Demons, Darkness and the Light

You know those days, or time periods, when a bunch of crap just starts to happen, kind of like you’ve dropped an explosive device down the deep stench of the outhouse and a volcano of poop is erupting?

Do you know too that moment when you can step back away from the ego-self and observe your own being, while distancing yourself from the mess that in reality is an illusion? How you can then, with decisive and heartfelt action, breathe in what appears to be filth and smell only succulent roses?

I’m stepping back. And I’m admiring the wonders of this experience labeled life.

I gather I’m under attack of some sort. Whenever I am entirely honest and come from a place of pure truth, as I did in my latest writings, something always counters me.

I don’t mean to sound “far out there” or “super spiritual,” but truth be told, I’ve been countered since I was a young child. And I’ve been placed in events that have directly challenged my strength of will.

By the age of nine, I’d undergone losses of grand proportion, including the loss of two fathers, one through my mother’s second divorce, a man I’d never see again, but once when I was almost an adult, and the emotional loss of my biological father, whom, for the majority of my childhood, I only saw a few days a year. I suffered the loss of my kindergarten teacher when she died of cancer. I suffered the loss of my best friend in kindergarten, Keith, who moved to Hawaii. I suffered the loss of my step-sisters and step-brothers, when our family broke apart; they being the only siblings I ever had. I suffered the loss of my best buddy of three years, who was more liken to a sister, because she was the daughter of my mother’s boyfriend, and I spent most nights and weekends in the same bedroom as her—lost her when her mother “kidnapped” her one day; the last day I ever saw her. I suffered the loss of pets that I would foretell dying in my dreams. I suffered the loss of childhood with the complexity of my thoughts, and an understanding of the vastness of the universe and consequences of social norms, that far surpassed the thinking of most adults. Suffer I did. And all before the first decade of my life reached completion.

I teeter not upon the other violations I experienced, choosing not to go into detail, but instead say that along with the losses, predators found me, and made me victim.

At the age of ten, life didn’t get easier, in fact the trials continued, one after the other, without pause for retreat, without rest, without rescue.

I grew into a woman matured in an untimely fashion by the pangs of this world. I grew into a child, who born sensitive and hyper aware of the spiritual world, became hyper afraid of the earthly world. My fear manifested itself into a grandiose, potentially explosive, bang of illusion associated with death and illness. Everything imaginable was out to destroy me. Who implanted this seed, I do not know, but it remains to this day my greatest internal weed, with thoughts of my demise recycling and winding through my mind sometimes emotionally choking me up to a few hundred times hourly. How to stop this fear has been my quest since I was nine. I have truly died a thousand and one deaths, each minute reminded of my mortality and fragility.

The only thing that stops the thoughts is being immersed in a fixation or passion. The issue then becomes that I am escaping the present to avoid my thoughts, and in fact not really here at all.

I have grown tired of this battle. So very weary.

In truth, I have traveled a tiresome path of challenge after challenge, emotionally, physically, mentally and spiritually. I have been persecuted at all levels.

At age elven, I would awake to demons dragging me down my bed or to the hell fires roasting my body. I’ve been visited by spirits I would call “evil.”

My father had told me as a teenager, when I’d undergo the extreme nightmares, the visitations, the precognitive dreams, and such, that I was a beacon on a hill and that my bright light would attract the good, but with this, I would also attract the bad. I believed him. I still do.

My outer-body experiences started when I was very young. I would wake up trapped in my own body, able to see everything about me and hear, but unable to open my eyes. My father could leave his dream state and body, travel to another room in the house, and upon awakening tell all of what he saw and heard.

For me, I have visions, I see what will happen, or what might happen. I see car accidents, deaths, tragedies, sufferings, and sometimes, though rare, cause for celebration.

There was a time, I sat alone in a room with my father, and when he asked, “Can you tell me what you see when looking at me? And I responded, “Yes, to your right, there is a demon there, sitting and trying to control you.” And my father answered, “Yes,” pointing to the exact spot I mentioned.

Again, another time, my father said to look in a mirror at the end of his hallway and tell him what I saw. I told him a green like lizard-like alien with yellow-orange eyes, and he again responded “Yes; that is what I see.”

My father is quite sane. With the whole of my heart, I believe he was not inventing things. He is above all else extremely honest, blunt, and direct. I fear, though, he still has that demon sitting at his side.

In his house I was never safe. When I lived with him during my college years, I was always frightened to sleep under his roof. I would hear “get out” when I entered his bedroom, though no one was home. And strange events happened, like the television turning on by itself and flicking channels or a spirit holding me at night using the exact same words to speak to me as she did to my father.

“Oh her. Yes, I know her. She comes to me at night in the same way,” my father would say.

Once a well-known and established religious sect tried to recruit my father, based on his connection to the spiritual world. “Quickly, come here,” father would hear, before stealthy escaping the waiting area. “We found one of them!” Them referring to psychic and able to astral project.

With all the challenges and arguably unusual (and sometimes unspeakable) occurrences in my life, I’m growing tired of what I see as servitude through sacrifice. I definitely feel as if I have the soul of a martyr. I say this with no pride.

I tried for many years to heal my soul, to fill some gap or hole, so to undergo a life of simplicity and easiness.

I’m quite the expert in mankind’s current way to better one’s self, and quite the expert on the shortcomings of such solutions.

I’ve come to the conclusion that my soul and personhood does not need fixing.

I am realizing that the most advantageous action for me to take is to continue to be authentic and shine my light. To continue, regardless of the consequence, to be truthful in my personal experience.

I am listening to my angels.

I’ve been called since I was little to help. First with animals, later with the elderly, homeless, non-English speaking immigrants, and children, and now female adults.

Being called to help and shine my light for no other intention but to help is just who I am.

I think, no I know, I scare some people. They just don’t get me.

They don’t understand why I do what I do.

Why I write or have this drive to reach people.

They don’t understand honesty.

They don’t understand goodness.