iv.
I showed up for myself and lovingly sent my plea out into the Universe. "Help," I inquired. "I need help." Carlos showed up at my table, approaching 70 with a soft, Italian accent, he wanted to converse with me about the book he was carrying in his arm. I randomly opened it to a page that spoke of "Depression." Brushing him off for a good five minutes until I remembered that I had asked for help and that the Universe responded within hours, I joined him outside on the patio where he was sitting with his book, Energy Tapping. I showed him the note I had written, requesting for very specific guidance. "I don't know about numerology or symbolism, and this isn't about your ancestral bloodline.," he spit out. His resistance mirroring my own. "This is about your lifetime now and you need to shift the messages you negatively internalized as a child. I had to do it with my mother," he shared. "I had to go back into her womb and tell myself that I am wanted and loved."
v.
As a child coming home from elementary school, I pretended that I had
a headache and didn’t feel well so that I could gain my mother’s sympathy immediately
upon walking in through the front door.
My mother, a generous and humorous storyteller who came from her own
background of dysfunction, was also a steaming volcano. Filled with rage and other repressed
emotion, her triggers were found inside of the house where spilled milk, dirty dishes
and kids just being kids could set her off – spewing venomous words, hands and
arms flying like ash and landing as slaps to the face, as fists pulling at
hair, and as hands wielding a leather belt to be struck against bare skin. Eventually, every child grows into an
age where she runs away from this pain and trauma – she runs laps around the
coffee table in the living room escaping the mad woman just behind her; she
runs over to friends’ houses with or without leaving a note; and she runs into
substances, like marijuana, to help dull the ache that time cannot easily
erase.
