“The Little Girl”-program in the mind

This morning I prayed for help to join with the part of me who is responsible for these almost constant states of inner disaster and turmoil in the morning, and I was shown a severely dissociated part – a conglomerate of disaster parts, melted into one, from baby and up to 6-7 years old. I saw her – as in a room/space-bubble for herself in the astral level- and she was permanently looking at /being shown/ horrible images of abuse, murder, torture, what have you.

I was also helped to understand that I/my soul was her “power” – it was like she had relocated herself to another level, into a bubble where she could be “safe” – so she did not have to be fully present in the acts she was forced to participate in and subject others to. “She” relocated – and her emotional and mental state of mind – the “disaster-one” – followed her to this “bubble” in the mind, and my soul, and my identification with her, powered her as my creation – made it “real”, as the Course calls it. The physical acts surely happened to her – but she added to those her own thoughts and beliefs about herself, and why this happened to HER – like,” I must be really wicked and sinful since I experience this, I have no worth, I deserve to be punished constantly not to be hit by God’s rage.”

And constantly telling herself these lies – and me unconsciously believing in them – made them real for her – and cemented her “sinful” sluttish identity.

And “she” will perpetuate this creation of mine in a split-off state of mind, as long as I have not firmly dissolved my beliefs that is running the creation

I asked for help, and was reminded of my Michael-Sword of Truth. I directed it at the essence of the darkness with the intention of returning it to the One – a lot was released and resolved

This is the metaphysics of it:by believing in the dark images, the images become real – this is how humanity has created the world. In “The Jeshua Letters,” Jeshua describes “the world” like this:

“…the vast array of perceptions you have learned about yourself. It is a web of illusion that you, as soul, freely choose to be immersed within. The web is like a vortex, a field of energy… The world means nothing. This is the salvation of the world: That is does not, nor has it ever, existed.”

Like “The world,” the split-off girl does not exist in reality – she is a conglomerate of my own beliefs and fears, powered by my denial and resistance to them – which creates a strong identification with them.

What I am reminded of now, while I am with her, loving her, is that images are nothing else than images – and ONLY humans’ belief in their appearance makes them seemingly real.

I am shown that my perception still primarily is driven by this split – off – girl -and I see the perception like two pieces of twisted frozen dirty-green ice in front of my eyes, warping images of love into sickening brutality and perversion.

I pray deeply for help to clear my perception, and is told the importance of being the Self in Presence with her, just witnessing her feelings and saying them back to her. In this way, she will experience LOVE as well as her fears

This day I was more tired than I have ever been – until I was prompted to sit down and write it down and sharing it with you. In that second, the tiredness lifted.

Puppet on a String

Welcome everybody! Take a seat. You too, father, I want you to sit down. This is not your group, you are not leading it.

Everyone: the task today is to notice your judgments about what is going to happen here – and see if you can let them go. If not, just notice that you want to keep it.

Yes, it is dark in here. No father, you really has nothing to say in here. And Ian – I will not have you lecture me on all I do wrong.

Out of the blue, a vast storm of meanness and vicious rancid lecturing, invectives and sewer language spews out of me. And then, my judgments: Ohmygod now you all see what a klutz I am, I can’t even find adult words, no control, no control at all how utterly pitiful…

Then the evening show starts:

On the wall, behind Father’s Chair, stage lights are appearing under the roof. A small girl – just a toddler – is suspended by a line and a hook that is slided from left to right. She is also bumped up and down, like in a mini-bungee – jumping as she slides toward the end of the line

This can’t be right? She’s just a little girl – where are the theater workers who set this up? No – where is the cruel director? How can they treat a small child like that?

Sit still, group, I will take care of it

“I am right here below you – if you fall, I will catch you “

Without a word she lets me know that she will proceed to the end of the line.

Her costume is cream and white – so delicate – she is one I love with all of me. As she is jumped from left to right, she becomes older – at the end of the line she is about 13 – and I watch her suddenly freeze to ice. There is no child present now – just frozen terror in a child’s form.

I loosen the hook and take her in my arms. I look her gently in the eyes, and gradually she comes back into the body and says, dreamingly “It is so strange how I suddenly became terrified.”

“You forgot that you were just a character in a play” I tell her, and we sit down in Fathers Chair. “You thought you were this girl on a string.”

“Is it over now? “ she asks.

“I have you now” I say. “You are my little girl, you know.”

My father’s face darkens. He looks away, and black puke violently pours from him. I remind the group to watch their judgments and let them go. Let it be. Let the black vomit come out. Let him purge himself.

It is shame. We all know it is. We have all been there. Eons of black asphalt dung shame. Its acidity erodes a hole in the floor, and he disappears down into it.

Or does he? There is a young man standing where The Father stood. An easel with a large canvas is before him, and he start to paint with precise strokes. He knows his excellence as painter.

We see:

Heaven. Vast and calm ocean, not even a slight ripple, mirrors the sky.Horizon almost invisible. Small white rowboat with two persons: father and daughter. Silently fishing on the big ocean of awareness

Letting be is letting go

I was just reading Myron Jones’ blog. As soon as I started to read, hate welled up like a geyser. Sitting in grace, I noticed the hatred, gave it to H.S and let it be as it was – remembering that “doing something with it” is not my business.

A wave of peace moved through me.

Next paragraph: now the hate became more personified: this came from a little girl’s hate of God, who was thought to abandon her. I forgave the attachment to the little girl-story, gave it up, and the same wave of release.

How simple life is when I stop being my own fixer

It’s a book – not my body

I have discovered that what makes me so resistant to have my book published – is that I identity with it. This identity is connected to the little girl-victim-identity: I recognize now that I am equally afraid of somebody attacking the book, ridiculing it, wanting to destroy it, coming after me and destroying me, as that memory of the girl was afraid of this in her rapists.

It’s psychological understandable that I identity with my work – I think most of us do – that’s why we love medals and hate being fired. If they will judge my book and hate it, it is me they hate and judge – so it feels. But my book is not my body – although the explorations in it has been experienced through my body. But I am not my experiences. And after the morning blog here and the insights I know that what is most scary about my fears re the book’s becoming public is the stories I tell myself – that “I am that person whose job it is to be stalked and raped and punished. – And I don’t want to hold on to that belief.  I am not that story – and while I am saying that, some part of me says “you will never get rid of it.”

Truth is – writing this book has been great healing process. Others reading it and telling me that it teems with Love is a clear sign that it is NOT my body: it has come through me, which is a sign of my willingness to look at the story from a gentler place than the ego.

I wish to be free of these triggers into the story. I hope this time is a big step further. Kit shares an image: “It’s like when a  block of ice breaks off a glacier.”

 

 

Please note that nothing written here is intended as medical advice. Readers who think that they need help with a physical or psychological condition are advised to seek a qualified opinion.

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