I Can’t Commit to You Fully Because I Might Rather Die

When Mom was pregnant with me, my eleven-year-old brother died in an accident that she and Dad blamed themselves for. He was their only child.

Mom wanted to die. Wanted us to die. Believed deeply that we would die in childbirth. She was so committed to this idea, she laid out funeral clothes for us before leaving for the hospital when she went into labor.

Her disappointment was palpable.

I’m not going to tell the whole story. I’m fifty-four. It’s a long story. But I do want to share this one thing…

All the planetary intensity lately; massive full moons, Chiron the Wounded Healer making some seriously impressive dance moves across the sky, added to my curiosity about the path I’m on, has brought all of this in utero trauma right to the fore – in one of the darkest and most difficult winter/springs of my life.

“To what end?” you ask.

The end of the story has yet to be shown. But what I know for sure today is why I’m so fat.

I’ve been asking myself this for a long time. I didn’t used to be out of shape and a binge eater. Well, not all the time anyway. But for the last ten years, I’ve felt an unwillingness to take care of myself. Nothing motivated me to take care of my body. I grew spiritually in leaps and bounds, but I refused to take care of my body.

With intensity I refused. It was puzzling. Until the sky started moving around in all of its transits, squares, trines and sextiles, and the people I commune with started sharing their struggles in ways that made me look hard at my history. One friend suggested it was time to write the story of my childhood. To do that, I wanted to go back and touch it again. Remember what it was like so I could tell the story in such a way that you could feel it. I asked to be shown how to do that.

When you ask with an open heart, Guidance comes in such amazing ways; a phrase uttered by a friend, a book recommendation, an urge to return to a childhood home… Breadcrumbs. I followed. Because I love crap like that.

I share my mother’s wish to die. How could I not? I was part of her for six months while she refused to take care of us, refused to commit to living without my brother. Looking back, I recognize that I’ve acted out this Death Wish in many different ways. Risky behavior, disordered eating, being unable to commit to anything long term. Addiction.
But the thing that strikes me right now is that I am entrenched in the emotions Mom was feeling as she awaited my birth/our death. I don’t want to be here. I won’t commit to being here and I won’t take care of myself.
There is healing to be done, that is for certain. I’m grateful for all the teachers in my life who have given me tools for this work.
I don’t know how this will unfold; the healing of a wound so existential, so primal.

I do know that it feels right to sit with it. To see myself as that tiny, unformed human resting in such despair. And to simply honor her. At the same time, honoring Mom. I can feel her pain as clearly as if it were my own. How could I not? There is a sense of weightlessness that comes with Truth when you’ve been struggling against some invisible something. I am not expecting it to stay forever. I’m just grateful it happened at all. I really needed to see the Light even if only for a moment.

What steps will show up next? I’m curious.

That’s a start.

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A Stick in the Wheel of a Careening Bicycle

Momentum. It can serve. It can drive us into the ground. Without something to break it, like a stick in the spokes of a bicycle, momentum can wreck us at the bottom of a steep grade. Is this the stick that will break the downward momentum for me or is it a record of my demise? Time will tell.
A Year of Divine Offering. I had vision. Apparently, not the same vision the Divine was having. Whatever. If this is Her vision, then maybe all isn’t lost.
I am so tired.
I’m a spiritual type. I am a believer. I think of my life as a conversation with God. If that title wasn’t already taken, that’s what my memoir would be titled. But I’m bored. The conversation is the same over and over…. And over. My life is a series of the same moments set on repeat.
This winter has been brutal. And yes ~ I know it’s May. Shut up. It feels like winter in my soul. Dark and dry and cold. I am getting bitter and hopeless like my sainted mother. Sarcasm. Sarcasm that tastes bitter in the back of my throat. At least I understand her apathy. I understand her commitment to depression. She lost a child. But I have nothing but opportunity. I have the gift of her experience and a desire to do it differently.
And yet. Depression and apathy are unwelcome visitors far too often. And even when depression stays home, apathy comes to me as if I am its only charge.
So let’s talk about Divine Offering and the vision. I saw myself facing challenges with an almost superhuman excitement, knowing I had the Divine on my side and it would be with ease and sure footedness that I would navigate the guidance that came concerning these challenges.
What actually happened was that straight out of the gate, I took matters into my own human hands and ignored ALL the guidance that I was being given concerning my relationship. It took a while to right that ship. But God is patient and I believe. So, even though I was impatient and impulsive, the lesson was beautiful. And the wisdom deep. Embarrassing. But deep. In the end, I realized that all my relationships are here to help me remember my True Nature. They’re not here to make me happy, or complete. They’re here to help me realize I am already Loved. Already complete. That I am, in fact Love Itself.
That seemed like a big lesson. I felt like it might be THE lesson. The one that would break open all the locked gates that I’d been banging around on for my entire adult life. But after the high, came… nothing. Nothing, nothing, No Thing. I’m still waiting for some unnamed thing. Something worthy enough to write about? Maybe. Who the hell knows?

There has been some seriously strong astrological transits happening. I’m blaming part of this opportunity for growth on that. And part of it on politics. Because who doesn’t love to blame Trump for shit? But here’s the real deal:
I may never be okay. I may actually turn into my mother. I’m closing in. I think we might be only one person. As much as I’ve despised and loved her, I think I might BE her. As if she’s figured out how to be immortal.
No. I don’t believe this. Not really. Although, part of me feels it intensely.
Ancestral shit storms are real. And this one has been begging to be healed for many lifetimes. And as I stepped up to the counter to apply for the job, I was optimistic. I was enthusiastic. I was downright superhuman. I had no idea.
As a kid, and even now, I gravitate toward fantasy fiction. I loved stories about overcoming obstacles. The Never Ending Story, Labyrinth… where someone who was much stronger than they realized, faced overwhelming challenges. And I was smart enough to understand that the demons they faced were their own.
When Artax died in the swamps of sadness, I almost couldn’t watch the rest of the movie. Who kills horses or dogs in movies? But, I get the message now. Only my swamp is apathy. Depression. Judgment. And I’m being pulled under just like Artax. Just like Mom, Grandma and on up the lineage. And down. To my daughter.
I used to be so judgmental of Mom’s refusal to use her talents. She was a brilliant visual artist. And she wasted it. She was consumed by apathy and she wasted her talent.

Just as I am wasting mine. Because I can’t live up to my vision.
So, here is what you need to know. If you subscribe to this blog, it has just changed. It’s not going to be pretty. It won’t be superhuman.
This is me offering it to Divine Love. This is me doing the thing I’ve been avoiding. I wanted things to be pretty. I wanted to write about stuff after the fact; when I had the lesson all figured out. You know… to give you hope. Well, hope eludes. So now, I’m just writing as I go. No wisdom. Just reality.
I’m a believer. I believe there’s a way out of the swamp of apathy and depression for me. I believe the Universe wouldn’t have let me choose a lesson plan I couldn’t succeed at. But damn. I’m scared. I’m scared because sometimes I am so tired that giving up feels like self care.
Writing is what I know to do. Before I got consumed with the what and the how, writing was my salvation. Let it be my salvation now. Whether anyone understands or gives a shit. Let it save me from repeating history. Divine Beloved, fill the space between us. Make me courageous. You said “Write”. Let me do that. Let me let go of expectation. Make me brave enough to write in my own voice even if it doesn’t serve anyone but me. Please don’t let apathy kill me. Let this be the stick in the wheel of my bicycle.