Typical Kyle.”

Corey was a flight paramedic but left that job for something emotionally safer after Kyle’s death. He tells me he did it because he wanted to be closer to his parents. Kyle snarls and I relay, “You fucking pussy.” And then to me he vehemently says, “Don’t let him by with his lying bullshit.”

The reality is Corey developed PTSD after Kyle’s accident and he started to doubt his own ability to help others. He also admits he feels dead inside. Kyle, in no uncertain terms, is NOT happy about Corey’s decision to hide and to stop living.

Corey asks Kyle, “What is it I’m supposed to do?!” and Kyle answers, “Follow your passion, what’s in your heart and head, man?” And then I’m shown an image of a premature, tiny baby. I ask Corey about this and he makes a grimacing face and chokingly says he’s afraid of babies.

I continue to see images of him holding wailing, distressed babies and them calming instantly because of his energy. I hear he is maternal and has an innate gift of knowing what needs to be done. He says he has no interest in working with babies. I tell him I may have uncovered a seed for him but it’s up to him to see if it will grow.

Kyle tells me a name, “Shep.” It’s the same name I’ve heard for all three of his family members. I thought it was a dog but Corey tells me there’s a doctor – a PEDIATRIC doctor – he used to work with by that name. Hummmm…

Kyle moves on and teasingly confides in me that he hasn’t forgiven his brother for pushing him off the roof. He admits to totally pranking his older brother by having books tip over, the garage door open and repeatedly knocking on walls.  Corey says with a smile, “I KNEW it!” and then good naturedly admits yelling at Kyle to “knock it the fuck off.”

This is brother stuff. Teasing, bugging, irritating and pushing buttons but the comradery and love between these two hasn’t dissipated one ounce because one of them has changed appearances. Kyle compassionately says, “Tell my brother I love him, I respect him and I’m proud of him. Tell him he was the best brother I could have hoped for. Tell him to keep going and to get in the game. Tell him to start living.”

Kyle tells me that there is no anger where he is and so for us to keep housing anger is just bullshit.  I’ve been told this by angels, but hearing Kyle say it, in the manner in which he SAID it, makes me smile. Corey admits he is still working through some anger. Kyle then says, “Forgive” and smiles while he jokingly says his name should be, “Friggin’ Kyle Forgiveness.” He then dramatically raises his arms out to his sides and up over his head while theatrically breaking into the song, “Don’t Cry For Me Argentina.”  Corey looks incredulous, cracks a smile and says he JUST watched that movie. Of course you did, Corey.  Uh huh.

Kyle, now switching gears and becoming very earnest says, “Tell him I love him. Again. Tell him again. It’s important he hears it.”

As I am finishing his brother’s session, Kyle reveals to me why he had to leave this earth. He softly and quietly whispers there was a baby who needed him. He says he always wanted children. My eyes widen and I sense that this baby was worthy of giving his own life for. What I felt was the unfailing and unquestionable love of a parent who unselfishly and unhesitatingly gives their own life for their child’s. Kyle didn’t even question it when he was Called; he just folded his cards and left.

Kyle is clearly just as alive in death as he was in life. He is funny, quick tempered and a prankster. He calls me a “cool chick” and tells me he wants to hang out with me even when his family isn’t around. His energy is big and he easily fills my head, overriding anything or anyone that wants to appear or talk. As Corey said, the party begins when Kyle arrives. Yes, as in life, as in death. Kyle is, again, proof positive that life doesn’t end just because we die.


About 2 weeks after I published this blog, Kyle started telling me to tell Corey, “You’re picking up what I’m LAYING DOWN.”  I poo-poo’d Kyle as I don’t like to do my Work outside of session.  This morning Kyle had enough of me saying no so I text Corey.  Here was Corey’s response:

“Yesterday I had an ambulance call for a baby having a seizure. When I got there, the baby was not breathing and unresponsive. I was able to get the baby back and awake.

When we got to the ER, he was snuggled up in my arms. He didn’t like the nurses and just screamed and screamed when I gave him to them. I then picked him up off the ER bed and he immediately stopped crying and laid in my arms….

Before bed last night I was thinking of that call and it came to me what you said about me calming a crying baby. I called my mom and said, ‘Holy shit! It happened!’ Just unbelievable.”

So now it makes perrrrfect sense why Kyle was being such a Kyle and wanting me to tell his brother exactly that.

 

Kyle has appeared many times in both his mother and his brother’s sessions. He most recently became very agitated towards his mom for “not moving on” and made no bones about it. He is often in my personal life and I welcome his appearances. If you’d like to read about how he helped me with a personal issue, read “Sober.

Channeled Message 4.10.17

We urge you to be patient with yourselves as you are all a work in progress. There is not one of you, NOT ONE OF YOU, who has it “all together” or thinks they are complete. Each and every one of you yearns for something, a destination maybe, perhaps a mode, ethic or belief. Either way, you are all reaching and growing, even if you feel hobbled. You are all doing most excellent.

This journey has been arduous but it is almost over. When, you ask? We cannot tell you that for each journey has its own timeline. Some of you will be past a crucial/pivotal point by the end of June, others will just start on their journey.  (Melissa’s Note: I am being shown a scene similar to this image. There is an over-all feeling of excitement and hustle/bustle. The ones leaving the train are wiser, older and are smiling because they “made it.” The ones entering the train are nervous and focused; they are ready to begin their journey and have their “game faces” on.)

We wish to remind you that we are always beside you, you are never alone. Not one step or mis-step, not one blink of an eye goes by without someone by your side. Sometimes our angels are in human form. You see them, you trust them and you know who they are. Sometimes our angels are in angelic form, they fly above you keeping a watchful eye on your future.

The old is now dead, officially. You have all felt it. Those who were unwilling or unable to make the transition have left the Earth. They wished for peace and they were granted a reprieve. This does not make them weak, never think that, it makes them powerful as they will continue their journey from above. Others have stayed even though they had serious concerns and still others don’t know what’s ahead of them. We tell you it is all good, it is all right, and it is as it should be.

Go in peace. Remember your fellow man is no different than you despite outside appearances. We all bleed, we all cry, we all feel anger and injustice and we all feel love. THAT should be the bonding factor (love), not the negative, denser emotions that are more easily had; more easily come by.

Try a different path. You might like (Melissa’s Note: I typed “light”) where you are headed. Is what you are doing working now? Try it, you may like it. “