posted March 01, 2014 04:53 PM
quote:
Originally posted by Lavender CrystalSwan:
Indigo,I really don't know what else to say to you, but I hope that you can find some solace.
Things happen for a reason, and its not for the sake of torturing you, but lessons and tests to be learned/experienced I guess.
This too shall pass, feel better 
:hugs: Heh. I read that as 'solstice' rather than 'solace'. 😉
I wish to believe. I do. I'm a Scully turned Mulder thanks to a decade of experiences, research, and study. I was born a metaphysical being who was intended to do great, big things.
And I turned on it all. I turned on my family. On my upbringing.
I COULDN'T believe.
I married a man who believes in nothing - neither God nor country. A scientist bordering on quiet anarchy.
My formal study is of a discipline where the unexplained is madness, misinformation or deception. Having volunteered myself to run through an extensive psychological and psychiatric battery at age 19 after my first 'Soulmate relationship', I knew the things to which I was predisposed: OCD, GAD, and dysthymia. I was diagnosed schizoid, but began fearing much later that the correct diagnosis wasn't schizotypal.
See, at 19, I was still close to home, so to speak. My parents weren't (and actually aren't) crazy, so answering certain questions a particular way would indicate one or the other.
For example: I didn't think psychic phenomena was weird. I was quite used to having precognitive dreams, too.
I would therefore not answer 'I have some odd mystical beliefs.' No, that's just how the world worked - according to my family. Despite breaking from the mild at age 12, my love and respect for them led me to never quite break completely.
Is my mother psychic? If there is such a thing, undoubtedly 'yes'.
Am I? Well, even though I've now done the things she has, and have so much more experience under my belt, the answer is 'no'.
Why?
That's not logical. That's not scientific. That's contradictory in terms. That's saying that things which occur outside of me and to whom I consider sane are therefore legitimate.
Yet, despite nothing ever indicating otherwise, I'm more inclined to consider myself insane rather than part of some spiritual destiny or greater whole.
Good lord, why? I don't know.
But it remains indisputable fact that the very same books that I use to diagnose my clients are the ones which would also label us with some sort of Delusional Disorder NOS' (that's 'non-specified'; rather wastebasket definition, really, but that's made it no less 'popular').
That is, unless we're already potentially flirting with schizophrenia. Then we're flat out schizophreniform, so long as it's been at least 6 months, blah-blah-blah.
It's easy to ridicule the mad from the outside. It's easy to condemn those who have untested, unverified, 'non-normative' beliefs to simply being crazy.
Unless you know them.
It's also statistically easier to kill someone called Subject A, because there's a gun to your head, and another at your child's. It's when Subject A becomes Sally Smith, aged 45, with two young children, who wanted nothing more than to attend medical school and become a doctor and go to Africa to help the starving children there - it's not so easy.
Even if Sally is a stripper at the Bump N' Grind who made bad choices and is nursing a coke habit with half her earnings - KNOWING she's a person - makes it harder.
My mother is metaphysical.
My best friend from college developed schizophrenia our freshman year. And through some bizarre unprofessionalism on behalf of the dorm director, I diagnosed it - whereas the psychiatric facility said 'bipolar I'. Bipolar I, my left foot. The man with whom I was involved was Bipolar I.
I digress.
Oh. Except - and now he's with a woman who believes in faeries. And for that, I thought: crazy. Madwoman.
Why?
'Because I'm a scientist.'
My weapons, Razor of Occam; Sagan's Candle of Light, illuminating the dark, unknown void of That Which Is Unexplained.
And science says nothing can be unexplained. There's always a logical, rational explanation. We must simply find it.
It's been my mantra. My comfort. Despite feeling torn between two vastly opposing worlds. Sanity and madness. Mysticism and science.
My mother made a lovely book of the first few years of my life. 'A Star Is Born!' was glittery and emblazoned across the original invitation to celebrate my arrival. Not a girl, a star. Even then, such high hopes.
No wonder 'Evergreen' was the first song I ever sang to a large audience. I was 8; there were about 500 people in the amphitheatre. I wasn't even fazed. I BELONGED on that stage, mike in hand, singing to this crowd of people who rose in standing ovation after I concluded (holding the 11-second note in my young soprano voice, of course! Virgo rising? Hello! Perfection! Nothing less).
Then I grew up. 16 March 1993.
The house burnt down, and I'd never seen my parents so hopeless, helpless, and haggard. Dreams and notions outside of practical reality were for other twelve-year-olds. Not me. Whatever childhood I had, I abandoned out of pragmatism.
When I saw the shrivelled plastic dotting the sea of brown sog beneath my feet, the realisation that all of my stars, the little phosphorescent stickers in star shapes that perfectly matched the sky at the time of my birth, a 2-year project, a young astronomer's labour of love, when I saw they had all fallen down, something in me changed.
As I collected them in my hands, discarding them with sooty fingertips, and I saw the place which had been my home had become a hollowed-out husk, I put away the one astrology book I had - Linda Goodman's Sun Signs, which had been my godmother's - and I swore from that day forward, I wouldn't trouble myself with such existential trivialities.
I stopped singing. But I continued writing. Until age 18, as I was starting University, and that wasn't a proper subject. We'd always been surprisingly impoverished, something like low-middle class, despite my parents being an heir and heiress. They wanted to make it on their own. I respect them for that. It paid off, too. Decades of hard work paid off. Literally.
I couldn't stay away from the theatre. I kept writing my own plays, and utilising what was available to me. I still had Hollywood dreams, but I was majoring in a custom subject - Forensic Psychology - that I built from being on par with the graduate students, though a first-year - and my Physics minor became a background once I saw I'd taken all modern courses they had, which became Theatre, until I did all I want there, then Polysci (same), and Electronic Media and Film; but it was too new, and discontinued after the first semester. I settled in yet a new creation, cobbling together the remains of Criminal Justice. And I made Criminology. And I studied it for 2 years.
And I learnt that science was all I had against violence and the unknown. My experiences as a field investigator and profiler would combine to create a very sceptical, debunking, cynical person.
I couldn't stay away from astrology, either, though. Or singing (which I picked back up at age 24, where I became known as 'The Belle of Chili's' for my terrible habit of singing in the breezeway whilst cleaning the glass doors. I was a dining host. Meagre job, and I was broke with an abusive psychopath who refused to get a job - but mostly shared rent. I was dreaming of more, they'd say. They threw quite the party when I announced I was moving to LA. My old boss, the regional hospitality director, still keeps up with me, a stern, but grandmotherly sort, who says she's very proud. Might just be glad the spontaneous musical numbers finally ceased. 😉 
I took astrology back up at age 14, and wrote the first ever pamphlet on delineating the Antivertex. (Yep, that was me.) 'The Vertices: A Karmic Axis', I called it.
That point meant something to me. So little had been written up about it, and nothing on the AVX. I mean, this was 1994. I was blessed to be taught by the most successful pro astrologers on the planet, and these curious aunties and uncles of the cosmic science were eager to welcome a young one into the fold.
From 1994 until 1998, I was the only one under 20 practising astrology. Under 18, even. In 1999, finally, finally! another young woman had registred. From then until ... ? It was just us.
No such thing as Lindaland. I was so lonely! The Internet was a vast wasteland when it came to astrological anything. So, I bought books. Ohhhh, so many books. I must have $5K worth of astrological books.
And yet, I am only an egg.
Astrology fascinated me for several reasons. One, this maths moron took to it with uncharacteristic ease. Two, I was comforted by some form of divination having so many calculations. (I had Solar Fire, but not until 1996. Before that? All by hand. And I swore by Porphyry. I now have no idea why! Heh.) My home school maths teacher even let me do midpoint trees to practise algaebra. She'd figured I hated the pointlessness of busy work. If I was actually calculating midpoint trees - no longer without purpose! Smart woman. Taught me meteorology, too.
God, why's this so long?
I suppose I'm saying, I live in a state of constant cognitive dissonance. My mother is always there to offer reassurance, but I live the day-to-day with a man who secretly and deeply (and sometimes not-so-secretly) wishes I'd devote my life to being a housewife. And I'd be happy.
And why bloody not? Counsel on my own hours, write when I'm able, shoot when I can.
When I was sobbing in the near-dark with some poor billing rep from the power company, pleading that she send the technician NOW, not hours from now, not tomorrow, NOW, because for some reason, I was lost in some terrible flashback, I'd paid the money my boyfriend refused to and had left me to be alone in the dark because he didn't want to be somewhere without power, I would have given anything to have the life I have now. To be anywhere near as blessed.
Instead, I long for the wise young girl collecting paper stardust into her hands and discarding the remnants of her childhood dreams.
Instead, I'm so much radio chatter broadcasting off-frequency, stuck between stations. I'm cosmic noise. I'm bits and pieces of nonsense. I'm incoherent. I'm untethered.
I'm floating out in space.
Valentine's, during that bloody Full Moon on ATLANTIS-REGULUS, when it really started, my husband attempted to be so wonderfully comforting. It was amazing. (That's variable, you see. I wasn't expecting him to react with such sympathy to my mad rambling. I thought he'd chuff and roll his eyes and tell me to be rational or something.)
But he just held me, and went through this exercise. (I picked up on what it was quickly, but went along. It's an inundation measure. He thought I was feeling overwhelmed.)
He said to envision me. Just me. Floating out in space. Then he'd add things. Him, my stepdaughter, my lover, and he was getting to Fate, but then ... I had to confess. I started crying. Bawling, in fact.
'I wasn't honest with you,' I said. When he'd told me to envision myself alone - I couldn't.
He was there.
Imagining me, as JUST me, JUST this tiny point of light in the cosmos - I can't. The feeling, the sense, the 'knowledge' that 'he's here' overwhelmed me.
And so I cried. Hard. I apologised.
I said I was such a mess.
I said I was so scared.
I said it isn't true.
I said, I can't handle this.
What perplexes me most is how strangely accepting and reassuring he is in regards to him when I'm not. Despite the fact he believes in nothing, oh, no, Fate and I, we're fated.
What?
No.
Just - no.
Like I said in 2012; I'm not going anywhere. Whether he is or not - I'm not going anywhere. I made a commitment. I'm obligated. Thick and thin. I'm staying here. Ill-conceived, but no less true. I love him. He felt like home.
Now ... he feels like ....
NOTHING feels like home.
Nothing.
I have this strange notion of being so grateful to be here on the Earth before it becomes enveloped by the Sun. That I was able to come back. Crying in gratitude. Moved to tears.
Then I ask, where the HELL is THIS from?
Ugh! So many tears lately!
Here is where I feel I need to be. That I should be. Do the work. Get it done. Keep going.
But feeling settled? Home? Overwhelmed with the notion of 'nowhere else I'd rather be'? Swept away by love and passion? Filled with joy and enthusiasm?
No. Instead, it's this bloody searching. This unanchored, uprooted sense of belonging nowhere to nothing.
Fate and I, much as we hate to admit it, make each other dreamers. On the Titanic, we're brave adventurers off to discover a new world; the rumblings of the ship splitting in two are nothing more than the roar of a great sea monster fathoms below. On the Hindenburg, we're space pirates, sailing the stormy heavens, on the hunt for new vistas, undiscovered stars.
We don't see we're drowning, or burning alive. We see dragons - not clouds. We see what CAN be. Not what IS.
Together, we're an unstoppable force of imagination, banishing the everyday by way of a powerful escapism. There, we can be together, so long as we defeat the evil and save the world and rescue ourselves and our friends. Easy. Hero's Journey. Writing 102.
But the real world intervenes. It has to. Because we're scientists. We're realists. We're pragmatic and sensible.
And we hate it.
Because, together, we're infinite.
And apart, we're real.
After tasting infinity, reality no longer measures up. It's a pale comparison to the imagination, the wonder, the fantasy of the ever-possible.
Being an amateur physicist, I'm not sure if I comfort or bewildre or delude myself with the strange knowledge of transdimensional reality and hyper-universes.
The odd knowing that, in some, actually, several, eigenstates, we met at that airport that day, and, likely married during our first of three marriage years (all of which coincide) during our lifetimes, in 2010 - does that free me?
There, are we living in Sedona, producing the series with my oldest soul-brother (30 years) - and making the plan to move to LA? Would I stumble into my husband and lover and be overwhelmed by what I didn't do here?
And I happy? Displaced? Confused?
Ugh. 'Ms Destiny', I suppose. Pick one to observe; you can't observe them all.
If that's the case, am I the close-but-no-cigar me?
Was Other-Me-There born a day later, with a SAG MOON that conjoins his SUN? Or on 26 October as I was expected, with a GEM MOON and early SCO SUN?
Is THAT me his Twinflame, and I'm some bizarre cosmic runoff which shouldn't have awakened?
Unfortunately, 'The Adjustment Bureau' lies. Pleading isn't going to change your destiny. Lovely notion, just love enough. I don't think it's true.
Is the eigenstate I'm living the product of a cosmic error?
Was I not supposed to feel this HERE? Am I simply too close to, to enthralled by, too longing to integrate 'all of me' across extradimensional spacetime that I manifested that which is only operational and plausible in another eigenstate?
ARE you married to Jude, Ceri? And Mr Sag in another?
ARE you with Jace now, Michelle?
ARE you and your Virgo presently creating art together, Lavender? And then you're to do so here, too? But why, I wonder ....
DID you and CUSP come together years ago, tgem?
Are we just not aware of the 'adjustments' made to the eigenstate we're observing, so that we're confusing ourselves?
It's scientifically plausible, you know.
Should this Me, LA-married-with-stepdaughter-Me have never awakened to this? Never contacted him in 2011? Never tried to reanimate LACHESIS?
But then I would've left my abusive ex and gotten with my husband in 2004. I'd have never met Fate.
But, if LACHESIS is part of what I'm here to do, I need him. He's essential. We do this together.
But what does that mean? Together?
Maybe the rest of it is satisfied in other eigenstates. Where we're just doing the awakened spiritual thing - IF that's what this is. Big if.
But why feel this way?
Why take both of us by storm? Uproot our foundations and shake up our lives like a demented child with a snow globe?
Ohhh, damn you, City of Angels. It's a line which comes to me sometimes. A lot lately. That film REALLY affected me. Oh, I was obsessed with it.
It's Ryan's character, the doctor, Maggie Rice, to Cage's, Seth.
'I don't understand a God who would let us meet, if there's no way we could ever be together.'
That one.
I have no answer, but I think it. A LOT.
And drawing only minor satisfaction from 'well, in another eigenstate, we're achieving what it is we came here to do.'
... Yay?
I want to be the mature, assured, wise woman who can see that as enough.
Instead, I don't know what I am.
Besides, blathering. I'm definitely that.
Lindaland
UBBFriend: Email This Page to Someone! 
posted March 01, 2014 06:47 AM
I'm not sure the plural. Priapuses seems odd. 
. We all will be waiting for an update!
Pity.