in shock

0 Biographie,personal  |   May 26, 2015  |     1893

today I’m in shock. Shavasti had described holes in my auric field, saying I should not do ayauasca or similar (natural) drugs. He thought the holes were caused by the period in my life where I did a lot of drugs. They were caused by the abuse, and torture, in the drunkeness state at a young age; too young to understand what being drunk means, too young to be exposed to death, too young to be tortured, too young to be left with a few sexually frustrated men, and too young to be abandoned by both my parents; whom implicitely gave them permission to do whatever the fuck they wanted to me.

There is this space in me where the 30 or so “younger me’s” are stored, the ones that deal with the near death experiences, the drowning and the loosing of consciousness (so I don’t have to). They keep, contain the pain, so I don’t have to feel the entirety of it each moment of my life. That space is like a museum, an immense room with dark floors where the main exhibition is a composition of “near death me”s, spread out over a vast area. Each “younger me” is stored in a standing glass chamber, illuminated, sterile, filled with water. The whole body is there, floating in water, in a timeless state of death, naked, with marks of violence; they are suspended as if in a coma. No movement, no breathing. They have varying ages, 2, 3, 5, 6 up to 12 years old. They are dead, or so they think, they are drowned to death, or so they think. Their eyes are open, they stare at the floor; if you walk by you might get one to look up. They were drunk, and abused and beaten and each one holds that experience inside so I can go on living.

About a year ago this space wasn’t so organized, they were floating around and unknowingly hit each other from time to time (unaware that others existed, or that they did survive their experience), and that caused great eruptions of PTSD; crisis moments where I felt so bad I wanted to be admitted to the nearest psychiatric ward. With therapy, and with the understanding of what actually happened to me, and who was involved I managed to organize the space, create order and isolate them so they don’t have so much uncontrolled influence over my life. They still do, but it is more subtle.

Each “near death me” needs love, each needs to be touched, or to be held, as Shavasti said. Today one of them broke out, and is wandering freely. I feel it; I am in shock, trembling inside, my entire world is trembling. I find comfort in sensual experiences, sex, I find comfort in doing reiki to my head. I wish I could have sex with 2-3 girls right now, for hours, and completely indulge in it; it would cure parts of the wound. When I was abused they infused my being with so much manly, aggressive, heavy, repressed and distorted sexual violence, and there were often a few men at once abusing me; that the cure is a similar dosage of opposite energy.. of womanly sensitive, sensual, delightful, caring and ecstatic sexual energy. I have been told that making love with me is an out of this world experience, so if you so wish to be lit up by passion and do good at the same time, get in touch with me; and bring girlfriends to the party. I last for hours; I will outlast you.

I also wish somebody would go to work for me so I could rest.

But that’s not going to happen, probably not. What will happen is I will go work, and repress this one once again because I have no way to deal with it. Women aren’t able to enjoy sex due to their education, sexuality is either glamorized (through porn) or frowned upon if it isn’t done in the right context. And women want relationships; while the world wants me to make money so I can pay for what I have, and I am insecure enough so that I don’t go out full blown and ask for what would make me feel good.

The intensity of this feeling is enough to shake your world, turn it upside down and shatter every ideology, concept, belief you have; leaving your mind completely bare, naked, exposed to the elements with no protection. I am accustomed to it; this is my every day reality.

To say that my father WATCHED while this was HAPPENNING TO ME. That he BROUGHT ME to some of these events knowingly. I cannot grasp. I sure as hell would stick a baseball bat up his ass, dipped in alcohol, an old wooden baseball bat, or even better a softball bat (they are much bigger), on which he’d get splinters aplenty around his anus. Just so he’d get a small taste of the damage he caused because he is so oblivious to it; he makes me feel guilty for it every chance has had. fucker.



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