The Thing of Most Value
Nov. 29th, 2025
”I felt a screaming powerlessness
because there was nothing I could do to make him stop, to make him go away.
But I didn’t want him to go away because I loved him. But I couldn’t protect or control his violence...”
A line in one of dozens of Moleskines chronicling my life. This wasn’t what I was looking for. I was searching for my “psychic origin story”. I wanted to know, did I see ghosts? Did I just start knowing things?
Spirit, or at least my spirit, isn’t interested in this line of inquiry. This is akin, apparently, to nose-diving into a sea of kerosine, convincing myself I’d land in water. The reality of my origin story is more volatile, nefarious, and unsettling than stories of not-so-imaginary friends and lullabied to sleep by pulseless beings.
Spirit leverages curiosity to wedge open the door to truth, then bulldozes in what is actually of most value: The thing we’re most afraid to look at.
The withering petals of our unnurtured dreams, the roots are still there, but rot has decayed where there should be seeds. Even left to die, aspects of our true-selves refuse to stop breathing. Instead, mangled, unself-actualized, we become poison to ourselves. Host and parasite. You and you.
These nightmarish versions of you
are begging to be resuscitated.
I didn’t find ghost stories in my journals. I found dilapidation. Blueprints and mirrors of pastlife cycles, a rerunning script. Pages and pages of me spiraling through the same maze over and over and over again, trying to find a the end, but only landing in circles. Captive to my own programing.
What we call traumatic experiences, my guides refer to as expansive experiences. These experiences dislodge energetic blocks, and literally press on the keys of our epigenetic codes, altering our DNA make-up. Before incarnating, we may front load some of these expansive experiences to our early early upbringing so that we’re forced (or as my guides like to say, provided the opportunity) to confront what was left undone in past/occuring lifetimes.
The abuse I had been born into, narrowly escaped, but never left.
I just kept trying over and over and over to rewrite the outcome.
Cops didn’t need to be called.
Wrists didn’t need to be handcuffed.
Drugs were not going to be meticulously powdered, lined, consumed on coffee tables.
My fingers weren’t going to be covered in pricked and bloodied trying to remove shards of glass from the back of my mother’s neck.
Her words“It’s not that bad” were not very convincing when said with a snotty nose and bleary eyes.
We seldom, if ever, enter into each life with “new problems”. We magnetize the same energetic patterns towards us, across realities, telepathically pulling experiences, people, feeling-states back to us, trying again (and again and again) to resolve the pattern. Try to form a different outcome. One that doesn’t leave us wounded, injured, or dead.
It takes an arduous amount of psychic energy to uphold defense mechanisms and guard the all the things you don’t want to see but keep running in literal circle around.
Betrayal blindness is a survival code. Its a fucking smart survival code.
And ‘Blood is thicker than water’ is systematic complicity. It’s brilliant. Banking on you swearing your allegiance and staying right where you fucking are.
I did not find ghosts in my origin story. I found a soul that refused to be complicit.
A soul that was fucking hell bent on obliterating my defenses, blinding the reflective eyes staring back from within, and plunging forward into clear kerosene, a lit match between their teeth. This bitch has no mercy.
This bitch is me.
Always me v. me.
Always me with me.
and I brought me
to the threshold of known and unknown
and repeatedly seduced and incapacitated my reasoning
until I becoming so completely fucking exhausted, my ego drops its guard, shuffles aside, vault doors already ajar
Like Alice in Wonderland, I peer through the keyhole, into place I’ve been most afraid to look.
An abusive devouring mother- fleeing barefoot, newborn goldenchild in her arms, slamming, securing, the door behind her
locking
me
in.
that fucking cunt.
Stretching up, but I’m too small for my tiny fingers to cling to the only exit.
Addict father-figure, eyes bloodshot and decayed nasal bridge: one good body slamm, and three stab wounds
“The Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost.”
My toddler body, agile but mutable - thrown out of alignment, pinned against the plywood wall.
Three white scars line my low back.
My spine fixed in a slight curve, skewing the symmetry of my right-left body.
I have been a child, trying to pick up the pieces.
"If anyone causes one of these little ones to stumble, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea.”
If I could see to it, it wouldn’t be the sea that would take you out.
It would be me.
All of you can rot in hell.
