My Mystic Journey, Part 1

So for lack of a better term, I met Spirit when I was six.  I was resigned and accepting when I was forced to return to my body, and I was also pissed as hell.  It was confusing, because how could something that loving, that peaceful, that all-encompassing, so wise, kind and gentle send me back to a life of certain hell?  There had to be a reason.  And not only was I going to find out what it was, I was going to seek out Spirit and find a way to return.

From ages six to around twelve, I picked up some terms.  People spoke of God, so I assumed that is what I bore witness to.  Somewhere I learned about a man named Jesus who lived a very long time ago, and was considered the son of God.  Though I was sent back to live my life, my connection with God remained strong, and my faith was devout, unshakable.  No matter what happened to me, no matter what my parents did to me, I knew this was only my body they were hurting.  My soul was not meant for them to have.  I picked up rituals harbored deep within the ancient knowledge of my soul and made sites in the woods where I went to pray, to meditate, to be one with God.  It was my salvation from my parents.  I felt Angels with me at all times, shrouding me from the evils my body endured.  Somewhere, I picked up a little pocket size New Testament Bible and I read it in my little church.  I had a tin box where I kept my sacraments and I buried it in the fall so it would be there for me when I returned. 

The soul endures forever, for it carries with it a greater knowledge, a unity with the universe.  The soul knows all that ever was, and what it still needs to grow strong, and become that which is wise, eternal and guiding.  The body of a human is not so enduring, it is fragile.  If the body is that of a child, it can be broken and damaged by the evil surrounding it and the protection of Angels could only reassure my faith, and ensure there would be people in my life to help me bear the life I had to live.  The mind and heart of a child is more fragile, still.  As a human child, I did what I had to do to survive, and buried in denial what my family was doing to me.  It hid in my mind, but lurked in the shadows, never really very far away.  It lurked, waiting for the day when I was ready to see the truth. 

I believe I could have gone either way.  I had many of the traits and history to nurture a psychopath.  I was devoid of emotion.  I was disconnected from life, from humans.  I did not accept responsibility for wrongs I did.  I grew up reading with great fascination true crime stories.  I read every book the library had, read every gruesome detail.  I often wondered what it would be like to kill someone.  What would they be thinking in their final moments?  Would there be fear?  Would there be shock, disbelief?  I looked everywhere for crime scene photographs and they did not repel me.  I was enthralled.  I never once considered what I might feel in the taking of a life because I no longer identified emotions.  I killed small animals just to see what was inside of them, without regard for their life.  I inflicted suffering upon kittens, never understanding the gravity of my actions.  One of my favorite pastimes was stomping frogs so I could see them splat.  Yet, somewhere hidden deep inside this broken and damaged child, lived the little girl who possessed qualities which were good, loving and kind.  She was the deepest secret I had.  More than that, Angels had sent key people in my life to ensure that hidden child remained alive and well, waiting only for the time when she could emerge.  I saw glimpses of her waiting in the shadows of my mind now and again, but it was like an old faded memory just out of my reach.  In many ways I was a stranger even to myself.

Though I did not remember that girl, nor the experiences she was hiding from, I did remember meeting “God.”  I remembered in vivid detail what I saw, how I felt, the love, the complete and total unconditional acceptance.  This is what kept me from turning into the monster nightmares are made of.  I was searching for God, because though I felt deeply connected, the feelings were at a great distance, not like I felt when in the presence of God.  I wanted to go back, and I knew the intentional infliction of pain upon others would prevent me from reuniting.  I didn’t consider the differences between right and wrong.  I only knew the intentional infliction of pain to another living creature would prevent me from returning.  It had nothing whatsoever to do with ethics or morals. 

From around age twelve to sixteen, I went to a Quaker church where I learned a more traditional Christian theology.  Though I learned quite a bit about Christianity, the teachings of the church left me in chaos.  Some of the sermons did not match the God I knew and felt so strongly.  Even so, I kept an open mind.  I went to The Barberton Friends Church because that was what was available to me.  There came a time when I couldn’t attend church anymore, though.  I was becoming increasingly lonely and depressed.  My dad would give me a couple of dollars every Sunday to put into the tithing plate, but too much of what I had seen in church was in conflict with what I knew as truth.  They described an angry and vengeful God, with threats of hell if you did not ascribe to the teachings in the bible.  I still remained faithful in my belief, but I couldn’t swallow the God I was being taught.

Sunday morning became the only time I felt peace, but it wasn’t in the church I found it.  Magic City Bowling Lanes was open on Sunday mornings and it was usually pretty quiet.  I started to spend my Sunday mornings there, ordering a hamburger, coke and fries with the tithing money.  I was all alone.  I had stopped going to my beloved farm with my dad since my only purpose was to clean the farm house and do the gardening while my brothers got to play.  Those couple hours every Sunday in the bowling alley was the only place I felt safe.  By the time I was sixteen, my friend Nina had drifted apart from me because her father married her off to someone and she became pregnant soon after.  Suddenly, we were more like strangers because we had nothing in common anymore.  Though I had no memory of the sexual abuse, I still lived in constant fear of being beaten by my father. 

I had no friends even though I was in band.  I had no social skills, and with the gaps in my memory, I could not relate to anyone.  People I should know I had no memory of interacting with.  Because I skipped over the third grade, I was younger than my peers, adding to my inability to have friends.  I was very immature, even for my age.   I remember having a crush on a classmate.  We even kind of dated a couple of times, but one day in school he was talking to me about something we had done together.  I had no memory of it.  He saw the look of confusion and fear on my face, and I tried to cover, but I wasn’t able to offer any reasonable explanation. I remember he became quite agitated, refusing to believe I didn’t remember a thing.   Out of the blue I said he must have gone out with my twin sister.  It was an outrageous lie, but I was desperate to appease him.  I liked him and didn’t want him to break up with me.  He saw through the lie right away.  He called me a liar because he didn’t understand how I truly had no memory of our date.  After I tried to cover with my imaginary twin sister, he had enough.  He stormed away from me saying I was sick and twisted.  I quit even trying to have friends after that.  I was a very lonely young girl. 

Without my places at the farm to connect with my spirit, and not finding God in church, I became desolate.  I started skipping school and my grades fell.  The only real fun I had was when I met my mother at the local Eagles club.  Every once in a while, someone served me alcohol, and my mother’s new husband, Jim, would give me money to play the jukebox and slot machines.  I was starved for company and attention, so even the icky men I flirted with became a welcome reprieve from the endless loneliness I lived.  Finally, my mother and I bonded and spent time with each other.  We drank together at the bar and she approved of my flirtations with the much older men who hung out there.  I no longer felt connected with God, and the memory of my encounter a decade ago was fading into the past.  I was lost. 

The depression, anxiety and ADHD symptoms were becoming increasingly difficult to escape from.  I was so filled with anxiety I started breaking out in hives all over my body.  The doctor told my parents I was very anxious and I’m sure he had a talk with them about whatever else he saw.  I was put on Ativan to help with the anxiety, Benadryl to help with the hives and the doctor told my parents they needed to reduce the stress I was under.  My parents thought the doctor was a quack.  After all, what did I have to be anxious about?  They concluded I broke out in hives on purpose.  I was punished for making them take me to the doctor.  My mother yelled and berated me for it, and my father grounded me.  I went into my bedroom and took a bunch of the Benadryl and Ativan.  I was attempting suicide. 

I woke up three days later soaked in my own urine, but alive.  My mind felt cloudy and I was disoriented, but I knew I was alive and filthy.  I came out of the bedroom and my father was a few feet away.  He glared at me and said it’s about time you got up.  Then he stormed out of the house and went to the bar next door, where he spent most of his time.  I felt the same way then as I did when I was six years old and forced back into my body.  I was despondent and helpless.  I tried to kill myself and no one noticed.  I was soaked in my own urine, and I guess no one checked on me.  Three days I was unconscious in my bed, lying in my own waste, and not one person thought I was in trouble.  I didn’t attempt suicide for attention, I truly wanted to die.  I don’t know what surprised me more, though.  Waking up alive when I should have been dead, or the realization not one person cared if I lived or died. 

The Ativan helped the anxiety, but did nothing for the depression.  I was still breaking out in hives frequently and getting punished every time I did.  The hives were so bad the Benadryl wasn’t always effective, so I had to go to the doctor to get shots to reduce the swelling.  I was covered in them.  Each time it happened, I was punished again.  I soon found a way to control the anxiety by controlling my intake of food.  Anorexia was not a common diagnosis yet, but I simply quit eating.  Denying my body food was the only power I had, and the best coping mechanism I had for controlling the anxiety.  The less I ate, the less I broke out in hives.  I would faint every now and then, but no one seemed to notice I quit eating and attributed the fainting spells to a dramatic attention seeking ploy.  When I fainted, no one responded, and I eventually came back around. 

One night at the bar, they had a live band.  My future husband played the bass.  The band sucked, but the bass guitarist paid me a lot of attention.  He was 21 and I had just turned 16.  The story of my marriage is for another time, but we became engaged a few days before my seventeenth birthday.  We were married a few months after I turned eighteen and I was pregnant three months after that.  I was thrilled; even though it was becoming clear my husband was not the nice guy I thought he was.  He never laid a hand on me before we were married.  In fact, before we were married I can’t remember him ever saying a harsh word to me.  The world revolved around me and I thought I found a wonderful and decent guy who would rescue me from my life.  The minute the marriage certificate was legal, things started to change. 

The anorexia was becoming worse and I spent more time sick than I was well.  When I got pregnant, I lost 20 pounds by the fifth month and my baby was in serious danger.  No one really knew what anorexia was at the time, but in order to save the baby I had to be hospitalized.  I had IV’s strapped the both arms, and my food was carefully monitored.  I didn’t know what I was doing was anorexia, by this time I had been doing it for so long I had no desire to eat.  However, I wanted this baby more than I wanted control over my food, so I did the best I could.  I tried to eat.  It wasn’t easy, but the situation was grave.  The baby wasn’t growing and my health was rapidly declining.  We were dying. 

It was then I turned back to the God I had given up on.  I was angry at the life he sent me back to, but now I was bringing a life into the world and I desperately wanted this child to be healthy.  Nothing else in my life brought me any joy, but the prospect of this baby brought meaning and purpose back into my life.  I turned back to my faith and dedicated myself to doing whatever I needed to do to bring a healthy baby in this world.  Somehow, I was able to break the anorexia long enough to save my child.  I gave birth to a healthy baby girl four months later by Caesarian section and for a while, I was happy and showered my baby with more love than I had ever received in my entire life.  She was beautiful and perfect.  My prayers for her life were answered.  I vowed she would never suffer as I had, and she would know her mother loved her more than life itself.