Hey, thanks for meeting me here,
Look, I want to preface all of this by saying that this is just something I need to get off my chest and have put off for some 17-ish years and that’s my fault.

By no means does this indicate that we’re done with this relationship that we have, nor does it mean that I’m not still incredibly grateful for the abundance of gifts that You’ve heaped upon me. Trust me, I remember and appreciate every single one and, frankly, am still amazed at all the times You’ve bailed me out and stood beside me, handling my incredible fuck-ups. (I’m thinking specifically of that time around 2003-ish when I drove 2 hrs. completely obliterated on an entire bottle of Unisom and 99 proof alcohol while listening to “Don’t Fear the Reaper” on repeat and somehow made it to my destination without hurting anyone or anything. You were in the driver’s seat, then – no doubt. I still have yet to wrap my head entirely around that one.)

And you know what else? In my years and years of dealing with my mental illness (which You probably know this post is going to be about) You’ve given me a ton of great opportunities and chances at “fixing” things and a support unit of unconditional love and, again, I am eternally, consistently, constantly, exhaustedly grateful for all of that.

But I need to vent to You for a second. And I feel like we’re at a place where You’re going to understand where I’m coming from and not hold it against me. So I’m just going to be honest here and let it all out. And I apologize for sobbing all the way through this.

It has taken me 17-ish years to muster up the courage to say all this and admit all this to myself but I’m fucking pissed off that I got slapped with such an incredibly bullshit disease as mental illness. Hey, did you know that this month is National Mental Illness Awareness Month? Because I sure as shit didn’t… along with, like, 99.5% of the American population. Meanwhile, we’ve got cancer walks and charities out the ass; there’s a whole Youdamned month for breast cancer; there’s a differently-colored ribbon to support every effing thing under the sun (You know what the color is for “mental illness awareness”? It’s green, which is also the color for kidney donation, and is more recognized as such, which is a big  “FUUUCK YOU” to us crazies out here… personally, I think it should be psychedelic tie-dye, but that’s for another discussion.) So what exactly is my point here? Basically, my biggest complaint is that I’ve been given the gift of a chronic illness that has tried to fucking kill me (specifically, about 6 “official” times, if you want to get technical here) and that MOST PEOPLE THINK IS COMPLETELY FICTITIOUS.

There are people starving to death and being destroyed en masse every day. There are children living in homes where they are abused and unloved and there are millions upon millions of people who are aching to have a life that resembles anything close to mine. And so, when I start telling people at age 11 that there’s something wrong with me and I’m depressed and don’t know why, I get told to suck it up and get over myself. When I tell family members and friends that I’ve been contemplating suicide in my late teenage years, I am brushed aside and reprimanded for “just trying to get attention.” I am called “melodramatic”. I am denied treatment. I am cursed with stigmas. I am lead to believe that all of this aching, relentless mental torment that I am experiencing on a daily basis isn’t real, that I am just an ungrateful product of a privileged lifestyle.

Naturally, none of this would have happened if I had, instead, complained of a tumor growing in my skull or, you know, something physical that doctors could point to and say “Ah yes! Here’s the problem!” so everyone around me could rally to my side immediately. I could’ve just combated the illness right out of the gate. I wouldn’t have had to spend years pleading with people to listen and/or believe me if I had something like cancer or lupus or a collapsing lung or an aneurysm. Nobody would’ve accused me of just trying to get attention; nobody would’ve refused to listen or tried to make me feel like less of a human being because of ancient misconceptions, myths or stigmas surrounding these sorts of diseases. I would never have tried to self-medicate for a decade or let myself give in so easily to my disease over and over for years if I had something that the masses acknowledge as a legitimate illness. Nobody ever would’ve mocked me or called me a “drama-queen” or a “whiner” or told me just to get over it or that I “just needed to find Jesus” or “just put a smile on my face and be grateful for what I have” when I tried to tell them why I needed help. (I’m thinking of a plethora of family-related specific instances here, but I think we both know what/whom I’m referencing, so I don’t want to drag that into a public forum.)

And, yes, I’m aware it could’ve been worse; I could’ve been born in a country or an era where people with ANY type of mental irregularity would be completely ostracized or locked in an institution or burned at the stake or whatever was deemed necessary at the time. So I definitely do understand that I’m blessed to at least live in a time and place where treatment is available.

All this in mind, I have to admit that, yeah, I’m kind of pissed that I landed here in a society where everybody and their mother is seeing a therapist and being medicated for somethingoranother. So, not only do I live in a society where there’s a stigma put on the mentally ill, but I’m also simultaneously existing in a reality in which so many people are overmedicated to avoid feeling human emotion that nobody takes real psychosis seriously anymore and, God, I gotta tell you THAT IS FUCKED UP. Even to a person who is mentally unstable on her own, that scenario is literally insane and yet! Here I am! Trying to just get a steady treatment/regimen going so, like someone with diabetes, I can live my life taming and managing the disease I’ll have to learn to live with. However, unlike that lucky bastard with diabetes (that’s sarcasm right there, btw) I get to play “musical doctors” for the last ten years because psychiatrists are just handing out various medications like they’re flinging them off a pharmaceutical company’s sponsored Mardi Gras float. Seriously, I hate to sound rude but it’s the only disease in the world where I have to fight against the stereotypes that abusers have set – I doubt if anyone receiving chemo has to listen to WASPs make publicly-acceptable jokes about what kind of IV they’re “tooootally addicted to” these days.

I swear to You, it’s an uphill battle in every Youdamned direction; I gotta fight with society, my family, my friends and these throngs of doctors just to get taken seriously ON TOP of having to fight my own fucking mind, which is perpetually trying to fucking kill me when it’s left to its own devices.

:::sigh::: No, I’m not mad at any of these people anymore and, yes, I’ve learned to deal with public ignorance about it and just do what I need to do for myself so that I can survive; I’ve been living (sometimes just barely) with this shit for almost 2 decades now so I’m mostly on Autopilot at this point. I hope You hear me tell You how grateful I am every single day for this incredible life I have right now. Please don’t think that I ever forget it.

But, dammit, that doesn’t make any of it hurt any less, God. And that’s what I’m so so very angry/frustrated about right now and wanted You to know. It hurts to think about how lonely it all was. I ache when I remember how alone I felt every time I went to the hospital, where nobody sent flowers and only my family attempted to talk to me like a person. I’ll never stop hurting when I remember the looks on my friends’ faces after the hospitalizations, like they were in a room with a wild animal and were too afraid of getting hurt to try to learn how to talk to me. It fucking hurts to remember having to be my only source of comfort during so many nights… both before and after I started any sort of treatment… always for the same reasons… It hurts to see my scars and try to rehearse how I’ll explain them to my daughter one day because I know in my heart that she needs to know.  It hurts to think about how I’m still not done; how I’m still having to deal with my Enemy Mind and how I’m just so damned exhausted with it all, God.

It fucking hurts, God. When does that part stop?
Can you make that part stop?

I’m not really mad at You, God – not when it comes right down to it. I know You’ve spared me from far far worse things and I really, honestly am grateful for where I am and the progress I’ve supposedly made and all that noise I feel like I’ve repeated into a cliche at this point….

I just want it to go away now, God. All of it. The recurrences/relapses and the memories and, hell, even the scars, if I’m being honest here.

But mostly the pain, God. I can deal with any more insanity and craziness and mental bullshit You wanna hurl at me, God. Bring it on. I’ve gotten this far and in far worse conditions.

But please. Please take away the aching. I’ve had enough pain from all of this; I’m so fucking sick of hurting from this one stupid problem that it’s now compounding into anger for still feeling it in the first place and it just gets heavier and heavier and I can’t fucking tolerate it anymore, God. I can’t…

…And I know when I say “I can’t” that You’ll stand right there with me and You’ll see to it that You can prove me wrong and that I can get through anything and all that crap that “people of faith” like to blabber to each other when shit gets rough so allow me to clarify:

I probably can tolerate more but I really, really do not want to. Seriously, I’m finished.
I mean, I didn’t even have the energy to be angry all the way through this letter, for Christ’s sake.

So yeah. That’s where I am. I’ve been ready for this to be over and done with for a long, long time.
And I would really, genuinely love it if we could both be on the same page with that.

Please?

Most sincerely,
L P-S

On Sunday I was given the Blatant, Irrefutable, Divine Sign of Guidance I’d been begging for for months.
On Monday I received a hand-written postcard [with original art] from one of my lifelong heroes. (The actor! Not the characters!)
On Tuesday I finally finally felt peace and a sense of closure about a wrong I have been conscious of and trying to right for eight years now.
On Wednesday I sat and talked with my college roomie for six hours and we only stopped because it was 1 a.m. and I had an hour’s drive home. She is one of the few who watched me at my very worst (all in a tiny dorm room) and still actively seeks my company. This is amazing to me.
And Thursday? Well that’s the first anniversary of our wedding.

Aside from this, I’ve also had four unbelievable friends take a liberal amount of time this week to exchange lengthy emails with me about the recent varied troubles I’ve been having and how they understand on a personal level. These were all unsolicited messages of concern and all were about a different issues but all were so thoughtful and thorough. I was floored by these friends’ continued willingness to heap love and support on me, regardless of how self-centered I tend to be during my dark moments.

I don’t know why it’s such a surprise to me when I realize it again and again but Dear God, I’m blessed.

Usually, in these rare times when the Universe actively floods my path with reiterated love, support and reminders of my importance, I still struggle to believe it hasn’t been misguided, that I’m not being mistaken for someone else. That fear and resistance is still here, but this week, I’ve mostly found refuge and much needed rest in this warm, deep, swelling Love that Something Out There deems me worthy of.

Today, I prayed.
Wait. That’s a lie.

Today, I begged.

It’s been an emotionally rigorous last-couple-weeks during which I’ve found myself pulling an Etch-A-Sketch redo on my mind and my thoughts and my definitions of everything and my agreements and my life and my particular existence and all that. And in the middle of all that upheaval I’m still dealing with my completeandutter feeling of hopeless lack of direction (an obligation for my immediate age, I think) that I’ve been tussling with for months now.

There’s just so many things I feel genuinely driven to do. I want to write a book, I want to sell sugar scrub, I want to make a documentary, I want to go back to school, I want to be a sex therapist, I want to have an op-ed column… All of these things I want to do in the next 10 years and I feel like I have no idea how to go about doing any of them, no particular confidence in my ability to be successful at any of them, (except the sex therapy. I’ve been giving frank, factual advice without blushing since the 6th grade. Ask anyone.) and really no idea which one God/Spirit/Universe is really calling me toward. (Although to be fair, I can always sell the sugar scrub on the side. I hope to open a stand at the local farmers market next season.) Most of the time I feel like one of those delusional “American Idol” contestants who is sitting around dreaming big with no shot of ever becoming anything anywhere close to what they envision. (No, Virginia, not all dreams come true.)

And it’s not for lack of trying to figure it out, either. I’ve meditated and prayed and read Tarot cards as a means for Spirit/God to speak with more clarity (which is usually pretty effective in dealing with everything else) and all sorts of weird rituals and centering practices to get a definite “YES!” on anything.

So today, exhausted from months of frustration on this and many other topics that have only just culminated in a bit of a meltdown and following emotional shutting-down for me, I found myself pleading with God.

“Look,” I said. “I’ve been doing really good here. And I’ve been grateful out the ass for a long time now and I rarely ask for anything for myself anymore. Sure, I ask for my daughter’s health and my husband’s inner peace and sense of self, but I can’t remember the last time I bothered you for anything personal. Not even strength or serenity or any of that. I’ve just kind of had faith that you’d give it to me and when you inevitably have, I’ve thanked you profusely. So right now I’m begging. Please. Please just give me some irrefutable message as to which direction I should go and where I should focus my energies and what sort of plans you have for me and what sort of gifts you’re willing to give me a leg up on because that’s what you made me for. Please tell me how I can best spend my life and my time and the gift of being here. Clearly. Without any room for argument. I’ll do whatever you want for me and whatever you intend and I’ll have confidence that you’ve got a plan here but I just need to know. I want to stop wasting my time running around from interest to compulsion and I want to start doing whatever the hell it is that I’m supposed to be doing right now. And, really, I think that’s what would work best for you and your plans, too. Just. Please.”

I’m not stupid enough to expect anything immediate. These sorts of things take time and I know better than to try to pressure God into anything or strike a deal with him or – as Will Truman put it – try to “punk the Almighty.”

This evening after dinner I found myself sitting on the couch watching the Emmys. I have a million things on my “To Do” list that I’ve been tackling all day and I literally have not watched the Emmys in the last decade or so. Nor have I had any desire to do so, actually. Even still, when Greg decided to go on up to bed, I told him I was interested in watching and couldn’t really provide a reason why (although at the time I was pretty sure it had a lot to do with my deep infatuation with Neil Patrick Harris combined with my desperate admiration and envy for Tina Fey.)

I particularly do not care about any of the shows in the Drama category because when I take refuge from the dramas of real life I don’t want to be bothered with those of fictitious characters. However, I was sitting in rapt attention through all of it, including when they announced the Outstanding Writer Award for a Drama Series. And for some reason I couldn’t stop watching two people I’d never heard of accept an award for a show I’ve never seen in a category I do not give a shit about. (Yes, I considered how mind-numbingly boring and technologically codependent this has made me look.)

And then Matthew Weiner looked dead into the camera and said, “This award makes writing look fun and it isn’t. But I want to say something to all the writers out there for a second.” And then he proceeded to say that it’s backbreaking work that seems impossible but that it’s absolutely worth it to never give up and to keep going for it because writers are all in good company.

You know, your basic “Dreams come true!” speech.

But this time it was from a writer who was actually proud to be a writer instead of some vapid actor who’s totally proud that they won an award for playing pretend. And he addressed those of us who are not only dreaming of it but are busy convincing ourselves that it can’t be done. And it was on a day that I begged for a sign. And nobody in Hollywood EVER talks to or about writers. Especially not low-life, unsuccessful ones.

Sure, it’s naive. Sure it’s a “People will believe what they want to” scenario I’m creating for myself here.

But I’m taking it as the sign I asked for.

And I’m so freaking scared and insecure and uncertain that I’m kind of wishing I hadn’t asked.

Crap.

I’ve about had it with people justifying crappy art by saying that “It’s Christian!” And frankly, if I was God, I’d be a little miffed that my advocates were out there making atrocious music and writing terrible books after all the stuff I’ve given them, but I guess he really looks at it like those crappy finger-paintings kids bring to their parents…

This is not to say that everyone who publicly sings or writes or speaks about loving God is automatically awful, by the way. Matisyahu might be one of the most revolutionary musicians to emerge in the last ten years and that guy hasn’t changed a thing about his orthodox Judaism and writes songs exclusively about that. And rocks the music scene. Most of the time when people get sober their music just goes down the crapper (Aerosmith, Coltrane) but Johnny Lang is out there rocking it and putting on a better show than ever. It’s really amazing. And although I never ever would’ve picked it up, “The Shack” was surprisingly moving and thought-provoking, (even though it bordered on brain-washy once or twice.) And I think Christopher Moore’s “Lamb…” is the best book about Jesus ever written, if not one of the best books ever written. (YOU MUST READ IT. Even if you never want to have anything to do with Jesus and think his followers suck. Seriously, it’s awesome. Not preachy, not brain-washy. Just fun. Promise.) People have been moved to do great works of art in any genre in the name of God for thousands of years so don’t think I’m railing on that at all; I strive to be God-inspired in what I do, too.

HOWEVER, if I had a dollar for every person that told me “He’s a Christian musician/writer/comedian, but he’s actually really good!” I’d literally have a couple grand in savings. And I don’t get why people don’t understand that that sort of recommendation is not only ridiculous and cliche but will only result in repelling me further.

The worst thing is how people can produce genuinely terrible work and the Bible-thumping crowd will eat it up and then judge people who don’t like it as people who must be anti-Jesus. For example, I picked up a book last weekend called “90 Minutes in Heaven” that I’d heard a lot about from a few church-goers I knew. And it. Was. AWFUL. I mean, the story might’ve been okay (I couldn’t get through the whole book) but the author had a ghostwriter and even then the book read as though written by a 13-year-old. And I say “13″ specifically because all of his points were redundant, paragraphs were repeated ad nauseum without bothering to rephrase them at all and he loooooved making those melodramatic, blunt sentences that signal truth and transition at the end of every subsection. And somehow he managed to make the story drag through redundancy even though the book was 140 pages.
Bad. Badbadbad. Even the family members I talked to who had read it admitted that they couldn’t get through it because the writing was abysmal. And yet, this book has sold millions upon millions of copies while other, actually brilliant novels have sat gathering dust on shelves. It’s bullshit.

I remember a few years ago I attended a church that did those contemporary “rock” services that were just dreadful. When I told one of my acquaintences that the music made me want to take a drill to my ears she looked at me as though I’d said, “Jesus can go screw himself.” and then made it a point to never speak to me again. Yeah, I get that this makes her a loser of epic proportions but seriously? We’re judging people on what sort of music they listen to now? I guess that goes back to the whole church mentality of “YOUMUSTAGREEWITHEVERYTHINGWESAYORYOU’REDAMNEDTOHELL!!” that so many people don’t realize is optional.

But when I worship, it shouldn’t feel like a chore. I shouldn’t be made to sing boring, soulless songs that move me in no way, (this is why I think we should all sing gospel music exclusively. And not that bland, WASPel that they advertise collections of on the Weather Channel, but real, African-American written, raucous, joyful, 20-minutes-per-song gospel.) I shouldn’t be forced to listen to crappy comedians who rely on outdated cliches and the fact that they’re syndicated through churches to keep their careers alive, I shouldn’t have to read godawful literature that’s just some talentless moron’s way of making money off blind followers. I want to be moved. I want to feel God and feel life and feel joyful for all of it. (And no, Rick Warren’s “Purpose Driven Life” drivel didn’t even start to budge me, so don’t throw that crap in my face… again…)

I just don’t get why people think that you can’t have genuine, legitimate, innovative, fun art and still be considered divinely guided. And I’m tired of watching terrible artists find relative success just because they’ve learned how to manipulate the Bible Thumpers demographic. And I’m really reeeally tired of people feeling like they have to pray for me and worry for my soul because all but 4 contemporary Christian musicians suuuuuuck.

Since my entry pertaining to the total fraud I encountered within my spiritual practices (related – of course – to other people) I’ve been spending more time meditating, more time dedicated to reconnecting myself to Spirit and grounding myself in my personal relationship w/Him/Her. And, in my meditations and other readings, I started getting more and more intense premonitions and spot-on symbolism in my other means of communion.

(At first it really freaked me out – like, sleep-with-the-lights-on freaked out -, which I was embarrassed about. I mean, I’m running around proclaiming to believe in this sort of thing and then when it actually starts to happen and become tangible, I get scared? That doesn’t make sense. And then I realized that a lot of people are like that. A few months ago I was talking to Greg about Catholic miracles in which those taking the manmade tincture felt it change into flesh in their mouths and pulled bleeding, warm muscle matter off their tongues to show to the rest of the congregation. When I asked why they didn’t just continue eating it because that is, after all, what Catholics specifically believe – that the bread and wine physically is Jesus Christ and not just a symbol – he didn’t really have a decent answer except that there was shock and awe involved. I think that’s exactly what I’m experiencing as of late.)

And then I figured out what was going on. Four days before I went to this faux minister, I had a really intense session with my group in which I was tapped more accurately into my friends’ energies than ever before and was receiving strong validation for my readings. It was incredible. Then, after the reading from the minister set me back, the readings kept coming in strong and I realized that the whole thing must’ve been a test.

Through my life, every time people have gotten in the way of my spirituality, I’ve thrown in the towel and walked away from all of it, including my relationship with Spirit/God/whatever I called her at the time. This has happened in two separate major events, once when I was 18 and then again when I was 21-22-ish. This time, however, instead of running away when people pissed me off, I went back to the source and focused my energy on bypassing outside, human influence and that was new for me. I think God was testing me, saying “Alright, I’ve got some big stuff set up for you, but I’ve gotta know you’re on board with me this time.” And the minute I came back, I started getting even stronger feedback and staggering evidence that God was excited and proud of me and ready to get to work.

Again, it was sort of terrifying to see tangible evidence of the Spirit energy sitting dead (or alive…) in front of my face, but it was also incredibly rewarding to know that, finally, I chose the right adventure. Hooray!

So, in brief, things are incredible right now. On a number of levels, although this is the one that feels the best. Easily.

I’ve been part of a metaphysical meditation group for a while now, which I absolutely love. It’s been rewarding, has challenged and built my character, encouraging growth and knowledge (as good spiritual practices should) and really allowed me to becoming in tune with God again and the general energies and divine guidance that’s around me all the time. It’s been a bit of an awakening for me, and presents the opportunity for a lifelong journey of learning and strengthening that I’m pretty enthused about.

I know that all that sounds really cheesy and the whole metaphysical practice thing really freaks people out, especially in the Bible Belt. We study the lessons of Christ and many of our meditational techniques are straight from the Bible, but the unregimented, direct-contact-to-God (versus listening to a self-designated mouthpiece like the Pope or a priest or a minister or whatever) practice really seems to rub a lot of people around here the wrong way, (and we won’t even get started on the reactions to the idea of communicating with guides who aren’t on a physical plane or recognizing energies as a part of God’s presence. That’s cause for major freakouts.) so I’ve learned to just keep my religious leanings and opinions under my toupe unless directly asked or unless I find myself in a situation in which my beliefs may be misrepresented.

Anyway, despite my parents’ ignorance causing them to believe I’m in some Satan-worshipping cult or the general Fear-based reactions I may be receiving from those around me, it’s something I’ve excitedly incorporated into my life and am really, genuinely excited about. Feeling such a truthful connection to a system/method of worship and spirituality is a real first for me and I’m seriously stoked about it.

However, that is not to say that it – just like any religious sect – is not without it’s faults. Within churches or meditational groups there are always politics based on egos or power struggles, which is just one of the facets of dealing with other people. It’s always been a turn-off for me to congregate in religious settings because the inevitabilities of human faults seem to get in the way of my personal spiritual growth. I like to think of my moments of meditation and learning as a break from the rigors of living within society and it’s bounds to reconnect with my spiritual center for a few minutes and recharge my batteries. Many people’s inherent need to judge or control other’s beliefs or morals within religious settings is just bullshit I don’t feel has any place in my personal relationship with Spirit, so I enjoy keeping my practices to myself. This meditational group I’ve found is not an official church and, even though we adhere to the Nine Principles of the United Metaphysical Church, there is no board of directors or church leaders who are funded by the church, which eliminates a lot of the dictatorship dramas that emerge in organized settings. We’re just a group of people who come together to share ideas, experience, and spiritual growth. We all accept that we’re all prone to flaws and faults and none of us are any more divinely guided than anyone else so we’re all giving and receiving on equal footing. It’s perfect.

ANYWAY, with all that said, I encountered my first real faith challenge this weekend when we had a guest minister/medium come from the UMC HQ and guide a clarion circle. I was really excited to get to work with someone who had a lot of experience with mediumship, and I was hoping to possibly learn about a spirit guide or two and ask a question about what path I should place my focus on to best work with the energies that are around me at the moment. I wore a few extra stones to enhance my rhythms and wore a light blue as it’s a spiritual power color. (When Buddists reach a sense of Enlightenment, they claim to experience an overwhelming light blue energy/light. In fact, in scientific studies, a few monks have been screened using MRIs and when they reach this blissful mental state, the reading on their mental activity shows nothing but this light blue color on the brain scans. It’s actually pretty amazing.) And then I sacrificed $25 to attend the workshop that helps the minister afford the gas money to travel to and from Roanoke, VA. So yeah, I was pretty enthusiastic about the evening, especially considering it was held on Wesak Weekend, during a waxing (almost full) moon, during a Mercury retrograde. I was pretty optimistic that everything was aligned for an amazing evening and, admittedly, more than a little giddy with anticipation.

Needless to say, I was sorely mistaken on all fronts. Although rather excited, I went into the experience with an open mind (as I do with most things these days. Preconceived notions have always backfired one way or another.) and I’m really glad I had the brains to keep skepticism on my shoulder.

This woman was nothing short of a blatant scam artist in the most pathetically obvious ways possible. She claimed she wasn’t merely channeling the energies and messages of any spirit guides or persons who may visit but was, in fact, goin into “dead trance” in which she would go all Whoopi-in-”Ghost” on us and allow each entity to inhabit her body for a few minutes each. Still open-minded at this point, I sat and watched the single most ridiculous performance I’ve ever sat through in my entire life. It was serious bullshit from beginning to end. Okay, since there were nine of us who attended the workshop, she supposedly pulled in nine separate spirit guides and a couple former relatives. However, despite these spirits and relatives having originated from a variety of eras and locations, they all had the same grammatical structuring, the same conversational habits and the same general speech patterns. At the end of every other sentence, each character would ask the recipient to confirm what they’d heard, although when the “spirit” was a Native American they would ask “Do you understand what I say to you?” and when they were anything else they would ask “Isn’t that so?” Ugh. Additionally, she only had one accent for her Native American “visitors” that was a paaaaainful (potentially offensive) stereotype of Native American accents which showed complete ignorance to the fact that tribes each had their own dialects, colloquialisms, accents and even interpretations of the English language. It was absolutely ridiculous and pretty embarassing to watch at that. Additionally, the “messages” that she gave in response to our pointed queries were equally as pathetic as her performances as they were retardedly generalized statements of common wisdom.

For example, when I asked about guidance in how to best align myself with the positive energies in my life, my “spirit guide” gave some obtuse, rambling answer about how “Spirit has great plans for [me] and how [I] have a great destiny to fulfill with my gifts. Spirit will make your purpose known to you and you will find great success when you learn to work alongside Spirit’s plans for your life.”

Um, yeah. I got that. Not only is it kind of something that directly applies to every living being on the planet, I pretty much acknowledged my awareness of that principle and my willingness to accept and take on this mission in my original question. I was just wondering if you could, you know, possibly bestow a little bit of that purpose to me to point me in the right direction to set me toward this destiny, since I have a lot of options right now.

All of her answers were in this faux-wisdom vein, telling descendants that they were being watched over and loved from deceased relatives (no shit. Really?), advising people to watch after their personal health to live their lives to the fullest (bederbeder) and other blanket-statement fuckwithery. Just to mix it up a bit, she would take little nuggets of information she’d acquired in pre-workshop getting-to-know-you chatter and apply them to personal messages. Like she told my minister to stop smoking after she and the minister shared a cigarette together. She told me that my daughter had a spirit guardian watching over her (duh) and that she was an Indigo child (something every parent would love to hear but ultimately has no way to confirm until years of development and experiences.)

It was painful. And disgusting.

Now, naturally, I get the lesson here. This whole thing reiterates my beliefs that, no matter what community I may find myself in, there will always be people who pull the wool over others’ eyes and take advantage of people’s longing to believe in something wholeheartedly. Also, there is never anyone more attuned with God in the way that I personally need to be than myself and my lessons will come as they are needed. This is something that applies to bullshit psychics as well as Hate-filled ministers or priests. Nobody’s immune to it and no sect is without their false leaders.

I get all that.

But I couldn’t help but to be disheartened, not only at the tremendous amount of bullshit I’d encountered within a communal spiritual practice I’d found to be pure up until that point, but also with the blind faith that the others in my meditation group instilled in this obvious fraud. After the session (and my brief nap to avoid being rude) they were all alight with hope and excitement about this fantastic experience. I, not wanting to be the bad guy and crush everyone’s renewed spirit, stayed silent along with their exclamations of praise and gratitude. I nodded along when they talked about how impressed they were and only verbally agreed with statements that it had been an enlightening experience.

It kind of took the wind out of my sails a bit. Last Monday in my weekly group, I’d received so much validation that my efforts weren’t for naught, that I was on the right path, that I was growing and developing spiritually (Seriously, I was ON FIRE in my receiving messages and tapping into the Spiritual party line that evening. I was doling out accurate, specific messages with real, tangible imagery and on-point cues and symbols left and right for the first time since I started attending these groups and it felt awesome to finally feel like a participant instead of just an observer.) and then this woman comes along, makes a mockery of the whole thing, and really puts a damper on my enthusiasm to return to group at all. I hate having doubts about those people that I share my spiritual growth with because that implies that I’m letting my own judgment of character get in the way of the benefits of being part of a community, but dammit, I hate feeling alone in my objective skepticism and refusal to just accept anything that’s handed to me from other people as The Real Truth.

I don’t think I’ll bring my disgust of the evening up to the group involuntarily and I’ll just keep my take on the experience to myself as it’s just one bump in the road ultimately. It’s just made me hesitant to want to go back to my group immediately and I hate that I was only able to experience real, innocent, childlike joy and enthusiasm for this part of my life for only a fleeting moment.

Ah well. At least I got out of there before I was asked for fork out 25 bucks. Free bullshit is always preferable to bullshit you have to pay for.

(Note: This entry is explicitly graphic and disturbing. The names and identities of those involved have been obscured but the events described are unfortunately very real. If you want to avoid unbelievably heartbreaking emotion that has potential to ruin your mood and outlook on humanity, I’d advise against reading any further.)

I shouldn’t have looked for answers. I know better than to ask questions I don’t want the answers to.

I’ve written to a woman in prison for a while. This troubles my husband because he feels it puts our lives in danger somehow, even though I’m writing to her under a penname. I’ve assured him that the woman isn’t looking for monetary donations (one of the only reasons I chose to correspond with her versus other inmate applicants), she is in custody miles and miles from here, and, besides, she is sentenced to life in prison without a chance for parole.

I enjoy speaking with her for a number of reasons. She is engaging and optimistic and brilliant. She loves to talk about literature and philosophy and I always enjoy hearing her perspectives on hope and optimism, given the circumstances of her life. She is by no means a hero to me but, for someone who has a tendency toward contemplating giving up in her darkest moments, it is helpful for me to hear what inspires people to keep going when, to an outside observer, it would seem that she would have nothing left to live for. She loves to talk about her children and has illustrated to me the various hardships in her life that contributed to her enormous pile of mental anguish and regrets. As I promised in my first letter, I have never discussed with her the conditions of her incarceration or the cause for such an extreme sentencing.

I sensed that this was a horrible idea when the Google bar filled in the rest of her name before I’d even finished typing. Clearly what this woman had committed had not gone unnoticed by the media. In shock, I read dozens of the stories printed years ago regarding her crime and sentencing, hoping they weren’t true but realizing that everything lined up her descriptions and the facts described by the press. I had hoped that this woman had committed something that I could at least understand, something I could possibly sympathize with if only from a very far distance. I knew that a woman who was sentenced to life in prison indicated that she had done something very very bad, I just did not see this one coming.

She has told me about her first marriage to an older, wealthier man and how this ex-husband was abusive toward her and her two children. What she did not tell me was that, when he was awarded sole custody of their third child, a 3-year-old boy, she took a .12 guage rifle and shot the toddler in the head while he was watching television.

I couldn’t stop sobbing. Immediately I ran to where my daughter was playing on the living room floor and cradled her in my arms, whispering, “I love you. I will never let anyone hurt you.” while she struggled to return to her toys. I tried to explain to my husband why I was so heartbroken, I found I was unable to say the words out loud to tell him what this woman I was in correspondence with had done to her own child.

According to police accounts, she had called the paramedics immediately after it had happened and, after sobbing in hysterics for hours, had gone into complete shock after the incident. A modern day Medea, she was unable to talk about what she had done but nodded her head as a formal confession in the interrogation room. She sat through trial and went to prison without speaking a single word other than to answer the questions of her prosecutor. She never resisted her arrest, her sentencing, her fate.

Now comes the part where I am torn and at an obvious moral empass. My immediate reaction is to cease communications with this woman altogether, horrified and heartbroken at the actions she was capable of in her past. My first instinct is always to recoil from those whose actions I find unforgivable and disgusting, to judge them as a person unfit for any hope or compassion from anyone, whose life is not worth living.

However, all the great leaders that I claim to admire so adamantly advocated and practiced a lifestyle that was completely different. Jesus proudly walked with prostitutes, thieves, drunks and other sinners that society shunned and had no value for. The Dalai Lama, Martin Luther King, and Gandhi spoke about forgiveness and compassion toward every living thing, no matter their evil intentions or actions. In one of my favorite quotes, Mother Teresa proclaimed, “”People are unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered. Love them anyway.” These are all people whose lives and actions I admire and hope to emulate. I recognize that they acted from Love and not Fear, something I constantly talk about practicing every day. What sort of giant hypocrite would I be if I blatantly, consciously made the decision to act in opposition of this mentality? I realize that I am not Jesus or the Dalai Lama or any of these other earth-moving humanitarians; I may never have the inner peace, strength and faith that they stand for and I probably will never change and influence the world as much as any of them. But I cannot feel anger and despair toward the Fear-based habits of society and people as a whole if I am only perpetuating these actions. This is the one aspect of humanity that I do have control over, that I can change and push things forward with. I would be betraying my beliefs entirely and working against the progress I wholeheartedly desire if I was to deny the responsibility and privilege I have of contributing to forward motion and progression.

This, of course, comes as the Universe’s immediate retaliation for the smug judgment I admitted to in my previous blog entry. Although I consciously knew it at the time and had even admitted to my flinging humility by the wayside to feel superior to women whose Crazy was ruining their lives, I knew, also, that I am not ever the ultimate Judge of any one person’s life or worth. Today’s new information was the grounding smack in the face I needed. No matter the level of Crazy that someone else is capable of, no matter how horrible and unfathomable their actions may be, no person is any less deserving of Love and compassion than I. If I believe that every human has the potential to be a tool and messenger for God, then I have to allow myself to share that with people, too. I don’t believe that I as a person have the ability to save anyone’s soul or change anyone at all, nor do I have the capacity to ultimately forgive someone for their actions or lifestyle. But, because I recognize Spirit as a Higher Power who works through everything he’s created, I have a responsibility to practice Love as a representative of His power and creation. This, I believe, is our role as people in accordance with the world and its inhabitants.

So, fighting this horrified Fear that consumes me, I will continue to write this woman who is a brutal murderer of her own child. Her actions terrify and repulse me and fill my heart with grief and fear, but I am not the Judge of her worth and I owe it to myself and everyone around me to suck up some humility and realize that. I will continue to treat her like a person who deserves hope and optimism, whose life is worthwhile and capable of rehabilitation, who is loved and valued by a Higher Power. I will work to speak with her as I’ve always done and find positive, redeemable potential characteristics in her and I will work every day not to recoil and misrepresent my core beliefs because of my own selfish Fear and desire for judgment.

But Jesus… When the Universe has a hard lesson for me/my growth, it pulls out every fucking stop to knock me on my ass. I don’t know if I can deal with much worse just yet. It’ll make me think twice about opening my big mouth so brazenly.

I’ve talked about incorporating the familiarities of pop culture references into my spiritual practices before but, recently, I’ve started using another offbeat [completely fabricated] method for my daily meditation practices. See, because meditation is such a foreign thing for me I have trouble really feeling like I’m committing myself to it when I’m doing it alone. Somehow, something so relatively new to me and my Western upbringing feels completely false when I’m practicing it by myself. So I thought that perhaps if I create a little bridge of familiarity between the new practice and things I feel comfortable around and emotionally related to, then I could ease myself into a routine over time that I really felt I was being genuine with.

So what the hell am I talking about?

My specific example involves the fact that no matter what traditional Hindu mantra I choose (and there are tons of them… who knew?!) I simply cannot take myself seriously when I’m repeating something over and over in a language I don’t even speak. It feels too pretentious. So, instead, I’ve been using small phrases (which – in case you aren’t aware – are all mantras really are. Even “om”.) that originated as song lyrics.

Man, just saying that out loud makes me feel kinda lame, to be honest. Ah well; I’ve done worse in a public setting.

Recently I’ve been spending my meditations cleaning house. In the last two months there was the relapse of depression that really knocked me over and then, just as the fog from that began to lift, I made the mistake of opening myself up emotionally and reanimating some old demons and battles that I’d figured out and left behind years ago. (My bad.) So in the last week or so, my meditations have focused on imagery of letting go of these “demons”, which take the form of recurring harmful thoughts (kind of anti-mantras) and erupting emotions that have no benefits or relevance to my mentality or life at all. I like to address these terrible mental habits like annoying ex-boyfriends who are unwelcome in my house (mind) and mess up my day and waste my time and simply refuse to go away. And, luckily there are a lot of songs that address such scenarios. Shawn Colvin’s “Get Out of this House” has been a great one to start with. Usually, I just repeat the title line during visualization practices, but sometimes I’ll feel my concentration waning and I’ll switch up to a couple lyrics here and there.

But no song has been as great of a mantra for this specific practice than… oh man, it’s kind of embarrassing… Tom Petty’s “Don’t Come Around Here No More”. I’m positive I’d be less embarrassed admitting this if it weren’t for the well-known psychedelic ‘Alice in Wonderland’-themed video. (I saw his giant hat at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame!) However, feeling the slow-moving melody and just repeating “Don’t come around here no more…” when my mind heads back over to its habitual dark thoughts has been fantastically empowering. All the lyrics fit perfectly, too, which is beneficial to my adopting the whole song.
I particularly like to repeat this verse:
I don’t feel you anymore
You darken my door.
Whatever you’re looking for,
(HEY!) Don’t come around here no more

A few days ago I was inspired to do one of my semi-annual sage-burning, salt-spreading, crystal-cleaning cleansings around the house and that’s the song I put on during the ritual. The benefits of the song were multiplied by the immediate access to the musical composition, meaning that when the Heartbreakers rock out there at the end [with Tom making all those weird-ass ad libbed noises] it helps to usher in a great sense of relief and resolve to maintaining the healed, strong mentality achieved through the meditative practice.

It sounds kinda lame when mentioned out loud, but I found/find it to be quite effective as a meditation technique, in addition to being engaging and stimulating. And isn’t that what practicing spirituality should be anyway?

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Progression in Hindsight

If you’ve been reading for any length of time you may recognize that one of my biggest (and most embarrassing) faults is my routine inability to just let shit go. For some reason, after a situation has emotionally drained me and ultimately imploded, I just looove to revisit it to figure out what can be repaired and/or salvaged. No matter where the shattered pieces have landed, I just have to go back to ground zero and try to make sense of it so I can, eventually, put all the pieces back together and place it in a perfect little frame to display in my “Closed Cases” exhibit (I assume.) I like to venture all the way back into these past dramas to poke and prod and try to make sense of situations that obviously made no sense ever (otherwise they’d still be functioning) instead of just accepting that sometimes disarray is an acceptable finale to a situation. (Thank you, Samuel Beckett!)

Returning to a senseless, broken, crazy-making situation to try to make sense of it or resolve it is exactly comparable to me drinking a bottle of wine in hopes of figuring out or curing my alcoholism. I know this. I’ve known this. I realized this many many years ago in fact. And, still, I catch myself making that same mistake even to this day, even after years of evidence that it never ever works.

And I kick myself for this fault of mine on a daily basis. Hard.

But recently I ran into a person with whom I shared many years of drama and general insanity. After letting her suckiness monopolize entirely too much of my time, emotions and energy (without receiving any of these in return, of course) I’d finally cut her off. Cold turkey. This is something I’ve never been able to do successfully. In fact, after I sat her down, explained why I would no longer be taking her calls and said “bye!” she continued to try to get in touch with me, claiming she had no idea why I suddenly didn’t want to associate with her at all anymore. (So yeah, my hour-long presentation highlighting my standpoints on the matter clearly had no effect on her whatsoever.) Even still, I stuck to my guns and never wasted any more time arguing with her or trying to get her to be more respectful or engaging in any part of her dysfunctional insanity. As a matter of fact, after about a month or so I never even wasted any more time thinking about her or being mad at her or feeling anything at all for her. This all happened a little over 5 years ago and even recently when she wanted to hang out and/or catch up, I was still completely emotionally disconnected from the situation and shrugged off her request without a second thought.

Whoa. That doesn’t sound like the obsessive, clingy, chronically emotionally invested, can’t-get-the-fuck-over-it image of me that I kick myself for routinely. In fact, that healthy choice seems pretty progressive and emotionally stable of me.

When I realized that I’d been capable of actually following through with something I’d honestly believed I’d always been incapable of, I sat down and thought about all the other times in the last few years that I might’ve been able to do the same in similar situations. I was kind of convinced that this instance of me genuinely discarding something broken/dysfunctional/insane and completely emotionally getting over it in the aftermath was just a fluke. Just a one-time occurrence that wasn’t likely to happen again. But, the more I really thought about it, it seemed like I’d actually been capable of a good deal of emotional weeding. From where I sit right now, there are at least a dozen instances I can name where I found myself thoroughly immersed in and ravaged by a toxic relationship of some description and finally cut off the pointless interactions and walked away from this emotional tarbaby* AND was able to completely emotionally disengage from this scenario without having to go back and try to make sense of it all. These situations all vary in their previous intensity and power over my emotions and thoughts but in every case I’ve been able to just be done with it. Completely.

Now I’m not saying I’m cured just because I’ve been able to successfully remove myself from harmful relationships a few times because even doing it once is still damaging. (That’d be like saying, “Well I must be getting better because I don’t shoot heroin as often as I used to.”) But it really does give me a lot of faith in myself by having proof that I’ve been able to do this one thing (for years now!) I’ve always assumed I was incapable of. Makes me feel like doing it a couple more times isn’t that big or insurmountable of a deal.

So. Um. Yay me!

::: Smiling tilt of head. Gentle pat on back :::

*The use of “tarbaby” in this instance is a reference to the Br’er Rabbit folklore of the Old South… NOT a racial slur.

I once laughed right out loud at a young man who proudly, unflinchingly told me that Kevin Smith’s film ‘Dogma’ revived his faith in God and Catholicism. Seemed to me that finding creedance in a film that featured Chris Rock and Salma Hayek battling a demon made of poo with one of George Carlin’s golf clubs signified a lack of understanding in belief in the first place. I mean, with that mentality, then I could claim that Showtime’s ‘Dead Like Me’ changed my beliefs on the afterlife and Raiders of the Lost Ark made me believe that the Ark of the Covenant was out there melting people’s faces. For that matter, why doesn’t everyone who watches ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ believe that women doctors are all stupid and horny? Where does one draw the line between fake, idealistic misrepresentations of life for the sake of entertainment and real, life-inspired art? It was scary to think that somehow Jay and Silent Bob (not to mention Ben Affleck… ergh) were out there changing people’s entire bases of spiritual awareness. Gross.

However, every morning when I wake up, I sit Chloe in her high chair and turn on the television to keep her sated while I make her breakfast. Because the only things on so early in the morning are ‘Squawk Box’ and reruns of ‘Saved by the Bell’, I’ve started turning the channel to DiscoveryHD, where we watch ‘Sunrise Earth’, a beautiful, silent observance of the sun rising on various parts of the world. It’s a majestic representation of the globe rousing itself and I find our daily viewing to be rejuvenating and invigorating, often bringing me and Chloe a sense of peace and excited optimism about the day ahead. Some mornings, I put on an old copy of ‘Baraka’ to meditate and read my cards along with while soft music and various images of the world calmly roll before me. Chloe claps and giggles along with her favorite scenes and somehow knows to be silent and reverent during the solemn parts of the film and I love the awareness and bright energy so many conflicting images brings to our daily consciousness. It’s a powerful film in that every time we watch it, we have a different daily experience. Sometimes I sit and watch with tears rolling down my cheeks, sometimes I pick Chloe up and we dance with the whirling dervishes in Turkey, and sometimes I keep my eyes closed and let the music wind itself around me as I absorb the energies of the day and my immediate environment. It’s turned into a ritual that’s amazingly grounding, humbling, and challenging. It’s a perfect addition to my morning meditation, really.

After doing this for about two months, I realized how hypocritical it seemed for me to criticize someone else’s resonance with a film when I incorporated mine into my daily meditational practices. Okay, sure, I think it’s a little stupid, but who am I to judge what resonates with others in a way that changes their lives? I’m sure a lot of people would think it’s ridiculous that I keep a shiny ball bearing in my pocket some days to remind me of the final scene in The Who’s ‘Tommy’ and to repeat “Love, reign over me” to myself in my darkest moments. I’m sure I’d garner a surplus of rolled eyes at the notion that I meditate on writing prompts from a crazy purple book written by a nutty San Franciscan astrologer. Hell, my mom laughed right out loud at the dinner table when my sister and I were talking about my newfound excitement and shocking results with reading Tarot cards; I’d be willing to bet she’d publicly ridicule the idea that putting on my vinyl LPs and singing along loudly with the Gorillaz’ gospel song “Demon Days” or The Who’s “Listening to You” is among my favorite worship practices. These are things that raise my vibrations, that bring me energy and reverence.

I’m never worshipping the artists, but I feel like these are the songs, images, films and readings that bring me the closest to Divinity; how is that any different than singing a hymn someone else wrote in their most inspired moments? I don’t see the difference.

I’d only just posted the previous blog entry when I started putting away laundry. I was starting to clear away jewelry that had been strewn across the top of my dresser, when I went into a sudden cleaning frenzy and thought, “I’ll bet there’s stuff in my jewelry box I could stand to get rid of…” (Read: rainbow “candy” necklaces and bracelets from my raving days when I was going under the pseudonym “Venus”… don’t ask.)

I started going through the chambers and, lo and behold, there was a small pile of charms that never made it to anything larger, including one that my mother had purchased for me eight summers ago in Yellowstone. A Navajo bear, that I would absolutely have picked out for myself if she hadn’t given it to me for Christmas.

… Thanks, Universe.