It strikes me within minutes of publishing this post that I always feel that I am in so far over my head when writing the truth of what I know that I cannot endure it. The intensity of my experience when I ‘get close’ to my truth feels to be more than I can humanly bear.
I have no one to talk with on an ongoing basis who will help me downregulate this intensity of my whole-body emotional experience connected to the material both about Mother’s story and about my own.
At this moment I encounter what might be the most difficult aspect of my life: Why am I here? How did I survive what was done to me, abuse from birth and continuously forward through the first 18 years of my life? How did I not come through my infancy and childhood NOT being completely mad? How am I alive AT ALL?
As I held the most-precious pure body of my newly born grandson my awareness was complete that when I was his age I had already experienced such hatred and brutal, violent abuse from my mother that I SHOULD have – in my thinking – been removed from the realm of the living ALREADY!
My rational self at this moment tells me that in order for me to continue to endure I MUST leave what I can know and do know – ALONE.
From this point another voice within me tells me that it was ONLY possible for me to endure and to survive intact what was done to me through divine, spiritual intervention.
This voice tells me that my being willing to allow this same divine, spiritual assistance to carry me through my writing work is the ONLY way I can publish a book (books) in the same way that this assistance kept me alive and sane in the first place.
Another voice of mine says, “I never wanted that suffering! I want to keep an impenetrable petition between myself and the truth that I know so that I can remain a person intact and alive even now.”
Another voice says, “Can you trust that there is a greater and a good purpose to ALL OF THIS, that this purpose is far bigger than you are, than your mother was? Will you accept the job of making sense out of something so awful – and therefore so awesome – that few can as yet comprehend?”
At the same time this me, this woman with fingers on her keyboard writing through tears, cannot comprehend any of this. What I know, what I can in my own very small way understand and accept, is that I have books to publish that very well have the potential to grant to my beloved children and grandchildren something of value I can understand: financial well-being through financial freedom.
This writing work, the BIG writing that I have been avoiding for one full year now, seems to require of me that I step out alone into an arena so vast that I feel like the tiniest speck of breathing life that at any possible millisecond can be snuffed completely out.
What I WANT, then, is to find some remote, detached, objective armored self that can do this work as if she were a writing robot. I don’t want to agree to a job that demands of me that I be more wholly present during the writing of these books than I have ever been before in my memory of myself.
This is so intense. This is so agonizing. I stand up and pace and pace and pace and pace. I feel apart from, not a part of this material world that greets me in this body. The writing – my real writing – seems to exist within a different dimension where time and space and memory hold an entirely different meaning. Carry a different weight. Have a different potential to suck me in and never let me out again.
I pace and pace and pace and pace, with my right hand pressed firmly against my solar plexus. I fear I will bore my blog readers to death as I move forward into this writing direction, into this place where there seems to be no beginning, no end, and only one possible doorway of escape: The publishing of these books.
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