It really wasn’t one of those things I could ask someone about. Google couldn’t even tell me what I needed to hear. The only reference I had was that movie Ghost. And Whoopi was a phony for half the movie, and the other half she could legitimately talk to the dead. According to my research, visiting a spiritual reader could go either way.
I was raised Catholic, but it never sat well with me. I secretly denounced my faith at a really young age and figured if there was a God he’d come looking for me eventually.
And boy oh boy did he ever.
And boy oh boy did he ever.
Standing alone in your thoughts and opinions can sometimes be the scariest experience. But seeing and hearing things that aren’t visible or audible to the rest of the world, is way scarier. No one agreed that what was happening to me was actually happening or they were indifferent. Some said it was stress, some said it was the pills, some said it was all for attention, and the people that believed me were too freaked out to say anything.
The answer to what I had gone through was lost in a sea of probabilities.
Was I absolutely mad?
Or had my five senses become six?
My life was in shambles when I met Andrew.
I wasn’t going to see him because of my boogie men. During that chapter of my life, I blamed the pills. I found him because something inside me told me to, and oddly enough his tarot shop was located in my neighbourhood. This was all sorts of strange. I didn’t believe in God, nor did I believe he could speak through a deck of cards. Funny enough, that was one of the first things Andrew told me about myself.
“You don’t believe in anything.”
I said I didn’t believe there was a God.
He said there was one.
We’ll leave it at that.
The beautiful part of being in a dark place is when you find the light.
It shines brighter then anything you’ve ever seen before.
And you can’t help but give it your notice. It captivates you.
As if it were lightly guiding your chin to say “look here.”
You turn your head to face it, and forget why you’re head was ever turned to begin with. It no longer matters.
For those of you reading that are still travelling through darkness, when you know what I’m talking about is when you’ll know what I’m talking about.
I thanked angels, praised Jah, sat with the trees, prayed to whoever was listening, kissed the ground, befriended the universe. I continuously expressed gratitude to whatever was helping me out of the black. Then one day, Lui said to me :
“Ya know, you should really start taking some credit for yourself.”
He was right.
I took no ownership for my triumphs.
I thanked everything under the moon and stars, but never myself.
“Not many people have the strength that you have.” Said one person.
“Very few people could endure what you’ve endured.” Said another.
I was familiar with seeing and hearing things others couldn’t, but never had I been unable to see and hear what others could. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. I was no hero. For years I hit the bottle pretty hard and hid in a thick fog of bong smoke...how in the fuck was I any sort of example?
I went to therapy once a week for a long time.
I went to group meetings.
I read many books.
I walked for hours.
I sweat it out.
I cried it out.
I let it out.
I’m working through the aftermath of such a journey, but I’m out.
What constitutes a hero in my eyes, is someone who saves a life.
Even if it is your own.
It took a very long time to give myself the credit I deserved, I still struggle with it. Sometimes I feel as if I’m just regurgitating all the things others have told me about myself. I always question if I actually believe it. But with the ending of one journey, so begins another.
We never truly stop traveling do we? Whether it’s through dark or light, we are always moving. Always learning.
Learning who we are.
And what we’re made of.