So, I am still not sure what “the Work” is, so I’m not sure this is the right place for this. Heck, I’m still not sure I even want to post this or why I ultimately AM posting it. But this came up while I was “working” on my Self, and “working” through the Wave series, so here it is. I will apologize ahead of time for the immense length of this; I understand if you have neither the time nor patience to make your way through it. This is a very personal subject and it has always been difficult for me to “trim it down”… I kind of have to tell it in my own way. I have never had qualms about sharing my story with those who wanted to hear (in fact, as the gist of it made its way through the rumor mill of my very small school, many people seemed to migrate towards me, having thoughts of suicide themselves, and it seemed sharing it seemed to help them in some way, so I was happy to do so) and I have been over it enough times to feel that I had “worked through it”. But in the “work” that I’ve been doing lately, I felt inclined to take it out again and sort of. .. re-evaluate. (I just had an image in my head of picking clean a chicken or lobster carcass… you’re pretty sure most of the meat is gone already, but just in case there’s still some good stuff left between the ribs… mmmm… lobster rib meat…) Anyway, I felt compelled to write it down, and having no other outlet for it, I am posting it (with some significant hesitation and trepidation) here in this forum.
When I was 17, a senior in high school, I attempted suicide.
During the summer before my senior year, I began to slip into a deep depression. I’m not fully sure what brought it on. My psychologist later told me that I had probably been depressed my entire life, and I think/thought she was probably right, but something triggered it to get much, much worse that year. I remember feeling very lonely, but I’m not sure if the loneliness brought the depression, or the depression caused me to isolate myself bringing on the loneliness…. The two work together in such a vicious cycle once one gets into that frame of mind that it really becomes a chicken and egg problem.
Things came to a head one night when I had a huge fight with my mother over something stupid. In desperation, I told her (well, more yelled to her, as we were still mid-blowout) my true feelings about how lonely I was; she saw this as merely a desperate attempt to get what I wanted. In a way she was right, but it wasn’t the lie that she thought it was; I have always been very secretive about my feelings and it’s only when my back is against a wall, that I’ve been forced to express them. Anyway, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and I ended up spending the night in my car with initial plans of “running away” and “starting over somewhere else”. Now, don’t think that my mother is some kind of monster that I needed to run away from her; I was just so desperately unhappy I think I was grasping for some way to try and make it better. As I lay in that car, trying to come up with a plan, each idea was shot down by my brain, one by one, as unfeasible. I got to the point where there was just no way forward, and there was no way back. The only option I was left with was the Emergency Exit.
Let me go back a moment and explain that this Emergency Exit seemed to exist in my mind (subconscious or full conscious I am not sure) for some time. As a freshman, I wrote a story about this girl who, tortured and ridiculed by her peers for being overweight, leaves school early one day to go home and overdose on pain killers while her parents are away at work. I was certainly never tortured like that, I think Fat Girl was more of a modern archetype, but in some ways even then I knew that Fat Girl was about me. I’m not sure how the idea of suicide was introduced to me, but I was an avid reader and I loved horror stories, and I very clearly remember one book that I read in about sixth grade- this girl fills the bathtub but leaves the water running slightly and the drain open slightly so that the water will remain warm and the blood mess will drain after she slits her wrists. I remember sort of filing this away, like “Well that’s a good way to do it.” So I’m not sure when the Emergency Exit entered my mind, but it certainly was a ways back. And I literally saw it as a neon sign “Exit” in my brain and knew that there was always a way out. But I also remember that somewhere along the way, I picked up the notion that no matter what happened, before I tried the Exit door, I’d at least try and “start over” in a new place, ie, run away.
What is interesting to me now, in picking clean the carcass, is that the Emergency Exit has the marks of being a Self-Destruct Program. That, I guess, is what I’m attempting to explore now. My brain wants to say, “No. That’s silly. Even if I believe these ‘Programs’ exist, why would I have any such programs? Why would anyone bother with programming me?” I guess that’s the “I’m not good enough and I don’t matter” program, which might I add, is a VERY persistent and hard to break program for me!
Anyway, back to me lying in the car, trying to come up with a plan for “starting over” and concluding that the “exit plan” is the only thing that will work. If I remember correctly, it was only after making this decision that I finally stopped crying, stopped thinking, and actually got some sleep. Is it that only by accepting the Program I was able to get some relief? Now, I had bought some over the counter sleeping pills fairly recently. Sleeping was the only time I felt reasonably happy, and probably because I was sleeping so much of the time, I had a real hard time getting to sleep (but I’ve also suffered insomnia problems since I was a very young child and still do today). I fell asleep in my car clutching that box of sleeping pills to my chest as if it were some form of comfort. Its also interesting to me that, other than my purse, that is the ONLY thing I took from the house when I left- no bag, no clothes- but I made sure not to leave without those pills (and no I didn’t keep them IN my purse, I explicitly grabbed them off the night table). I am not fully sure what my “Exit Plan” was at that moment, but you will see in a moment that there were at least SOME elements of the bath-tub plan, despite my desperate attachment to those sleeping pills. Might the Program be over-riding any plan that I may have worked out for myself? It certainly seemed active in knocking down any of my “start over somewhere else/runaway” plans…
So the next morning, I drove by the house several times, waiting until I was sure that my mother had left for work. I was having a little bit of trouble thinking several steps in advance, I remember just focusing on the next step. “Ok, when I get home I’ll take a bath (we didn’t have a shower, only an old fashioned claw foot tub), get cleaned up and clean up my room.” For some reason, it seemed very import that I didn’t have hairy legs when they found my body- I think that’s some of the teenage romanticizing of suicide- so these first steps were really aimed at “preparing the scene”. As it turned out, when I got into the house, I just didn’t give a **** anymore. I have generally chocked this up to the depression- anyone who has been deeply depressed knows how hard it is to get motivated to do just about ANYTHING- but now I wonder if that just wasn’t part of the Program. At any rate, it was quickly settled in my mind that I would take the sleeping pills and the “scene” was of no real importance. The building is on fire- get out the Exit while the getting is good!
I also remember being in a sort of “auto-pilot”. The pills were not in a bottle, but in those plastic sheets with the tinfoil back so I had to pop them out individually. I remember sitting on my popping them out; when they were all out, I eventually arranged them into piles of four (they were 25 mg each, so this seemed logical that they should be in piles of 100 mg) but I have a sense of time passing here… sort of in a fog… so that I think I may have arranged them in different configurations a (also scooping a handful and letting them run out through my fingers several times) before settling on this one. At this point, I kind of brought myself out of auto-pilot for a conversation in my head, something along the lines: “Ok, this is for a real. This is not a joke, and this is not a ‘cry a help’ and there are no take-backs. If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do this for keeps. Are you sure this is what you want?” “Yes, I’m sure.” That was that, and my brain went back into auto-pilot mode. I began swallowing pills four at a time. I had no idea how much was “enough”, but I figured there were 15 piles, half ought to be good, so I went to it until I had swallowed seven piles. Then I remember thinking something like, well that’s slightly less than half, might as well go for eight. Then (I was swallowing them with Gatorade, I had two half empty bottles that had been left in my room) I remember thinking, well, I still have some Gatorade left, I might as well keep going until its gone. The counting and “logic” of this thinking was like part of the auto-pilot… as long as I was thinking about that, I was not re-evaluating my decision. I ended with ten piles, or 40 pills total. I scooped up the rest, put them in a ceramic dish beside the bed, pulled up the covers and went to sleep.
About 30 minutes later (I had laid down facing the clock and saw that it was about 10 am) I woke up. I had no immediate thought or recognition of what I had done, it was more like when you wake up in the middle of the night still half a sleep, check the clock, then roll over and go back to sleep. I rolled over to go back to sleep… and the room did an odd trailly sort of thing. I’ve never done acid or mushrooms, but it seemed to me similar to how people describe trails. I didn’t have much thought about this, I was just settling down on my other side, when I heard a voice. Now, I hear voices in my head all the time- and every single one of them I know is mine. I think it’s the normal kind of conversations that most people have in their head. This one was different. I was very much reminded of the experience while reading about Laura’s voice on the boat. It was booming loud, like it filled my whole head, and I even had a visual of the words in big bold capital letters. At the same time that it was LOUD, the voice was not yelling or excited or emotional. It was very calm, almost kind, but in an ambivalent sort of way….. “You’re dying”. That is all that was said in this very matter of fact kind of way. But in that instant, I had that light-switch-flicked-on kind of flash of Knowledge and Understanding. In that instant, I learned what I have considered one of the most important lessons of my life: Not wanting to live, is not the same as wanting to die. I have described this sometimes as “two sides of the same coin” but my favorite analogy or symbol has always been that of a Mobius strip… you go around the circle and end up where you started but on the other side. Now, picking apart the carcass, I think what that symbol really meant is that it’s an illusion, a trick, a trap. I suddenly understood that even though I was miserable and I didn’t want to live this life anymore, or perhaps more accurately I didn’t know HOW to live this life anymore, I DIDN’T want to die.
This part I’ll abridge a bit as I’m not sure it’s that relevant, but suffice it to say I was now in almost panic mode. I had no idea how to stop, how to undo what I had done. Eventually I settled on calling my mum at work and that eventually resulted in the ambulance coming. One thing I’ll mention is that the EMTs kept asking me how many pills I took, almost interrogating me. My brain wasn’t functioning very well, though I was conscious and able to walk/move, and I remember I kept answering 10. They kept saying “there’s a lot more than 10 pills missing” but all I could answer was 10 (remember, I had swallowed them in piles, and stopped with 10 piles of 4). I don’t know if these numbers have any significance here, but I do find it a bit curious that both 10 and 40 have had symbolic significance in things that I have recently read (though it does seem to me that a LOT of numbers have some sort of significance, so you're odds seem pretty good of hitting on ones that do..)
Anyway, I made it through the hospital, they didn’t pump my stomach because of the timeframe most everything would’ve been absorbed, but they did “charcoal” me, which is an experience that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Eventually the psych doctor came and “interviewed” me and I easily agreed that I needed help and yes, a mental hospital seemed like a fine idea. I have always had the impression that this was a sort of mandatory thing in this situation; I have no idea if someone would have made me go even if I had refused, but I was in no frame of mind to resist or fight. At this point I was totally defeated, in a deep pit of despair and my Emergency Exit had been stripped away.
The psych hospital was an interesting experience in and of itself, but the last part I want to mention happened after a few days in there. I was “making progress” I guess, because they said that my mum could day me for a day trip out of the hospital, but I’d have to return that night.
This part may need a little background…. My parents were not religious when I was little, but at about age 9 my mother went on a “self help” trip that also brought her back to the Catholic Church she had been raised with. That meant I had to become Catholic too, but it never really “took” in me. For one, I did not like the rituals- what I thought of as ‘pomp and circumstance’- as they seemed sort of ridiculous to me. You burn some incense, ring a few bells, say some magic words and I’m supposed to believe this piece of bread turns into the literal flesh of Jesus, which I’m supposed to then eat without chewing? Nope. I really could never suspend my rational mind and inquisitive nature enough to be a good Catholic. But my mother forced me through the process, including Confirmation, which I fought against particularly hard. But during my confirmation process, we had a really good priest who in my opinion had an “inner light”. The old guard didn’t like him much (probably because he often strayed from the ‘rituals’) and eventually he was re-assigned. But I’ll tell you… he had a way at really getting to you. During confirmation, we had to go to confession, one at a time, but the group did it all the same day/time. We were typical teenagers- this is soo stupid, what a waste of time, I’m just gonna confess about lying to parents or cheating on a test… all the tiny little sins that we’re supposed to feel guilty about but really mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. This priest preferred to do confession face to face and he didn’t really make you follow the “script” (Forgive me father for I have sinned.. and all that). I’ll tell you, every single girl came out of there crying (not sure about the boys). But he didn’t do the judgmental/lecture thing… it was more like counseling… “And how did you feel when you did that? Do you know why you did that?” And somehow he managed each time to touch something deep down inside. I have no real love for Catholics or Christianity, but to mind, he had the true spirit of Christ. He had a light, and when he was doing his homilies, which were usually personal stories about himself, he sort of glowed.
Anyway, as luck would have it, his reassignment was a church that happened to very close to the hospital I was in, and on my “day out” my mum asked if I wanted to go see Father C and I easily agreed to do this. This was not really in the form of any kind of confession, but I recounted my tale to him and he listened. When I got to the part about the voice in my head, he had a very small smile on his lips and he said, “God spoke to you”. I swear that thought had never even crossed my mind… I was still “digesting” the experience in a way… but as soon as he said it, it just FELT RIGHT, and I agreed. Now, I have never really had the Christian God- big sky daddy if you will- in mind when I think of God. Part of why I am here on the Cassiopeia site now is because I’ve always had a … broader… concept of God in mind. But I do still think/feel this concept of “God spoke to me” is correct. I have not yet read any interpretation (if there even is one) by Laura as to who or what spoke to her that night on the boat, but one thing that kind of caught my attention while picking this carcass, was the C’s mention of 6th density intervening when she was a young child being abducted/programmed. My thought at this time is that I may have experienced a 6th density intervention that day as well. When I sat on that bed and asked myself if I was sure that I wanted to do this, I made a choice- but it wasn’t a true free-will choice because either a) it may have been based on/influenced by Self-Destruct programming and b) it was based on the acceptance of a lie/illusion, ie, that because I didn’t want/didn’t know how to live, I must want to die. Perhaps (a) and (b) are saying the same exact thing.. the programming IS the lie… I’m not sure. But through the intervention, ie the voice that spoke to me, I was given Knowledge and Understanding of the lie/illusion…. thus “balancing” the forces if you will, and the opportunity to make a true Free Will choice. (Even before I began reading about Free Will in the Wave series, I had always felt that the voice was giving me Knowledge and leaving it up to me to make the choice... I'm really just saying here that my view on this has taken a slight...uhhh... adjustment of perspective? )
Anyway, as Steve Martin says at the end of The Jerk: “So that's it. It's an old story, one you've probably heard before. But I never thought it would happen to me.” I am left wondering if the Program has been defeated. There are at least two times in life since then that I have had a strong recurrence of suicidal thoughts, so perhaps the Program can never really be removed. But both times I was able to work through them by reminding myself of the lesson (reminding myself? Ha! the Program is strong... picture this more like me clutching the lesson in place of that pill box during my moments of despair...) but that being the case, it does seem that Knowledge Protects because I am still here. Putting thoughts to paper has helped too, and if you've stayed with me this far, I say Thank you.
When I was 17, a senior in high school, I attempted suicide.
During the summer before my senior year, I began to slip into a deep depression. I’m not fully sure what brought it on. My psychologist later told me that I had probably been depressed my entire life, and I think/thought she was probably right, but something triggered it to get much, much worse that year. I remember feeling very lonely, but I’m not sure if the loneliness brought the depression, or the depression caused me to isolate myself bringing on the loneliness…. The two work together in such a vicious cycle once one gets into that frame of mind that it really becomes a chicken and egg problem.
Things came to a head one night when I had a huge fight with my mother over something stupid. In desperation, I told her (well, more yelled to her, as we were still mid-blowout) my true feelings about how lonely I was; she saw this as merely a desperate attempt to get what I wanted. In a way she was right, but it wasn’t the lie that she thought it was; I have always been very secretive about my feelings and it’s only when my back is against a wall, that I’ve been forced to express them. Anyway, that was the straw that broke the camel’s back, and I ended up spending the night in my car with initial plans of “running away” and “starting over somewhere else”. Now, don’t think that my mother is some kind of monster that I needed to run away from her; I was just so desperately unhappy I think I was grasping for some way to try and make it better. As I lay in that car, trying to come up with a plan, each idea was shot down by my brain, one by one, as unfeasible. I got to the point where there was just no way forward, and there was no way back. The only option I was left with was the Emergency Exit.
Let me go back a moment and explain that this Emergency Exit seemed to exist in my mind (subconscious or full conscious I am not sure) for some time. As a freshman, I wrote a story about this girl who, tortured and ridiculed by her peers for being overweight, leaves school early one day to go home and overdose on pain killers while her parents are away at work. I was certainly never tortured like that, I think Fat Girl was more of a modern archetype, but in some ways even then I knew that Fat Girl was about me. I’m not sure how the idea of suicide was introduced to me, but I was an avid reader and I loved horror stories, and I very clearly remember one book that I read in about sixth grade- this girl fills the bathtub but leaves the water running slightly and the drain open slightly so that the water will remain warm and the blood mess will drain after she slits her wrists. I remember sort of filing this away, like “Well that’s a good way to do it.” So I’m not sure when the Emergency Exit entered my mind, but it certainly was a ways back. And I literally saw it as a neon sign “Exit” in my brain and knew that there was always a way out. But I also remember that somewhere along the way, I picked up the notion that no matter what happened, before I tried the Exit door, I’d at least try and “start over” in a new place, ie, run away.
What is interesting to me now, in picking clean the carcass, is that the Emergency Exit has the marks of being a Self-Destruct Program. That, I guess, is what I’m attempting to explore now. My brain wants to say, “No. That’s silly. Even if I believe these ‘Programs’ exist, why would I have any such programs? Why would anyone bother with programming me?” I guess that’s the “I’m not good enough and I don’t matter” program, which might I add, is a VERY persistent and hard to break program for me!
Anyway, back to me lying in the car, trying to come up with a plan for “starting over” and concluding that the “exit plan” is the only thing that will work. If I remember correctly, it was only after making this decision that I finally stopped crying, stopped thinking, and actually got some sleep. Is it that only by accepting the Program I was able to get some relief? Now, I had bought some over the counter sleeping pills fairly recently. Sleeping was the only time I felt reasonably happy, and probably because I was sleeping so much of the time, I had a real hard time getting to sleep (but I’ve also suffered insomnia problems since I was a very young child and still do today). I fell asleep in my car clutching that box of sleeping pills to my chest as if it were some form of comfort. Its also interesting to me that, other than my purse, that is the ONLY thing I took from the house when I left- no bag, no clothes- but I made sure not to leave without those pills (and no I didn’t keep them IN my purse, I explicitly grabbed them off the night table). I am not fully sure what my “Exit Plan” was at that moment, but you will see in a moment that there were at least SOME elements of the bath-tub plan, despite my desperate attachment to those sleeping pills. Might the Program be over-riding any plan that I may have worked out for myself? It certainly seemed active in knocking down any of my “start over somewhere else/runaway” plans…
So the next morning, I drove by the house several times, waiting until I was sure that my mother had left for work. I was having a little bit of trouble thinking several steps in advance, I remember just focusing on the next step. “Ok, when I get home I’ll take a bath (we didn’t have a shower, only an old fashioned claw foot tub), get cleaned up and clean up my room.” For some reason, it seemed very import that I didn’t have hairy legs when they found my body- I think that’s some of the teenage romanticizing of suicide- so these first steps were really aimed at “preparing the scene”. As it turned out, when I got into the house, I just didn’t give a **** anymore. I have generally chocked this up to the depression- anyone who has been deeply depressed knows how hard it is to get motivated to do just about ANYTHING- but now I wonder if that just wasn’t part of the Program. At any rate, it was quickly settled in my mind that I would take the sleeping pills and the “scene” was of no real importance. The building is on fire- get out the Exit while the getting is good!
I also remember being in a sort of “auto-pilot”. The pills were not in a bottle, but in those plastic sheets with the tinfoil back so I had to pop them out individually. I remember sitting on my popping them out; when they were all out, I eventually arranged them into piles of four (they were 25 mg each, so this seemed logical that they should be in piles of 100 mg) but I have a sense of time passing here… sort of in a fog… so that I think I may have arranged them in different configurations a (also scooping a handful and letting them run out through my fingers several times) before settling on this one. At this point, I kind of brought myself out of auto-pilot for a conversation in my head, something along the lines: “Ok, this is for a real. This is not a joke, and this is not a ‘cry a help’ and there are no take-backs. If you’re going to do this, you’re going to do this for keeps. Are you sure this is what you want?” “Yes, I’m sure.” That was that, and my brain went back into auto-pilot mode. I began swallowing pills four at a time. I had no idea how much was “enough”, but I figured there were 15 piles, half ought to be good, so I went to it until I had swallowed seven piles. Then I remember thinking something like, well that’s slightly less than half, might as well go for eight. Then (I was swallowing them with Gatorade, I had two half empty bottles that had been left in my room) I remember thinking, well, I still have some Gatorade left, I might as well keep going until its gone. The counting and “logic” of this thinking was like part of the auto-pilot… as long as I was thinking about that, I was not re-evaluating my decision. I ended with ten piles, or 40 pills total. I scooped up the rest, put them in a ceramic dish beside the bed, pulled up the covers and went to sleep.
About 30 minutes later (I had laid down facing the clock and saw that it was about 10 am) I woke up. I had no immediate thought or recognition of what I had done, it was more like when you wake up in the middle of the night still half a sleep, check the clock, then roll over and go back to sleep. I rolled over to go back to sleep… and the room did an odd trailly sort of thing. I’ve never done acid or mushrooms, but it seemed to me similar to how people describe trails. I didn’t have much thought about this, I was just settling down on my other side, when I heard a voice. Now, I hear voices in my head all the time- and every single one of them I know is mine. I think it’s the normal kind of conversations that most people have in their head. This one was different. I was very much reminded of the experience while reading about Laura’s voice on the boat. It was booming loud, like it filled my whole head, and I even had a visual of the words in big bold capital letters. At the same time that it was LOUD, the voice was not yelling or excited or emotional. It was very calm, almost kind, but in an ambivalent sort of way….. “You’re dying”. That is all that was said in this very matter of fact kind of way. But in that instant, I had that light-switch-flicked-on kind of flash of Knowledge and Understanding. In that instant, I learned what I have considered one of the most important lessons of my life: Not wanting to live, is not the same as wanting to die. I have described this sometimes as “two sides of the same coin” but my favorite analogy or symbol has always been that of a Mobius strip… you go around the circle and end up where you started but on the other side. Now, picking apart the carcass, I think what that symbol really meant is that it’s an illusion, a trick, a trap. I suddenly understood that even though I was miserable and I didn’t want to live this life anymore, or perhaps more accurately I didn’t know HOW to live this life anymore, I DIDN’T want to die.
This part I’ll abridge a bit as I’m not sure it’s that relevant, but suffice it to say I was now in almost panic mode. I had no idea how to stop, how to undo what I had done. Eventually I settled on calling my mum at work and that eventually resulted in the ambulance coming. One thing I’ll mention is that the EMTs kept asking me how many pills I took, almost interrogating me. My brain wasn’t functioning very well, though I was conscious and able to walk/move, and I remember I kept answering 10. They kept saying “there’s a lot more than 10 pills missing” but all I could answer was 10 (remember, I had swallowed them in piles, and stopped with 10 piles of 4). I don’t know if these numbers have any significance here, but I do find it a bit curious that both 10 and 40 have had symbolic significance in things that I have recently read (though it does seem to me that a LOT of numbers have some sort of significance, so you're odds seem pretty good of hitting on ones that do..)
Anyway, I made it through the hospital, they didn’t pump my stomach because of the timeframe most everything would’ve been absorbed, but they did “charcoal” me, which is an experience that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Eventually the psych doctor came and “interviewed” me and I easily agreed that I needed help and yes, a mental hospital seemed like a fine idea. I have always had the impression that this was a sort of mandatory thing in this situation; I have no idea if someone would have made me go even if I had refused, but I was in no frame of mind to resist or fight. At this point I was totally defeated, in a deep pit of despair and my Emergency Exit had been stripped away.
The psych hospital was an interesting experience in and of itself, but the last part I want to mention happened after a few days in there. I was “making progress” I guess, because they said that my mum could day me for a day trip out of the hospital, but I’d have to return that night.
This part may need a little background…. My parents were not religious when I was little, but at about age 9 my mother went on a “self help” trip that also brought her back to the Catholic Church she had been raised with. That meant I had to become Catholic too, but it never really “took” in me. For one, I did not like the rituals- what I thought of as ‘pomp and circumstance’- as they seemed sort of ridiculous to me. You burn some incense, ring a few bells, say some magic words and I’m supposed to believe this piece of bread turns into the literal flesh of Jesus, which I’m supposed to then eat without chewing? Nope. I really could never suspend my rational mind and inquisitive nature enough to be a good Catholic. But my mother forced me through the process, including Confirmation, which I fought against particularly hard. But during my confirmation process, we had a really good priest who in my opinion had an “inner light”. The old guard didn’t like him much (probably because he often strayed from the ‘rituals’) and eventually he was re-assigned. But I’ll tell you… he had a way at really getting to you. During confirmation, we had to go to confession, one at a time, but the group did it all the same day/time. We were typical teenagers- this is soo stupid, what a waste of time, I’m just gonna confess about lying to parents or cheating on a test… all the tiny little sins that we’re supposed to feel guilty about but really mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. This priest preferred to do confession face to face and he didn’t really make you follow the “script” (Forgive me father for I have sinned.. and all that). I’ll tell you, every single girl came out of there crying (not sure about the boys). But he didn’t do the judgmental/lecture thing… it was more like counseling… “And how did you feel when you did that? Do you know why you did that?” And somehow he managed each time to touch something deep down inside. I have no real love for Catholics or Christianity, but to mind, he had the true spirit of Christ. He had a light, and when he was doing his homilies, which were usually personal stories about himself, he sort of glowed.
Anyway, as luck would have it, his reassignment was a church that happened to very close to the hospital I was in, and on my “day out” my mum asked if I wanted to go see Father C and I easily agreed to do this. This was not really in the form of any kind of confession, but I recounted my tale to him and he listened. When I got to the part about the voice in my head, he had a very small smile on his lips and he said, “God spoke to you”. I swear that thought had never even crossed my mind… I was still “digesting” the experience in a way… but as soon as he said it, it just FELT RIGHT, and I agreed. Now, I have never really had the Christian God- big sky daddy if you will- in mind when I think of God. Part of why I am here on the Cassiopeia site now is because I’ve always had a … broader… concept of God in mind. But I do still think/feel this concept of “God spoke to me” is correct. I have not yet read any interpretation (if there even is one) by Laura as to who or what spoke to her that night on the boat, but one thing that kind of caught my attention while picking this carcass, was the C’s mention of 6th density intervening when she was a young child being abducted/programmed. My thought at this time is that I may have experienced a 6th density intervention that day as well. When I sat on that bed and asked myself if I was sure that I wanted to do this, I made a choice- but it wasn’t a true free-will choice because either a) it may have been based on/influenced by Self-Destruct programming and b) it was based on the acceptance of a lie/illusion, ie, that because I didn’t want/didn’t know how to live, I must want to die. Perhaps (a) and (b) are saying the same exact thing.. the programming IS the lie… I’m not sure. But through the intervention, ie the voice that spoke to me, I was given Knowledge and Understanding of the lie/illusion…. thus “balancing” the forces if you will, and the opportunity to make a true Free Will choice. (Even before I began reading about Free Will in the Wave series, I had always felt that the voice was giving me Knowledge and leaving it up to me to make the choice... I'm really just saying here that my view on this has taken a slight...uhhh... adjustment of perspective? )
Anyway, as Steve Martin says at the end of The Jerk: “So that's it. It's an old story, one you've probably heard before. But I never thought it would happen to me.” I am left wondering if the Program has been defeated. There are at least two times in life since then that I have had a strong recurrence of suicidal thoughts, so perhaps the Program can never really be removed. But both times I was able to work through them by reminding myself of the lesson (reminding myself? Ha! the Program is strong... picture this more like me clutching the lesson in place of that pill box during my moments of despair...) but that being the case, it does seem that Knowledge Protects because I am still here. Putting thoughts to paper has helped too, and if you've stayed with me this far, I say Thank you.
We've got to keep each other sane in this insane world. Hm, now I'm craving lobster.
