Determined To Save Me

I was told once, long ago, that in order to heal, I must face myself.  Well, no one ever told me that facing yourself hurts so much.  Digging that deep, down to the scrapings of marrow in your heart, it’s like burning and having your skin impaled with millions of thorns and rubbing salt in all of the wounds, all at once.  It’s feeling so broken you can’t fathom ever being properly whole again, ever feeling right again.  I have felt…  wrong…  for weeks.  I only feel okay when blasting my music, or losing myself in a book or in a show or movie, or working on some of the projects I’ve been getting so deep into lately.  I can’t tell you how difficult the world looks to me right now.  It’s a mountain, even facing the drive to work every morning.  I love my job, and I love everything about my world right now…  Except for my heart.  It’s bleeding, broken, battered and bruised and I don’t know how to go about healing it, or even mending it enough to continue loving like I’ve never been hurt.  I still have guilt and I still have self-loathing and I can’t make it fucking stop.  Everything suffers under these conditions.  My empathic work.  My writing.  My magick.  It’s hard to trance into meditation and it’s hard to trance into ritual.  I’m incredibly frustrated and deep down I feel blinded by how much it hurts to just be.  It’s literally taking every ounce of energy I have to shut down the negative hell-voices in my head, to make myself breathe properly, move properly, function at least semi-normally.  I’m so tired, so emotionally drained and exhausted, every moment of every day just trying to walk along this path of life that I sleep more than I probably ought to.  And I work really hard to keep the depression from taking over.  It is a full time job.  It is a full time fight.  It is a full time hell.  So I employ a little army of help.  Spending time with friends, talking to friends on the phone, burning nice incense and frankincense and sage and palo santo, diffuser aromatherapy (lavender helps!), salt lamps and an aurora borealis machine…  I spend time slipping as gently as I can down that inner path in order to explore myself.  So many reflecting pools, clear water bright as a mirror…  My face within, caught up in the inner hell, twisted with emotional pain and worry and stress.  I see these images…  And my heart breaks for my Self, that part of me that is always me and always here and suffers so much through every kind of pain.  I’m the hot mess in the corner, the train wreck you happen upon, burning on the rails.  I am melting.  I need to save myself.  I don’t fucking know how.  I’m scared and I’m not afraid to admit that anymore.  I know what I want but I don’t understand why I want it.  It’s all killing me.
But here’s the thing.  Life is a bitch.  I knew it before this depressive cycle started.  I knew it before that.  I’ve known it for years.  I know how it affects me to let myself be cowed by it all.  So fuck that.  I’m not beaten and I won’t be beaten.  I hate myself, but I love the knowledge of myself.  I am self-aware and proud of it.  I WILL rise above this, yet again.  I am broken, battered bruised and all of that dumb shit, but I AM NOT WEAK.  I have strength in that self-awareness, in that pride, and in that drive to keep my head above water and strive for the fucking shore.  This is what it means to be strong.  This is what it means to be me.  If you have ever asked me what it’s like to have bipolar disorder and anxiety, this is what it feels like.  It feels like constantly having to face the truth within yourself and own up to it all.  It feels like the voice in your head that is supposed to be your own is trying to drive you into accepting the worst, but forcing yourself to keep striving for the best.  I am not the evil fucking hell-voice in my head.  I am not that nasty laugh or that mocking cry or that desperation.  I am NOT that voice and that voice is NOT me.
Yes I hate myself.  But I don’t hate my Self.  The reality of my Self is that it doesn’t match a single bit with the voice of my mental illness.  
So who am I?  A Pagan, a Witch, a loving friend and family member.  I am my own strength just by knowing I have more than the hell-voice tries to tell me.  I am determined to succeed in loving myself again, loving my life and loving the beauty of this world.  I am not my mental illness.  I have mental illness…  But it does not and will not ever have me.  I am a conqueror, a queen, a killer of  hateful thoughts, I slash back at the hell-voice when it slashes at me, I am the silent who is never truly silent, and I am the qualm of every manic thought.  I am the child of the Night and the Queen of the Night, too.  I am the gift I gave myself when I allowed the lotus to bloom.  I am the lotus itself, growing through the muck and the mud and striving in glimpses of the sunlight.  I have friends in Morrigan, who fights for me, and Ganesha, who holds me close to his belly and hugs me with his trunk and whispers encouragement in my needing ears, in Hekate, who reminds me that there can be no light without darkness, and in all of Nature, which roots me and holds me fast and takes every chance imaginable to remind me of who I am.  Checks and balances.  I’m grateful for them.  I need them.  Even if I AM strong, I need roots, I need a reminder of that strength.  The hell-voice does its best to erase that strength.  But I turn it around on the hell-voice and use the full force of my strength to erase its grating.  That takes a lot of energy.  It’s why I’m so damn tired all of the time.  But it’s also why I’m still alive.  It’s why I’m still walking this Earth and walking this path.
I am determined to save myself, at all costs, no matter what.  It’s never going to be easy and I’ll probably never be fully whole, but I am who I am, and I would rather be myself despite the bullshit in my head than pretend to be anything or anyone else.  If someone cannot accept me for who I am, as I am, then fuck them, because nobody will ever truly understand how I came to be the way I am, and let me tell you, if you can stand beside me in the middle of my trials, if you can be with me despite how crazy I can be and how crazy I can sound, if you can be loyal and be honest and be real and love me for who I am, then I can reciprocate in every dimension humanly possible.  I love others so much more than I love myself because I know what it’s like to lack that love.  It’s overcompensation, but it’s part of who I am.  I know I am difficult and complex but…  It’s me.  I have to keep moving along.  I have to keep walking.
This is how I save myself.

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The Itchhh

Tonight is a rare night that due to exegent circumstances, I cannot attend a show.
I cannot tell you how itchy and cranky this makes me.  I went to a show last night.  I’m going to a show tomorrow night.  But I can’t go tonight, so I’m feeling super odd and off.  I’m occupying myself with reading and research for the paranormal case I’m currently working on, but it still doesn’t quite help me.  Rock n’ roll, live music, the electricity of the whole affair, that is what grounds me and charges me and makes me feel alive.  It also just feels weird to not be roadtripping.  I love the driving, I love to drive in the dark.  I love the stars and the moon guiding me back home after midnight and seeing how far I can drive until the city lights disappear.  Little spells I leave behind me sometimes, if I feel called to do so.  Every time I go, I feel another crack inside me fill with music and with gold, and I feel my inner beauty returning little by little.  I miss it so when I can’t go…

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Esoteric Empathy – Raven Digitalis

Esoteric Empathy: A Magickal & Metaphysical Guide to Emotional Sensitivity https://www.amazon.com/dp/0738749176/ref=cm_sw_r_other_taa_q2xlzbJN0RXNW

This book is incredible.  I haven’t finished it completely, but I am spellbound by how extensively Digitalis describes different aspects of empathy and how much help it has been to me so far.  I recommend this book to ANYONE, not just Empaths, because even those who “do not have Empathy” ought to have the information within this book.  This book belongs on shelves everywhere.

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Call To Me

Call to me, music of the gods,
bringer of healing sound and rhythm fair
deepest of rivers thrum with your beat
as the rain adds to its depths
and a fresh layer of drumbeats beckon me
Call to me, muses of the gods,
beckon with stories old and new,
tell me many tales of romance and valiant courage
and vanquish that fear within me
so that I might reach deep within myself
and author the new generations of story and song
Call to me, voice of the gods,
as you root so deeply in the soil of the Universe
as you quiver beneath my feet in endless reams
I feel your resonance as it makes its way
inside of my soul, storms and all
I am grateful for your calm and for your calamity
Call to me, sight of the gods,
show me the things you hide from all others…
send me soaring above the spiderweb clouds
quest of vision awash in the auric space
allow me ample time to find my way…
guarantee my safe flight into the astral plane
the breath you gift to me felt keenly here…
Call to me, silence of the gods,
that I may hear your speech more keenly
and know the sounds of the mother intimiately
drop away the dross of the waketime world
hear nothing, see so very much better
in the gloaming of the dusky meadow
seeing only the glitter of the starlit moon
I see it in my dreams and silence pervades
within the circle in my astral grove…
Call to me, touch of the gods,
as the graze of your fingertips
reminds me to slow down and feel it all
and I’m grateful for the chance to rest
with divine hands resting as well
upon the bare skin of my shoulders
feel you in the sweet nighttime breeze
Call to me, soul of the gods,
your vibration begins to match my own now
resonating gold into the cracks of my heart
healing with the treasures of nature
warmth in the deepest of places
the hurt slowly leaves my heart
replaced by love for myself and all around me
Call to me, secrets of the gods
buried deep beneath Atlantis
in the cover of blackest night
your mysteries have beckoned me for years
I walk that sunken path, even broken
feeling the love of the earth
come up from the flats of my feet
reminding me of where my power originates
I am only borrowing it
I am a walking library book
I’ve been in the hands of too many
who do not appreciate my worth
but one day I will be returned
and loved.
Call to me, love of the gods
the heart of the Mother is mine as well
we are in step and in sync
and I feel you in each heartbeat
love swells in my heart
heals every broken heart and every hurt
and roots me in grounded soil.

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Will o’ the Wisp

I feel like I’m adrift again, but this feeling is not new, nor will it ever be new – and I’ve a feeling it won’t grow old, either.  There are certain states I find myself in that are extremely confusing even to me, even when deep down I understand them.  They come from nowhere – heightened states of anxiety paired with a deep depression I cannot shake and mood swings that somehow dance around the depression and anxiety.  So one moment I am laughing and the next I am crying.  And floating.  Floating in my mind.  I’m not quite rooted in my body and yet I cannot find my way out of the ether.  Sometimes I wake from such states and am alarmed because I am driving or doing something else I should pay close attention to.  Sometimes I can compare it to the state of trance, meditation-induced and fueled by incense and candlelight, because it has the same quality of sight and yet takes you so very far away from the reality you are supposed to be facing day to day.
My main problem when it comes to this little will o’ the wisp that I become in these states is that I literally shut out the world.  I forget to ground, I forget to meditate, I forget to read, to write, to work, to do everything I’m supposed to do in my life.  I am completely disconnected from my sensual, sexual side; I cannot think straight.  I feel so broken and disconnected that I feel almost completely hopeless.  And yet…  Some days…  Some nights…  I feel it deep in my bones…  That I am going to be all right.

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The Illusion of Life and the Truth of It 

Two dark things undo me, untie me like a knot, destroy me:  Love and memory.  I held a black candle up to illuminate my own soul, and this it asked of me…  Burn me down, from the inside out, and let my darkness play.  True secrets frolic by night and hide themselves by day.  Debris from the starlight is found in hearts like mine.  Unbreakable, beautiful, and deadly comes the dark face of the moon.  In truth my heart carries its own delicate stain.  I sing along to devotional hymnal tune…  Am I wicked for my knowledge, damned for my desire?  I have seen true pleasure, and seen the sacred fire.  I have read the runes in earth, air, fire, water, soul.  I have walked with gods and relinquished all control.  I have faced fear upon fear and seen Chaos at play.  I have known my demon’s very souol and invited him to stay.  And I know well there shall be more demons to entertain, but they won’t make a single mark or leave a stain.  If a mark appears upon me, it shall be my own.  Only my own heartbreak can cause my soul to groan.  And still yet primal desire lights my way with the lustful fire.  Deep in my bones only a quiet pulse of red.  Without such colors or such depth, we may all just as well be dead.  I am grateful even for the pain, I rise above it still.  Yet in the throes of hell I moan as long as I climb up its hill.  Human we are, and human we remain.  We are built to love and suffer in beauty and in pain.  I am human, I am mortal, I am always poised in self-destruction; I am student, teacher, priestess, healer, to give and receive instruction.  Writer of truths, seer of flame…  I silence my own demon’s name…  The voice within holds its tongues and reminds me to use my lungs.  A deep breath in, a deep breath out, and I am calm again.  A glance within, a glance without, and a slow count to ten.  And now the trance begins.  And now the dance begins.  Spiral inward, spiral outward.  Nothing wicked, nothing gained.

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I am not your damsel and I am not in distress

I am the curves of a labyrinthine spiral, dipping my hips in the way only I can.  If you inhale my scent, you will smell vervain and meadowsweet, with a hint of lavender.  I wind my arms in this dance, hands fluttering above my head, almost drunk with my own power, my power-from-within that is mine and mine alone.  Between my thighs, the dolmen arch, heavy with its own perfume and laden with the greatest power of all:  Creation.  Mine the darkness, mine the light, mine the satisfaction that creation will never cease, that creativity will never die.  I am a spiritual being having a human experience…  I have knowledge to share with this Universe.  I speak, and the Universe hears me; the Universe speaks, and I hear Her call.  I am never silent, not fully, yet in the silence I am fully myself and utterly whole.  I wear stars in my hair, the earth on my feet, salt on my sacral chakra and oh, I taste it whenever you kiss me.  I see you as the Universe made you.  I see you in energy, pulsating, technicolor, bright.  I feel you, your every worry and your every loving thought.  You speak to me without even opening your mouth.  Your heartbeat is like a drumbeat to me and if you knew how I dance within at hearing it, you would marvel and perhaps you would smile.  You have no idea how I adore you…  Despite the fact that we do not really know each other, not in the way society would have us know each other.  I love you with the fire of molten lava and it burns me utterly.  And you are not the only love in my heart.  It tears me apart day by day to know that I am part of a small faction that loves so utterly and without discrimination…  I despise knowing that the majority of folk surrounding me do not know the complete feeling to be had from allowing all of the chaff of shallow thinking to fall away and loving the entire world, upon sight and upon intuition, without end.  We are not all awakened to that sort of light.  But I, I am the woman with the changing eyes, a little broken from humanity’s cruelty, and yet the peace within is much greater than the utter calamity without.  I consider myself fortunate.  Because to me you, and your friend, and the world, are poetry.  Quiet, yet constant and shining poetry.  The most beautiful in the world.  Not even the greatest poets could capture it on paper, not even the greatest artists could put it on a canvas, not fully.  But if we allow ourselves to recognize it, we are living it each day.  We see it, feel it, taste it, touch it, breathe it.  But we don’t know how to truly drink it in.  We do the best that we can.
But I, I am one woman who knows better than the best that we can do.  There is so much more.  And I am the dragon circling the world, the wolves biting the tails of foxes, the richness of packed, wet earth, the sweet honeysuckle flavor of forest spring water, the darling down of the owlet and the cthonic growl of what lies deep down underneath us all.  I am the moss upon the rocks and upon the bases of trees, I am the sunlit waters at the edge of the lake and the sand perpetual upon beaches and smooth upon the bottom of the sea.  I am the witching herbs and the nine woods and the bonfires round which my sisters and brothers dance and the feasts they consume for ritual and pleasure.
I am entertwined with the heartbeats of millions of other human beings, of the owls and nightengales, of the foxes, of the bears, of the wolves, of the coyotes, of every being, trees and plants and flowers.  I find myself tangled in many roots, especially in my dreams, where walking above the tree line is a deep and sweet pleasure.  In certain trance states, meditative and submitting to my inner world, I can feel the spin of spirals and I can feel their pull.  It is like getting drunk, except exquisite and heated like lust.  The fire deep within fans and I can smell the sap of a pine tree waving under my nose.  Waking, in wake-time, in the outer world, I can still smell it if I concentrate hard enough.  This journey is a marvel.
So I, my dear, I am no damsel, I am not wilting flower, no shrinking violet.  I am not in distress and I never will be again.  Saddened by the world around me, certainly, but not in any dire trouble that I need anyone else to rescue me from.  I do not need your sword, your armor, your gallant.  I have my own, and it is all forged in the depths of hell and so stronger than the strongest of steel.  I am my own vault, my own helm, my own breastplate, my own gauntlets, my own bravado.  It is all part of who I am, and I do not need to be given the world, for I contain the world within my Self.

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