meditation

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I do my best meditation in the hours between when it is very late and when it is very early, just at the edges of dawn.

Likewise, my favorite version of the beach house is at the moment where the sun is turning the horizon dusky rose and stonewashed denim, and the sea is a glittering sapphire. When the day is still just a hopeful promise.

I’ve been meditating with purpose for seventeen years, so landscapes roll out for me without trouble. I remember the days when just trying to keep things stable was an almost impossible task, when the ground would dissolve under me, when everything would go dark or tinny, like it was painted over with sloppy watercolors. Everything slightly metallic, the shades of dreams and nightmares.

Hearing [redacted] speak took six months of work, or maybe more, and it never really clicked in until he and I started sleeping together. I’ve also been thinking about the years when everyone was talking to me- how much work it was to discern between each individual voice… and also my own inner voice… and also, the Voice of the Universe.

Then how much work I had to do to block nearly all of it out.

Then spending the last four years letting it all back in again. Safely.

…I’m still working on that part.

///

Physical touch over there is hard to explain. It isn’t really like being touched, but it’s not exactly like the memory of being touched either. It is very real, but in a place that exists in a new part of your brain, one that a fully rational mind doesn’t access.

All things that involve the dead are strongest in the soft place between awake and asleep.

I’ve said it before, but it does feel unfair that I insinuate not having intimacy when I spent the entire morning laying in bed at my beach house talking to someone I am deeply in love with as he kissed my shoulders and back and ears and cheeks and mouth like my skin was water.

Intimacy without expectation is a real revelation for me.

///

I was looking for a specific moment in my private journals and ended up reading almost three entire journals from my senior year of college, when things with [redacted] were very intense.

Fifteen years ago, I said out loud to myself several times.

One of the things that is constant confirmation to me is seeing things he said to me back then and feeling the truth in them now. I laugh bitterly when I read some of the entries, even though I’ve read them all at least ten times. Somehow, the shock and disgust is always brand new.

He told me exactly who he was, and I refused to believe it. There was every sign imaginable that he was a monster, and I thought I just knew him better than everyone else. I had the most grace and forgiveness and love, more than every other person who had given up on him.

Talk about an unreliable narrator. Oh, kiddo. Oh, honey. Oh, my love.

I have no idea who should get these journals when I’m gone. It’s the only thing I ponder over. The rest of it? I could care less. Take whatever you want.

I just don’t know who should have to carry this burden. It almost feels unfair to give it to anyone else. But to see these words fall into a landfill, unread?

Oh, dear.

///

“I just feel like I should be doing more,” I said. “Service work or soul work or…”

My oldest lover lifted a hand and gestured around the room. “You have your beach house back, after more than ten years. Do not discount that. You can always do more, absolutely, but don’t dismiss the work you’ve already done so far.”

My tarot cards keep telling me that I’m doing a great job, that I am handling my business, that I am strong and powerful and I need to keep walking this path. That’s all well and good, but as always, I circle back to the same question.

What now? What next?

cleansed

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“So the reason that you always disappear is because of how I feel now, isn’t it?” I asked gently.

He smiled gently. “Yes.”

I bumped my knee against his. “But don’t go yet, okay?”

“Okay.” He bumped me back. “Do you want to work, then?”

We went to the beach and I saw what I’ve seen for too long now- black smoke rising out of the palm trees, laughter like high-pitched birds cackling, the sound of alien legs and feet shuffling on the sand.

I walked through the house and pulsed white light through every room. Creatures appeared like a video game and I sliced them with a sword, battered them with an axe, and they dissolved into ash. Creatures with black, slimy skin. Creatures with no head. Creatures with a face of fangs. Creatures that ran at me like deformed dogs, on uneven and unsteady limbs.

Destroyed, destroyed, destroyed. Maybe I was screaming the whole time. I don’t even know for sure. It seemed I could feel their oily thick blood all over my skin, in my bared teeth, clumping in my loose, wild hair.

There was a silence and I ran my hand over the countertops in the kitchen, slowly walked through the living room, and then he was there. In the doorway. The way he’d been so many times, when it meant I was about to be torn apart, sliced open, organs spilling out, so many empty holes to be ruined.

His neck looked broken, his head dangling loosely to one side, occasionally popping up like a puppet as he spoke. His eyes were black, black, black. His voice sounded like shrieking metal. His arms hung rotten and limp at his sides.

I was terrified beyond words, but approached him anyway, and this is when Fisher came to lay on my chest.

“You aren’t welcome here,” I said.

His broken neck waggled slightly, and his foul fangs slid from behind his lips. “I see that you know who you are now.”

“Yes. I do.”

He began to talk nonstop, telling me what was real, what wasn’t, and I felt an old, familiar feeling. Smoky sickness, weeping into my brain, making my logic surreal and confused. Fisher laid his little foot on my hand and flexed his claws gently into my fingers.

“Get out,” I sneered, lifting my hands and pushing him backwards with pure energy. “You don’t belong here.”

He kept trying to speak, but I continued to blast him backwards with my hands, until he was at the edge of the sea. My entire body was shaking.

“You are not welcome here,” I announced. He began to shrink as I screamed, smaller and smaller, until he was the size of the tiny, piggish little demon that first attacked me in 2005. How silly and small and pathetic he was now, how he’d always been. Nothing magnificent or awe-inspiring… just another bag of garbage energy, a tiny little charger that tried to suck from the innocent.

And I told him so. How dare you steal from a little girl. How dare you take something she had no idea she was giving. How could you betray a love so pure, so generous, so naive.

But of course, he had no smoky words for that.

I spun around to face the island, and light rose from the sand. “None of you are welcome here. This. Is. My. Home.

“All. Of. You. Are. Banished.”

A blinding light seared through the entire landscape, and there was the sound of shrieking and screaming and tearing of flesh. I felt severe, searing pain roar through my third eye, and my entire body convulsed through one strong shudder.

And then all was still.

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So last night when I got sucked into an “Alex” hole and was picking my way through his discography, his voice blew out my speakers. That’s never happened before, and was fixed by a restart. However, in the interim, his voice became distorted and- let’s just say it- downright demonic.

I get a lot of displeased faces that invisibly surround me when I decide I’m going to listen to his music, and that sucks because I still really deeply love his music and wish it wasn’t like playing a pungi in front of a cobra. But I know it’s not wise, and that just makes me more indignant.

I can do whatever I want. Don’t try to warn me. Don’t try to be the boss of me.

I can’t really describe what it’s like when the veil between worlds gets sketchy, but I suddenly realized I’d done a foolish thing by listening to his music after midnight, in the dark, in my bed, slightly intoxicated (IMAGINE THAT, says absolutely no one). It’s almost like the sides of my vision rupture slightly, and shadows and tiny flashes of light like sequins on a dress burst all around me. I start hearing things that aren’t real. I start to feel a bit like plastic wrap has been draped over my mouth.

When I was brushing my teeth, rushing myself to bed, an oily little voice appeared in the back of my mind. That voice only has one source, the shadowy little confidence man that may or may not have greasily convinced people to cause trouble since literally the beginning of time. I haven’t heard that voice in at least seven years and immediately had a visceral response. But as always, after a moment or two, I started to get lulled into a kind of sedated confusion, and suddenly, my triumvirate protection system appeared.

Before I could say anything, they each sat on an edge of my mattress and said, “Just go to sleep. Go to sleep. Now. Go to sleep.”

This morning, I decided I should listen to him some more, because this is what I do, and also watched an interview with him I’d never seen before. Every time he looked into the camera I felt like I’d been pierced with a knife, but I think his eyes do that to everyone. His speaking voice also has the strangest effect on me. It’s not the same as the oily voice I heard last night, but it still brings out such interesting reactions from deep in my rib cage. Certain inflections and phrases, ways he flips his hands or twists his mouth…

I think I want to believe that there is a separation somewhere, that the man I loved and the one that tried to kill me are not the same. Is that Stockholm Syndrome? I don’t know. Is that the part of me that still loves him and is still actively trying to rehabilitate him? I guess we’ll find out.

Oh, I know it doesn’t matter, and maybe it’s not even real, but I forget sometimes how close I am to trouble, and no matter what anyone else believes, I have to protect myself at all times.

It’s never over.

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Q: What is a demon exactly?

You know that whisper in your ear, that one that tells you to do things that you know are wrong?  The things that cause shadenfreude or the things that give you that sneering side smirk and sneaky little heh heh heh feeling in your belly?

That’s what a demon is.

I also think that vampire stories are largely about demons.  Being invited into a “home” and having your life slowly drained out of your body until you are left feeding on others.  When I was sick, I was also a severely selfish, nasty, viper-mouthed, tantrum-throwing brat.  Everything light and pure and good about me was siphoned out and replaced with darkness and hardness and cruelty.  It took a long, long time to work that poison out of my body.

You don’t have to believe in demons for them to believe in you.  They live on anyone’s sadness, fear, rage, selfishness and self-hatred.  The weaker you are, the more you give them, and the more they want to take.  It’s why people who are depressed are shown to be shrouded in shadows, in black smoke, in thick oil.

I’m not saying that everyone who is sad or a jerk is “possessed” by demons, by any means.  But I am saying that they are out there, and they’re constantly trying to encourage people to do the wrong thing.  That’s why it feels so easy.  That’s why sleep paralysis often has the same themes, even for people who know nothing about them before experiencing them.  Everyone knows what evil looks like.  We just pretend that we don’t.

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Q: Why are you cosmically connected to rock stars? Why isn’t it like…Bob from accounting.

 

A: Right?  I know.  Trust me, it bothers me.

My first thought is that it’s to keep me quiet.  Because the minute you mention a famous name, people start to doubt you.  The first time I told the story online, I changed the names of everyone (like I did here), so people would just read the story and not start a “fact-checking session.”  I just needed to get those words out somewhere, to explain what I’d just survived.  Here I did it for legal reasons, because the site is public, searchable, and the last thing I really want is to get snared into a case of slander.

To claim something as crazy as, “Oh I loved this dead guy but also he was a semi-famous musician but also he was a demon,” is like literally the most fucking weird shit anyone can say.  And that’s not even the fucking weirdest thing that’s ever happened to me, so.  It’s very alienating.

But also, maybe it’s like “What Dreams May Come,” where someone comes into my life “dressed” as someone else so I can place a face to the person who has come into my life to help me.  I thought about it obsessively when things with “Alex” first ended, when I wanted to convince myself I was insane.  When believing I’d had a dip into pure psychosis was better than what really happened.

I mean maybe it was never Alex, you know?  Whoever he is is someone that is really, really good at mimicry, so.  I mean there’s a great chance it was only ever a demon, and never Alex at all.  To be honest, that answer hurts so much I can’t think about it being true.  I’ll just wait until I die to find that out, when it won’t matter as much anymore.  It will make watching his soul be destroyed a truly magnificent moment.

But there was a time I really loved him, you know?  There’s a photo series that keeps coming up on another social media site I frequent where he is flirting with whoever is taking his picture and his eyes are dark and mischievous and his smirking mouth makes my heart like a pebble skipping across clear water.  And I just.  I just.

In the early days, we asked Alex if he knew any famous people.  He said that being “famous” is kind of a …. joke over there.  Like it’s something you get teased for.  People only really ever identify you as that person, for better or worse.  So when you’ve had a Really Famous life, you have experiences here AND there that no one else really understands, which creates a little… group.  Clique?

Anyway, he said yeah, of course he knew people who are recently dead and famous musicians.  He had a little crew of people he talked to a lot, people we also occasionally talked to (more often whenever Alex became sick and they started to intervene to warn us that he was waaaayyy more ill than we knew).

I honestly think the fact that I know other musicians is really only coincidental, not that I have some kind of cosmic tie to them.  Actually, one of them hasn’t been friends with Alex in a long, long time (pre-Alex) and is only really my friend.  Also I, interestingly enough, am not a fan of his music from this life, though others are.  So I mean…

tl;dr: maybe I am, maybe I’m not.

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Yesterday, I read my journals from 2010-2012 for somewhere in the neighborhood of thirteen hours.  I couldn’t stop, devouring page after page after page like it was something I’d never seen before.

I never talk about what my life was like in 2012.  I’ve never written about it, nor was my ex-husband involved in any part of it.   (Related/unrelated: I left my husband in 2013.)

There’s another entire person I was very involved with during this time that I never talk about. He makes no appearance in anything I’ve ever written, but he consumed almost two years of my life.

Ha.  He has consumed a great deal more than that.

I read about things yesterday that made me actually gasp out loud, hold my hand over my heart, slap the pages with disgust.  Some of it is a little choppy because I talk in code that I only sometimes understand now, and because I was beginning to realize my ex was reading my journal behind my back so I stopped being as open as I had been.  It’s incredible what you can forget when your life has been so tumultuous.

I learned the following interesting things.

First of all, I was still going to see “Alex” up until the end of 2012.  I mean, it was really infrequent, maybe once a year, once every six months, but.  I’m surprised that I had forgotten this development.  He has never stopped trying to pull me into seeing him.

2/21/12: Today, Max and I danced to Jason Mraz and he said, “Raise your hand if you like Jason Mraz.”  So we both raised our hands.  Then he said, “Raise your hand if you like [Alex].”  We raised our hands again, and he said, “But I can’t want to be like [Alex] because he’s bad, right?”

The unliving companion I have now was given a lot of grief for being involved with me.  For two or three years, our relationship was tumultuous… to be totally honest, he was almost never around. I spent much of that time mourning yet another new and unexplained absence by him.  I see now that the only way my marriage was ever going to end was to be completely abandoned by the dead.  I had to face the real world, and realize how much potential I had within myself.

There seems to be a certain hierarchy or status attached to living a lot of lifetimes, or achieving a great deal while living them.  I don’t necessarily mean fame, but rather how much you evolve.  This disappearing friend of mine has been around a long time but actively chooses not to live many lifetimes (because he doesn’t like to suffer).

Allegedly, people were telling him that there was really no way once I get back over there that my entire self will want to be around him.  In one entry he says, “I mean someone who’s like a Level 25 doesn’t want to be around a Level 3.” It’s why he continued to leave- at times, to try to “become better,” getting very serious about changing and evolving, and because he was being shamed out of seeing me.

It was partially how deeply I suffered in his absence that convinced him he was wrong.  Considering the fact that he alone kept me alive through the nightmare of last summer, I’m glad he didn’t give up on himself.  I’m glad we stopped listening to everyone else.

Who I used to be, and what she was/is doing while I sleep is still a mystery to this day.  I never felt rested, even though I slept almost constantly from 2011-2013.  My entire self was also extraordinarily fractured during this time, operating with two entirely separate agendas.  I am both fascinated and horrified to read about a time where I easily talk about who I once was as if she is not who I currently am.  And in many ways, she isn’t, I suppose.

It seems that we all probably live two lives- this waking one, and the complex, confusing puzzle world of the unconscious mind.  Where everything seems like a mystery until you learn the answer and realize you’ve known it all along.

Once, while going through a deep period of depression and suicidal dreams, one of my friends said to me, “Trust me, you do not want to be here.  I would be surprised if you didn’t come back here and immediately request a bounceback.  You’re walking into a mess.  You were set up in such a nasty and destructive way, and you’re going to have to face a ton of criticism when you return.”

I was constantly under investigation or being watched or lectured or judged or chastised for years at a time.  I didn’t remember how long I struggled with my sexuality, how sick I really was, how many times I relapsed.  I didn’t remember how hard people had worked to make me better.  I didn’t remember how involved I’d gotten with the person I don’t speak of here.  His name feels like it weighs a hundred thousand pounds.  I can’t recall the last time I said it out loud.

And I miss my old beach house.  I made several attempts to reclaim it, to have Alex moved elsewhere so I could return to it, but it’s been ruined.  Every single time I write about it in my private journals, I cannot stop marveling over how real and how beautiful and how powerful this place is in my mind.  Every time I would go there, I’d walk in a shuffling, wide-eyed wonder from room to room, running my hands over counters and peering into the enormous fish tank with delight and awe.

I feel very different lately.  This may be my new place to sort it all out, because I can’t stop thinking that I probably need to.  Quickly.

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Lately I’ve been testing out various YouTube guided meditations to see if any of them help me to balance out some of the spiritual unease I’ve been experiencing lately.  Most of the ones I like don’t have any speech in them because I usually find the words to be distracting (especially if they make mistakes with grammar or pronunciation) and also- and this will sound impossibly arrogant I know- but I don’t need anyone’s help to be able to meditate.  I do it every single day in one form or another, and I did it intensely for hours at a time over a period of six years or so.  I think sometimes my larger concern is that I will meditate “too well” and get lost to this world all over again.

The other night I found a video that was supposed to help open or amplify the strength of your pineal gland, or your third eye.  Your third eye is how you see the dead- it’s the gateway between worlds.  Whenever I talk about “seeing” dead people (I don’t see ghosts, I made a rule long ago that the dead are never ever to show themselves to me, and they’ve always held up their end of the agreement), I always mean with my third eye.  When I meditate with the express purpose of speaking to someone, my eyes immediately roll up towards the middle of my forehead as if they’re staring at where all the power has gone.  I know that doesn’t make sense.  If you can do it, you know what I mean.

In the middle of this meditation video, there is a sudden and strange clicking noise, like a slowly turning prize wheel at a carnival.  I wasn’t prepared for it in the midst of plinking acoustic guitar and ethereal wind chimes and it shocked and frightened me.  Once it passed, I felt my entire mind was drifting away.  Part of me felt like a little girl trying to hold onto a large balloon in a gust of wind.

The second time it clicked through the music, I saw dark-eyed, distorted faces rushing at me from behind a fluttering, gauzy curtain and I immediately turned it off.  One of the things I somehow forgot about “charging up” my third eye is that it will remind me of just how close those that constantly pursue me really are.  If there’s one thing I am certain I can never survive again, it’s battling the darkness face to face.  I’m also more than a little surprised that they’re still so close to me, waiting for a chance to strike.

After escaping the situation I was in from 2003-2010 and then dealing with the trauma of it all for the next three years after that, I distanced myself a great deal from the spiritual and the supernatural.  I lived a life that allowed me to forget about what I’d been through.  I became very immersed in the world of materialism and consumerism, as I finally had a career that allowed me to spend money on whatever I wanted.  I didn’t think much about the dead, and I honestly did everything I could to try to avoid and ignore it.

The only way I survived last summer was through the kind and gentle guidance and support of my unliving friends, and in the last month or two, I’ve found myself unable to think of little else.  My only real issue with that it creates a sense of almost unbearable longing, one that is hard to describe or assuage.  I want to be Home, I want to solve all the mysteries, I want to help others to know what I know, I want to protect people from ever feeling the way I have and often do, I want to be closer closer closer to a thing I can never really touch.

I also find myself thinking often and inexplicably of “Alex” (ugh) and his influence on my life.  I have thought often of his imprisonment, worrying that he is stirring up trouble in some way, that he is involved in all the ugliness going on in the world right now somehow.  I worry that if I allow my guard down, if I open myself back up to this world that he will get back in.

It’s a dangerous dance, and while I’m glad to hear the music again, I need to know that I’m using my own choreography.  I need to know I have a partner and not a puppeteer.

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I feel a little guilty acting as if I’m alone when it is incredibly apparent that I am not.

Ever since things happened with… “Alex,” (and oh boy is censoring the name for the sake of safety most unpleasant to me) I have had this friendship with someone else, as those of you who read the entire story (“Begin at the Beginning”) may recall.  He disappeared shortly before I got divorced, and then romantically reappeared once I moved out on my own again in 2013.  Even then, he took a patient backseat to the love I shared with someone else for three entire years.

Last summer, the only reason I survived the constant nightmare of my life was because of his presence.  Every time I started to re-re-re-recalculate my bills or plan for my own ending, he’d whisper, Everything is going to be okay.  I promise.  I promise.  Please trust me.

And he was correct.

Lately, we have been much more involved than we were before- talking all the time, smiling at each other (I often wonder what someone might think if they catch me peeking off to my right with a sly grin), and being intensely intimate.

In 2010, I remember telling my (now ex)husband that I no longer wanted to have physical contact with anyone, because I had mastered the ability to have orgasms without ever being touched.  There’s an energy in sexuality that is apparently capable of being harnessed, and I somehow found a way to lasso it for my own ends.

Because of what I had to go through with Alex, I needed someone to cure me of my physical revulsion to sexuality.  I was lucky enough to be in a transformative relationship for several years after the end of my marriage that healed so much of what was broken inside of me.

Now I have the best of both worlds, and it’s so good that I’d be embarrassed to describe it to you.

I live entirely alone, with no real life friends (aside from a thriving internet family), but I’m also deep, deep in the depths of the most profound and clandestine relationship I’ve ever had.  Maybe what I thrive on is having something no one else can see.

I love a whisper, an illusion, a premonition, a gift.

My boyfriend is a long-dead ghost.

Don’t tell anyone.

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Q: “You have someone (probably more than one, really) who watches over you, who is your guardian. I encourage you to find that person. To learn to meditate and embrace the protection you’ve been given. That’s your person. ” So how do you go about finding your person (or people)?

A: Here’s the best way.

First of all, you have to learn to meditate successfully.  You could use some of that meditation music YouTube is full of if you wanted, but don’t do a vocally guided meditation for this.  You need to keep your mind completely open.  A relaxation app with water or beach sounds or city noises or rain or whatever can also be very helpful.  You can even turn on a fan and just focus on the white noise.

Once you can successfully maintain inner silence and stillness for at least ten minutes or so (sounds easy but it’s not), you can start to use your third eye to see the other side of the Universe.  When I was deeply immersed in this, my third eye used to vibrate and buzz when I was meditating.  It’s how you know you’ve found it.  I actually have found that if I have trouble staying focused, looking up at my third eye will keep my mind centered.

Anyway.  Picture a landscape, entirely of your choosing.  An empty beach, a field full of flowers, a babbling brook, a roaring waterfall, a shadowy forest trail.  Whatever comes easiest to you, where you find your own sense of inner peace.  Just picture this place, every nuance of it.  If it’s a field, think about the sound of the grass rustling in the wind.  Think of the smell of the flowers- reach down and touch one.  Think of the feel of the wind on your face.  Think only about how you feel in this beautiful, safe, warm place.

Whatever place you think of, that stays easily conjured in your mind- that’s your home.  Everyone has a “home” that they go to to recharge their soul.  When you find yours, you’ll always have a place to find solace when your waking life is too much to bear.  (Mine, as you may have guessed, was the beach that has been taken from me and is now used as a prison, hooray).

Once you have the landscape fully formed in your mind (and this alone might take a few attempts, and that’s okay), imagine someone walking towards you from the horizon.  Don’t think about what they look like necessarily- it’s very hard to picture the faces of those who have crossed, because technically they don’t have faces anymore.  If you try to get hung up on who they are, you’ll lose focus.  So think about their energy.  Imagine them first as a golden light wrapped in a dark cloak.  Let them walk towards you, and just focus on your landscape, your stillness, your openness to their presence.

Now this person is standing in front of you.  Feel how much they love you.  You might see their face.  You might realize who it is- you may have no clue.  But feel in your soul how this person makes you feel, how they feel about you.  The strength and love that they have for you.  This is the person who protects you, who guides you, who supports you.

Embrace whatever happens next in that moment.  Meditation is entirely about going with the flow.  Nothing is wrong.  Whatever you see or hear or feel is exactly what you need to be seeing and hearing and feeling, even if (actually especially if) it’s terrible.

If you get good enough at this, you’ll be able to talk to them.  It took me months before I could hear people talking to me in meditation, but for others it’s almost instantaneous.  Everyone is different, and if it takes longer it doesn’t mean you’re failing.  Frustration will ruin meditation completely.  Accept what you see, what you receive, and what comes next.

This sounds easy in theory, but it’s really very difficult.  It’ll take practice and focus and a lot of dismissing that arrogant little voice in your mind that tells you this is all bullshit and fiction and lies.  That voice is a moron, and it’s the one that keeps you blind to the way the world really is.  I still struggle with that voice sometimes, to be honest.

Also, recognize that when you see the other side, it will see you back.  Be prepared for that.  I’m not suggesting something will happen to you like what happened to me, I’m just saying that the dead love to be seen, so you’ll likely get a busier house once you start peeking across the veil.

Hopefully this is helpful.

Here are the rules

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  • Be asleep by 3 a.m., no exceptions.
  • Don’t look into a mirror at night, especially if there’s a long corridor reflected in it.
  • Close your eyes when entering a dark room, before turning on the lights.
  • Politely ask to be left alone, never make demands.
  • Absolutely never make threats or taunts.
  • Don’t trust any sounds you hear in the night- white noise is helpful.
  • Never use Ouija boards without guidance.
  • Learn to meditate, but be careful what doors you decide to open.
  • If you can see them, they can see you.