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kaboom my guts

It’s about a guy trying to hold it together while it all falls apart.

Truer words were never spoken. There is a panic. There is a desperation. Remember the scene in Forest Gump where Bubba is sitting there after being shot and he is trying to put his guts back in? Bubba does this amazing job of portraying the madness. He focuses on picking up his spilt entrails instead of the inevitable fact that he is totally screwed. His life is completely over, a moot subtext, a lost cause and he is trying to do the scoop and run with his alimentary canal.

I have felt that odd necessary sense of denial. IT is like the truth eludes you. It feels like at that very moment you have to believe in a unicorn because the horse is in the desert with no name. There is a scene in my life when I was shot. It was self inflicted, and more emotional then physical. I had a moment in time that I was holding all of my life in my hands. I was holding my career, my business, my wife, my kids, all of it, in my hands. I knew it was no longer part of me, but all I could do was to ask people to help me shove it back in. I knew in an instant that the horse that was wondering the desert was me. I knew I wouldn’t ever find my way back home and I had no idea how to move through the desert.

I asked many people. I begged for solution. I went to church, spiritual retreat, AA, talked to the guru, no one knew. I wondered and tried to bury myself in the sand. I remember the pain of losing my daughters. I can feel it anytime. It is devastating and humiliating. I want to fix it, I want to go back. I have this image of trying to put the pin back in the grenade.

It took my a long time to take any steps at all. I stood and peered into the distance in every direction. All I could see was absence. I couldn’t see anything.  I have friends that talk about the darkness. To me, it was blinding light. The heat was unbearable.

It has been years since that. I took cautious steps. I stumbled, bumbled, ran, walked, tripped, fell and got back up again to do it all over. Every once in awhile I get a reprieve. I get a text from my daughters. It is a moment of bliss as I trudge in the heat. Or I will get a kind response to an email, a friend reaches out. There are moments. Sometimes they are uplifting, sometimes remind me of the pain. However, I wouldn’t  ever not receive them. It is a blessing. Its a glimpse of the unicorn and I believe it.

 
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Posted by on May 14, 2017 in children, journey

 

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memory I miss you. As I say it, a multitude of people run through my head. I can see faces frozen from moments in time that our souls touched. I feel the emotions of that moment for an instant. I can latch onto them, but it feels like grabbing a cloud. Trying to hold them makes me feel their absence even more. The people that trapse through my memory are in tiers. The first round are those I miss more acutely. I see my kids. I remember the moments of tension and separation. I see moments in time of intense love. I feel the love despite the hostility. I see the love in good times and bad. I can feel it. I long for it, and I mourn its loss. I try and grasp it and I grasp at the giggle, like trying to hold color. I see lost loves. There are distant ones and recent ones. I can feel the connections and the laughter. I can feel it all over again and I hear the voice that explains why we couldn’t stay together. The soft echo of the inner critic whispers that I will never find a lasting love. I hope it isn’t true, but part of me is resigned to capturing the fleeting moments. I see old friends. Friends that stayed, friends that left. I see a journey of friends, some for a reason, some for a season, and a few for a lifetime. I long for those moments of kindred spirit. I don’t know how to make friends like that anymore. When I was a kid, you just asked if you could play whatever game and suddenly you had a new best friend. I tried that a few times as an adult. “Hey, I see you are doing that thing you do, want to be friends?” Heck, there are internet groups that try and foster that very thing. Meetup groups all over the world beckon the adult to make friends based solely on a common activity. I’ve joined several and soon I will go to an event, perhaps. The adventure after divorce is a fascinating one. I spent a long time being deliberately single. I heard the advice that I needed to like myself. I declared I was dating myself for a while and set out to understand and enjoy myself. It worked pretty well. I could be alone without being lonely, for the most part. I came close to living with a few women. I freaked out. I liked my routine. I wanted to be with someone and I wanted to not be with someone. I didn’t know how to be with someone and not completely sacrifice and forget who I was. I wanted to not stagnate again. I wanted to continue to grow and thrive in the newness of each day. I wanted to rejoice at this new day. I just don’t know how to do that. I’ve never had it. Heck, I’ve never seen it. How do you capture a Unicorn? I miss true relationship and I’ve never had it.

 
Comments Off on memory I miss you. As I say it, a multitude of people run through my head. I can see faces frozen from moments in time that our souls touched. I feel the emotions of that moment for an instant. I can latch onto them, but it feels like grabbing a cloud. Trying to hold them makes me feel their absence even more. The people that trapse through my memory are in tiers. The first round are those I miss more acutely. I see my kids. I remember the moments of tension and separation. I see moments in time of intense love. I feel the love despite the hostility. I see the love in good times and bad. I can feel it. I long for it, and I mourn its loss. I try and grasp it and I grasp at the giggle, like trying to hold color. I see lost loves. There are distant ones and recent ones. I can feel the connections and the laughter. I can feel it all over again and I hear the voice that explains why we couldn’t stay together. The soft echo of the inner critic whispers that I will never find a lasting love. I hope it isn’t true, but part of me is resigned to capturing the fleeting moments. I see old friends. Friends that stayed, friends that left. I see a journey of friends, some for a reason, some for a season, and a few for a lifetime. I long for those moments of kindred spirit. I don’t know how to make friends like that anymore. When I was a kid, you just asked if you could play whatever game and suddenly you had a new best friend. I tried that a few times as an adult. “Hey, I see you are doing that thing you do, want to be friends?” Heck, there are internet groups that try and foster that very thing. Meetup groups all over the world beckon the adult to make friends based solely on a common activity. I’ve joined several and soon I will go to an event, perhaps. The adventure after divorce is a fascinating one. I spent a long time being deliberately single. I heard the advice that I needed to like myself. I declared I was dating myself for a while and set out to understand and enjoy myself. It worked pretty well. I could be alone without being lonely, for the most part. I came close to living with a few women. I freaked out. I liked my routine. I wanted to be with someone and I wanted to not be with someone. I didn’t know how to be with someone and not completely sacrifice and forget who I was. I wanted to not stagnate again. I wanted to continue to grow and thrive in the newness of each day. I wanted to rejoice at this new day. I just don’t know how to do that. I’ve never had it. Heck, I’ve never seen it. How do you capture a Unicorn? I miss true relationship and I’ve never had it.

Posted by on April 27, 2017 in divorce, journey, Uncategorized

 

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50

I’m 50.

That is so odd to say. I frankly never thought I’d ever be 50. When my older brother turned 35, he said that was the age he thought of as old. I didn’t have a number chosen at the time, but 50 feels very old.

I’ve been sober 10 years. I have 2 kids under 20. I was married for 20 years and divorced for 4 years now. I have worn glasses for 32 years. I have friends that I have known for 35 years or more. I have been mountain biking for 28 years. I have lived in 14 different places, 10 in the last 5 years. I drink 3 or 4 cups of coffee a day.

I have been very pensive about this birthday. That isn’t really because of the number, but rather the circumstances of my life right now. I am 50, sure. But I am single. I have seen my kids sparingly over the last several years (not by my choice). I have moved, yet again, and started a new job, yet again. I don’t know many people here and am feeling pretty lonely as of late. I stumbled pretty hard 5 years ago. I was out of work, out of the house, and beat up pretty bad. I have clamored back to a stand over and over again. I have a job. I have a little cash in my pocket. I have a roof over my head and food in the fridge. Don’t get me wrong, I am so very grateful for what I do have. I just miss being part of a partnership. That ended for my 15 years ago or so. I haven’t lived in a partnership, a true dynamic relationship. Now is that because I don’t know how or it doesn’t exist? I read books and listen to experts talk and they seem to think it exists. If it doesn’t, what a cruel trick to play.

Anyways, I am alone and isolated. I am 50. I feel sad, but not because of the number.

What I do have is 10+ years of sobriety, despite the stumblings. I have Hope despite the darkness. I have had to learn to like myself and I can be alone most of the time without being lonely. I have perseverance. I trust myself now. I know that I will get back up. I know that I can survive and be content with next to nothing. I know that I can climb back up. I know that when Lady Luck grinds her heel into my chest as I lay floundering on my back, I will rise again. I know that when I am beaten and tormented I will heal. I know that I have the capacity to love unconditionally in the face of contempt and despise. I know that I crave dynamic relationship and don’t have to settle.

I am 50 and have just begun to grow, yet again

 
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Posted by on April 26, 2017 in divorce, journey, Uncategorized

 

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fascinated

It has been 5 years. 5 years since I consented to leave my house and wife. 5 years since I have had a thriving relationship with my daughters. 5 years of seeing the faces of former friends and heard the clicks of tongues. 5 years since the goal to humiliate and decimate me was paramount. 5 years since I heard the thud of hitting rock bottom.

It has been 5 years since I planted a new seed. It has been 5 years since I had to be an adult and learn to take care of myself. 5 years since I began to learn how to like myself. 5 years of learning to get back up after being knocked down. 5 years since I was given the gift of seeing who around me was really a friend. 5 years since I hit my rock bottom and bounced.

I cant believe it has been that long. It seems like such a short time ago that I was desperate to be liked. It was a short time ago that I craved intimacy on any level. It was a short time ago that I needed someone else to state my worth before I could see it.

I cant believe it has been so long. It seems like the pain should be over by now. It seems like my journey since then has been a million miles. It feels as though I have been in a sprint for the entire time. I scramble and collect. I trudge. I regroup. I stand firm and I waiver. I still hear the echoes of the clucking tongues. I feel the angst from my estranged children. I feel the thud of rock bottom.

I will trudge another day.

 
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Posted by on April 21, 2017 in journey, life

 

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reverberation

reverberation

What cuts your soul?

It seems like the death of a soul is apparent. Suddenly, there is no life. The will is moot. The shoulder slump as if the weight of living is overbearing. There is no chance of continuing on the same path. Movement has stopped. Direction is absent. The soul is dead. Its very apparent when you see it when someone has crashed down. The rock bottom reverberates with excitement as it claims another soul Bewildered and lost, the soulless corpse tries to gather up the misused and recently departed soul as if they were guts spilled in the savages of war. The soul will pretend to return and the corpse will walk again, aimless and lost. The darkness engulfs the being. They become a black hole of existence. A vacuum of life force consumes them and many who get around them. The silence is deafening. They search for giving souls, the extreme light. They devour the light until it cant be repleated, clamoring for more. The rock bottom reverberates some more.

It isn’t the desolate who hold a monopoly on lost souls and rock bottoms. The more adept at living without a soul are the individuals who have more to lose. The successful, rich, famous, beautiful people are much more likely to scoop up the lost and departed soul and try and run.  They scramble and grab whatever is near to fill the whole left. They stuff money and popularity into the vacuous inner self like packing peanuts. The density of the soul is tainted by the empty offering. The Soulless mill around life accumulating more packing peanuts to fill an ever empty soul. They orchestrate large health care deals and billion dollar business deals to fill the dead space. It leeches the light from others around them, gathering souls for the reverberating bottom. Sooner or later, to exist in a world of vacuums, one either absorbed or escapes.

But what cuts the soul?  Death or absence can be easier to see, but what of the injured? What of the ones who ae losing parts of their soul in a long battle to survive and fight the absorption? We try all kinds of things to fight it, we get angry, we get drunk, we get depressed, we isolate. IT becomes paranoia, loneliness, addiction. We have lost the will to fight. We have lost the ability. The soul takes a beating. The soul is cut and bleeding. It cries out. It cries when love ones are hurt and draining. It screams at injustice and pain. It bellows as it hears, feels, sees the receding of the light. The soul fills its own space, but the life warrior is tired. “He walks around like Charlie Brown, full of Hope, eyes to the ground.” . If the bleeding isn’t addressed, the wounds dressed, the soul will weaken. Through the wounds, the soul is vulnerable and drawn out by the vacuums around it. The soul needs nurtured. The soul needs rest. The soul needs fed. The soul needs remembered. The soul needs LOVE.

 
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Posted by on March 27, 2017 in journey, life

 

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my daughters, I love you

I stood on the mountain top again. I climbed to the top of the world and looked around a bit. The air is brisk and thin up here. There is a bitter wind that seems to leap frog up my spine. The view is breathtaking, but I muse that there isn’t much breath to be taking at this moment. I have already spent the time holding up my fists like a Rocky statue. I have yelled to hear the echo reminding me I am alive and alone. I sit in the crossed leg position and ponder life. I feel like the guru that is rumored to be at the top of the mountain. I sit and consider. I am not considering anything in particular, just musing. I am alive, alone, and have a leaped frog spine as I sit on the mountain top at the top of the world.

I have laughed and celebrated. Suddenly, I feel myself begin to weep. I am not sure where it is coming from and I know this is not a good oxygen choice. I can’t stop. I feel the pain of my daughters. I can feel their hurts and hearts. It screeches like a carrion bird, tearing at my soul. I want to fix it and to protect them, despite how they hold me away. I weep, my heart weeps, my soul weeps. If I had a guitar, it would gently be weeping as well.

I stop weeping and feel emotions from loved ones and loved ones lost creeping up my spine to be leap frogged by the wind. The emotions are bitter and run the gambit. They are foreign only in they aren’t mine. I have had similar feelings, but felt them as I feel them. Now I see these like the recognition of a childhood school mate decades later, familiar and foreign all at once. I am annoyed and embarrassed that I cant screen these out like I usually can. The thin air, the time alone, the wind chill has exhausted my defense and the emotions slither in. I’ve felt them before from these same sources. To be confronted with them again is painful. It is also a relief. It is a reminder I am alive, I am open, I am connected. More importantly, it reminds me that I love.

 
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Posted by on January 26, 2017 in children, life, Uncategorized

 

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ghosts

I’m sitting here alone in a much too big house, starting yet another year, watching the snow fall on a foreign and unfamiliar place. Ive done this a lot over the last few years. Nothing has been familiar or trustworthy. I have tried to find a solid to hold onto. I find myself grasping air, ghosts, at the best, liquid. When particularly afraid, I try to hold on tighter, which just makes me tired and more desperate. Ive been chasing ghosts, spectors, illusions, dreams, and lies.

It started a long time ago. I have always wanted the dream. I wanted to be happily married. I wanted to be popular, successful, brilliant, and tall. I led a façade life. IT was play acting. I was a good actor, well good enough to believe my own performance. I thought that was me. I pretended I was popular, successful, even brilliant. I never did get to be tall. As the turmoil of not being who I really was began to rip me apart, I ran. I was in full flight from reality. I hid. The separation of who I was grew from the truth. I chased the illusion of becoming what I wanted to be. I believed I could be what others wanted me to be. I kept running. I kept grasping. The wind ran through my fingers as I sank more and more into despair. The ghosts haunted me. They teased me. The pointed out how I failed. They showed me who I really was. Over 10 years ago, God spoke to me in a church basement through a group of people that also ran to ghosts. HE told me, “Find me or die.” He said I had a choice to keep moving away, or to stop and change directions. I have tried. I wanted life. I wanted to be whole. I wanted to be a real little boy. I learned. I clamored. I sought. I keep trying. But it feels lie chasing ghosts again. I feel the presence of the Spirit. I can see His hands, feel His love. When I try to hold it, it vanishes.

Since the original message, I chased several ghosts. I tried to chase the ghost of love. I asked for a time to heal my family. I sought real connection I was rejected and tried to seek heart through different ways. IT failed. The host turned on me, biting and hacking. IT was nasty. IT reminded me of the scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark, when they open the Ark and the beautiful angel turns into a ugly spector. It kept getting worse. My screams and pain only fueled the vengence. The venom, the hate would leak from my wounds. I would lose my life, my kids, my illusions. I would be erased. I held onto the ghost of love, hoping that the love of the kids would outweigh the hate and hurt. It didn’t. I keep sharing my heart. I keep putting the whisper in the wind. I speak love. I speak connection. I speak truth and solid. MY wind is not as strong or present at this point. It aches.

I chase the illusion of success. I have struggled to rebuild a life and a career. I make decisions that I think are the right ones. It all seems to fall in line and then crumble. The illusion is maddening. It taunts me that the success of being who I am is not as important as what I do. I know it to be a lie, however it would be easier to give in to the lie. It would be easy to surrender to the false self again. Chasing the ghosts has worn me out.

I search for the ghost of love. I panic when it eludes me. I open myself to its wind and am met with cold and heartless breezes. The breeze hurt, it leave icicles on my ribs, shielding my heart from the warmth. I close myself again, deciding to not open up again, only to find myself aching once again. The world is so worried about being hurt, we cant open, we can no longer love without fear. Again, I am confronted by the same condition, “Find God or die.” I can fight for that connection to God’s Spirit or die, existing for chasing ghosts. The same ghosts that my heart and mind crave, desire, ache for.

I’m sitting in a foreign land, watching the snow fall, covering the world in ghosts. I’m afraid.

 
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Posted by on January 1, 2017 in divorce, journey, life

 

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had a great fall

had a great fall

Well Poop, I am Humpty Dumpty.

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I was trying to figure out which Fairy Tale was most like my life. I really dont know why I was trying to figure this out, but it seemed to be the right thing to do at the time. I have had great perseverence historically and I thought about Jack and the Beanstalk originally. I couldnt come up with a specific example for an analogy of the beans. Sure, I could have called them the false gods I seem so attracted to. They could be emotional escape, intimacy, alcohol, television, whatever. But I dont think I would climb that high without a harness.

I kept thinking of the squeeky clean exterior I wore as a mask for decades. My outward appearance was pretty shiny. It became impermeable to mild assault. It repelled and maintained its luster. Inside was gelatinous goo. I protected the vulnerable insides with a smirk and sarcastic wave. I was deft enough to avoid many a calamity. In fact, when things did arise, I would immediately call attention to them so that others could tell my exterior how wonderful it appeared. I kept hoping the kind words and support would make it through the impermeable wall I had set up. Nothing could get in or out. The goo had spoiled and had begun to stink, the shell held its ground.

I perched on a wall, far removed from other people. I went to meditate and consider my plight. I had been told that an egg was only half a life. What I needed was another half. I needed to be completed. I had searched and found someone willing to take on the job. My shell grew thicker instead of thinner. We both faked happiness as we clamored internally to the sounds and fume of rotting souls.

I had been told that success, power, women, money, recreation, even God…. would restore my soul. It would allow me to relax and direct my life. The shell held its ground. I knew no other way to protect my fragile insides.

Ever wonder what caused Humpty to fall? Was he pushed in an attempted murder? Did the wind blow and he simply lost balance? Did he jump? Was he staring into the future and longingly trying to grasp it? Did he scream to God that he could no longer continue on? Did the pressure of the fumes and gaseous emissions inside build up an unsustainable level? Was it all of the above?stock-photo-an-egg-is-broken-306767045

I hit the ground and cracked. I shattered. I felt the foul ooze seep on the ground. I watched as my shell splintered and scattered. I smiled. There was instant relief. I knew that the insides would repulse others. I knew that I was fetid and broken at that point, but I wasnt fighting to hide. Despite the relief and the freedom, I tried to put the pieces back together. It was a fantasy, but I thought if I hurried, no one would noticed. I could be decorative porcelin with age cracks. I struggled to imagine life without my shell. I was defenseless. I called upon others to help me. They were royalty in my mind, or near to it. I demanded they helped. I begged them to help. They tried, noses wrinkled. They tried to ignore the sticky goo. They searched for shell. They had creative substitutes for the pieces they couldnt find. I patched the shell with other false gods. I tried to be someone new with the same broken and now defunct shell.

I also forgot to collect the insides. I rebuilt the shell, but left the goo. I was hollow. More importantly, there was nothing inside to rot, nor to heal. I had effectively allowed myself to not hurt, but I wouldnt be able to love. I had a body, but no soul. I had a structure, but no function. I was inert.

As I looked at the goo on the sidewalk, I wondered if I was an unfertilized half being. Did I need something to complete me? Was it the insides that mattered and the outsides were useless? I imagined trying to be just the amorphous blob sliding through life. I would have emotions. I would be open. I would be vulnerable. There would be nothing hidden. The carrion birds I had in my life began to carry away parts of my goo. The soul and the heart of who I was were pecked at, tormented, and assaulted. With wrinkled nose and a fake smile, I was urged to climb. I was urged to perform. My non existent shell was beheld and complimented like the emperor’s new clothes. It felt great to feel appreciated. It felt great to imagine I was loved. I think I knew it wouldnt last, but I held on to it. I wanted to be seen and accepted for my insides. When it was exposed as a scam by the same people that had imagined it, I was again defamed and left to rot.stock-photo-an-egg-is-broken-306767042

It came as a whisper. It came as the wind. It was a warm breeze and a chilling breath. I am not half. I am not inside nor outside. I am both and that is whole. I am permeable protection. I need shame resilience, and self regulation. I need to defend myself from the hate and hurt from others, but I also get to enjoy my insides. I get to grow and nuture. I get to cherish the stuff inside for its limitations and triumphs. I am a whole egg and a good egg at that.

 
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Posted by on November 18, 2015 in divorce, faith, journey, life

 

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Boris, Natasha– you un-rock

I needed to warn you about my last post. You see, apparently when you acknowledge the swirling spectors around you, it is the same as welcoming them in. Let me tell you how I discovered this. I decided to go on a bike ride after that post. I love to ride and consider it a meditation. I delight in the fatigue of my muscles, the pounding of my heart and the quickening of my breathing. I loaded up my bike and headed to the trailhead.  I am listening to a CD describing Buddhist meditation and mindfulness. The author spoke of recognizing your breathing. I had already been thinking how breath and spirit come from the same word, Ruah, which means wind. I thought of the swirling wind around me and saw it as breath. The exercise was to breath in naming a loved one and breath out asking for peace for them. I started with the name foremost on my mind, my ex girlfriend. I went through names, acknowledging them, their peace, and my own emotion.

Do you remember the Rocky and Bullwinkle show? In with the bad air, out with the good? Natasha and Boris didn’t really have it backwards as the voice over suggested. The opposite is obviously the goal, but it doesn’t always happen like that. The deep breath we take at pivotal moments in our life can cause two different reactions. It can suck in the distasteful and painful or it can begin the healing. The spirit of memory isn’t good or bad, it is how we react.

As I rode my bike, I pedaled as hard as I could. It is very hot here today. I was tired and sweaty. I am also afraid of snakes and had my attention on the brush, hoping I wouldn’t get bit. That isn’t completely true, I spent some time thinking about what I would do if I got bit. I imagined telling those in my life that I loved them. I imagined the hospital. I even imagined that the shock of me being near death would awaken the love from my daughters and ex-girlfriend. Part of me wanted it to happen just so I could be reunited with them. As you can tell, my mind wonders quite a bit when I ride. My breath quickened, heart pounded, and body sweat. I imagined the wind moving in and through me. I have been consumed with memories and regrets as of late. I am practicing acknowledging them and letting them go. I think that sometimes we let the ghosts in and then try and wrestle them or forcibly kick them out. It remind me of an internal greased pig capture. You cant hold on to it and it just runs faster as you chase it. When you are exhausted, you have spent all your energy and time and resources chasing the uncaptureable. I was imagining breathing in the spector and then letting it flow out. The problem in my ever-wondering mind, was that I thought since I was going so fast, breathing so hard, that I was catching up with my expelled breath. Self torment seems to be a hobby of mine.

I breath in and breath out. I try not to label the memories as good or bad. They just are. I let them in and let them out. Sometimes I imagine that I am Boris and Natasha, self sabotaging my breathing. I remind myself to just breath. I opened myself to the wind, and the wind infused. Not sure I was prepared for this. Breath  Sure hope this works.

 

 
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Posted by on June 26, 2015 in journey

 

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so, how long you been dead

I was the dead person the little boy saw. It was a long day, being dead and all. I wasn’t certain that I was dead at first. That made for some awkward moments. You may not know this, but when you are dead the living are not so polite to you. Its really criminal. I have started a petition for the equitable treatment for the living impaired, but that’s a different blog. My first encounter with this was with my ex-wife. Apparently, once you are among the soul less individuals, treating people as people is no longer required. The first step to separate yourself from the recently dead is to send an email to everyone you have ever had contact with. What you need to do is taunt the newly dead and point out all the things that have strangled the life out of the departed. IT is like a game. If you overshoot the victim role, you end up squarely in the perpetrator role. Its the balance beam of subterfuge. The next step is to turn to the family. This is a much more delicate operation. There is more history with the relatives. They understand that the loved one was once living and , in the living, had some very alive moments and some near dead moments. The way to circumnavigate this is to isolate them. You make sure there is no contact with the dead. Changing the locks and having the loved ones refer to the dead by a foreign name helps. Don’t worry about your own soul or about being honest, the dead aren’t welcome in courts and if you slid yourself into the victim role, the departed are now the perpetrator. Make sure that you are caustic and over dramatic each time you interact with the dead. You must keep up appearances at all waking moments.

The second experience was with a woman I dated.  I still had not recognized I was dead and was actually feeling much better.  Maybe I was only mostly dead. I enjoyed a new living with her. I loved very deeply. We played. We laughed. We cried. It was like nothing I had ever experienced in my former life. It scared the living shit out of me. A few months into the relationship, I started to feel my spector self. I recognized my death through counseling and some new friends I had made. The stink of death had not completely left me. I wanted to address it, but it is overwhelming. The spector weaved in and out of my new life. The taunts and humiliation of the past weaved through my being. I tried to talk about it, to address it. The living don’t want to hear from the dead. She pulled away and I panicked. I tried to re-engage in life and living. I feared the return of death. I died all over again. I didn’t like being dead, but I had not figured out how to be alive completely. I have only now recognized my re-death and progressed to live again. However, I am dead to her.

The fascinating thing I learned while dead is that our memories and unresolved traumas stay as ghosts. They are like the wind. The swirl around the living, blocking them from connection with the other living. IF the dark memories, traumas, and insecurities aren’t dealt with, they grow and multiply. The swirling becomes violent. They are isolated from the next step, the light of the world. The living cant see them. They grow slowly enough that the choking is subtle. You grow accustomed to it. The living wonder through a half existence in the midst of a swirl, a dermish. At variable intervals, part of the swirl dives into the corporeal. The ephereal infuses the body and mind. It taints and taunts. The dark diminishes the light. It confuses. IT misdirects. For my new life, it cost me love. IT always costs the price of the moment. IT seems real. It seems like a tangible force. IT feels like being hit by a truck. When it leaves the body, the ghost droppings remain. It stinks up the living. It has to be found and cleaned. Sometimes, the recently departed become part of the swirl. The pain and hurt and other emotions that accompany the memories are darker when compared to the light that was present days, months or years before.

Be Still and know I am God. These words to me quiet the swirl. It recognizes that the swirl and the turmoil are inevitable.  Letting the swirl torment you is optional.  Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional. The wind has to be recognized. It has to be addressed. If the pain is too great, too violent, it will be there when the living is able to deal with it. It will infuse eventually, the swirl is constant and unpredictable. Being aware of it, addressing it deliberately, honestly, and compassionately is the key to knowing God.

 
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Posted by on June 26, 2015 in divorce, journey

 

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