Have you ever been pulled underwater by someone? Have you ever been anchored so deep that you can’t see the fragments of light hitting the ocean surface, pulled so deep that you forgot what it felt like to feel the sun brush your skin? Have you ever been pulled underwater, and the disparity of terrain scarred and bruised you, battered, melded and injured you, because, in fact, you were from the stars.
I feel like I've been missing time, like I've woken up from a foggy, lucid dream, only to find myself back where I was before him, just with a few more scars. Remembering myself from before I went under. Before I was possessed by him. Before I was possessed by his unresolved battle with women, his father's battle with woman, the hatred, the disdain, the “crazy girl” narrative. That handsome wound that had been stitched over, 8 times, prone to infection, never properly inspected.
I treated this breakup like an exorcism, because that's what I needed, I needed the cord plucked out of my heart and the hand unclenched around my throat and the vampire he was laid to rest. I needed the words he said to me extracted like curses. The mediocre sex that left phantoms in my womb. Battling abuse is spiritual warfare.
It took two shamans to find the origin space of this strange wound, the initial tear that clotted my blood and stung my skin with a rapid drowsiness.
“What do you remember of home?” They ask,
Referring not to my family, but to a place before physical form. An ancient tribe of celestial, low density beings.
“Home? Home is pure. We love without separation, we are unified. Love doesn’t ever involve pain. Love is without condition and moves above time.”
They chanted, shaked, rattled, pulled, and tweaked my field until I emerged renewed, buzzing with a paranormal vitality. Free, Free, Free.
I bathed in fire, rubbed myself in salt. Broke the contract, Extracted the cord.
I was told I chose my mother's lineage to break a generational curse, eons old, a story of love involving sacrifice, pain, abuse. Entertaining sickly men and swallowing our own light. Dipping down from the higher road to hold a flame behind a path of destruction, hoping, praying, begging that the abuser would turn to see the light. Begging men to choose healing over inebriation. My scars began to form a map, and through that map, I found a liberation. Not just my liberation, but my mission. It was our mission, my mother's unfinished mission, the mission of my descendants, my ancestors, my planet’s mission.
Long reign the divine feminine.