Firstly, I want to apologise for my last blog, which contained unsolicited advice thinly disguised as, well, a blog. My intentions were good, but we all know what the road to hell is paved with. From now on, stories/personal truth only.
I tend to operate on a boom and bust cycle. Last weekend with its lots of writing, lots of getting stuff done, was followed by a crash. It is normal for me to have creative-quiet-creative patterns of functioning and I generally accept this. I say generally, because it is still not uncommon for me, during these quiet periods, to wonder if ‘it’ has gone forever and whether I will ever write anything again. Sometimes, in a peaceful/philosophical moment, I wonder if this is something to aspire to, to get to a place where I have nothing left to say.
So I had that, plus I was fighting off a cold, plus I was engaged in the battle (even if a lot of it was only in my own head), best described by the band Pulp: ‘You’ve got to fight to the death for the right to live your life.’ Yes, I know that doesn’t actually make any literal sense, but I find the sentiment strengthening. Probably connected with this, I was getting preoccupied and a bit anxious about ‘the future’.
I’d been all ‘hearth and home’; thinking that all I had to do was practical stuff such as painting and cleaning, no ‘spiritual’ stuff. I thought that all I needed to do was focus on sorting out the house and getting on a plane. That is what I’m doing, but it’s not enough to sustain me. I need to maintain my awareness of why I’m doing it.
I’m not just going travelling for the sake of it, to ‘have an adventure before it’s too late’ as I tell family/work people. I am purposefully dismantling my current reality and stepping outside of everything known in order to raise my frequency and reset my life. Reset my mind, and thereby my life. Reset my life and thereby my mind. It’s a chicken and egg kind of thing.
So I didn’t last all that long without a spiritual guru, returning yesterday evening and this morning to reconnect with the path, the tell-me-again-why-I-am-doing-all-this. I heard everything I needed to: that after a decisive action there is often a testing period (hence the fatigue, anxiety etc); plus lots of encouraging words and information that chimed with me and therefore reassured me.
On the other side of the week was today: walking along, writing at the same time. I reached the last page of my notebook today. I don’t know if it means anything that this is what I wrote about there:
At the weekend I engaged in some lower frequency activities and whilst I was in bed with my husband I had a complete flashback, totally terrifying, of something that may or may not have happened to me as a child with one of my mum’s lodgers. I explored this in my book How to find Heaven on Earth, although perhaps I didn’t do a good enough job. My husband had told me, tell me if you get paranoid, and so I did. Do you want to talk about it, he asked. No, no, too scary- distract me, I said. But what would have happened if I had?
I’ve been so smug about letting go of the past, all the decluttering, the way I’ve wrapped my head around the theory of there being no past; thinking that I don’t want or need memories, that all I want is awareness, and believing that awareness is all we need to sustain us, even in old age. But the one thing I can’t get rid of is my own body. In fact, it’s the only thing I need, along with clothing and shelter, food and water for it. And so I can’t let go of the memories stored inside, or at least, not by decluttering anyway.
How on earth do you begin a dialogue/exploration/treatment of something like that? Do I carry on having sex with my husband and hence experience the flashbacks/in order to experience the flashbacks and therefore be able to explore them in the moment? That was clearly too terrifying. Do I just carry on, let it feel what it feels- nice- or expect it to feel horrible- which it doesn’t, but I imagine that it would have hurt. Every bit of my logical mind/conditioning would point to this. So the idea of it feeling nice is the most terrifying of all. It’s not even like I can ask anyone, hey, is it possible that it could have felt nice? People would be horror struck. I’m horror struck. Was the other night just paranoia/a hallucination? Was it a (missed) opportunity to do some radical trauma therapy? How do I know if any of those memories are real?
Please don’t be afraid to share any observations you may have, I am totally at the limits of my powers here! Any advice would be welcome.