I’m more aware than ever before that each and every family is sent a Davidic healer to heal their family line. At least as far as the Davidic are concerned. I’m certain that each segment of esoteric worship also has a designated healer that is sent down through the line to correct, audit and adjust to get the family back on track. It’s not right that an abhorrent genetic anomaly should continue if it only leads to pain to suffering. We were not created to live such pained lives. We were designed for Joy. Our entire genetic expression is for the purpose of connection. And when we separate ourselves and isolate ourselves or one another from each other, the aberration begins anew. It’s essential to interrupt this isolation and cure it, then heal the isolation incident… completely.
I sincerely believe that each of us who is on this journey is gifted the measure to accomplish these healings if we are persistent and diligent. It takes persistence and diligence to overcome it all. And there will be a lot to overcome. Daily a new memory surfaces of an old pain, hurt and trauma. I think “will it ever end?” Will it exhaust itself? I have to console myself with “Yes, keep going for it does eventually end.” It is the only self consolation I know that is based on any experience. My latest memory recall left me reeling for a whole day. They are so difficult to talk about. Each memory is an expanse in and of itself. For longer ones, ones that lasted more than a day or extended to a segment of days, weeks, months, years… there is a odd hollow quality to these memories as they seem to often not have an ending date. The latest memory recall was one of these. Earlier I had uncovered the memory that I had been imprisoned in the attic of my childhood home. A door had been erected and I had been removed from the family and isolated for a period of days in a hot, bare wood attic to be punished. I was above the family kitchen with a faux ceiling where I could still hear and listen and even somewhat observe (through ceiling tile cracks) the comings and goings of my family while serving my sentence upstairs. What was my crime? Who knows. My crimes never stayed with me as I was not given to overt mischief. Often I was a player in a play who simply got punished for playing along with life. It was routine to be punished in some harsh manner. So to be punished, not unusual. But to be removed from family life, locked away in an attic but still given the position of hearing all and seeing some…. Unusual. And this was for days…not just a solitary punishment with a strike to my face or a belt to my backside. No. This was really unusual. Even for them. Since then I’ve gone back to heal and reheal this punishment trauma. I even rescued myself from the attic once with large wings on my back and with my dragon breath, burned a large hole in the side of my childhood home so that I could never get trapped there again. Yet the attic plagued me anyway. Like a ruthless giant it pursued me to the point of exhaustion. Mine, not it’s. So why? Why couldn’t I get out of the attic even after I rescued myself from it? The answer would wait until my Mom finally passed through the veil to the other side. Once Mom died the flood gates of memories came through like a parade. One new every day. Some days I need to wait until tomorrow to see where it goes next. The happy part of the story is, I got out. I got all the way out. That’s the happy ending. I’m not still in the attic. The attic is still there though. For all to see. And that’s why my thoughts do go to fire. It’s so shameful to think that they did these things to me not just once, but then over and over and over. For the punishment in the attic was not a one time deal. No deal. It was an event. It was a thing that began and started and would go on for a season in my life. I don’t know how often I was in the attic as punishment and when it went to full time. But at some point, the stint in the attic became a full time gig. See, my father had built me a lovely room. He built me a lovely room in a lovely home. Then he built me lovely furniture to go into my lovely room. He painted it, decorated it and then…. After sixteen years, he took it all away. He took away the room. He took away the furniture. And he took away my access to his home and sent me to live full time in the attic. I’m not sure if I was in the attic a week, a month or years. My memory won’t tell me the whole story. I only know it was all taken away. So this is where I am. With it taken away. I know at some point it’s given back because I can recall me being in the room at high school graduation and as I prepared to leave for the Air Force. I recall being in my room the day Challenger exploded for I was laying in my pretty bed, in my pretty room in my pretty house the day I cried fat hot tears when the Challenger team gave their lives for the exploration of space. I was already signed up for the Air Force and had my enlistment date when that happened. I was already back in my room. So I know that part of the story ended well. It’s just that, that part of the experience left a deep mark. And that leads me to my own daughter. For as I look back on my own poor parenting decisions as a parent I know now that the awful things I did to her, such as removing her door to her room, were meant in love. It just couldn’t have felt like I loved her when I treated her like that. And I do have regret over the way it worked. That my actions as a parent, weren’t loving to her but painful. To make her feel unloved, isolated and rejected and for that I am sorry. I’m not sorry for my own isolation anymore but for hers. I see how my constant desire to run away from “these people” built into her a genetic response to run away from me. So I take ownership over my misdeeds. I recognize I can’t heal what’s not mine to heal. But I will continue to show up and heal the parts of myself that require, nay demand that I heal them so I can move forward towards the things I have so much hope for.
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AuthorMarihemp is a Mystic Archives
January 2024
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