Diary of a Mad Writer: 2008

Sunday, August 10, 2008

Channeling Kujo with the Reluctant Healer

March 18th.

Yes, my appointment was today with the clairaudient. He lives fairly close and I didn't get lost going there, which was either a sign or the fact that he lived halfway between home and where the boys went to elementary school. His wife let me in and I sat and petted their cat and making nice sounds to their very old dog, who is sooooooo old she makes my old dogs look young. She spent about twenty minutes working at some food in her bowl and when I went past, there was still pretty much a meal left in there. Skinny, hobbling, and obviously loved.

The clairaudient (okay, let's just call him the Psychic) is 40ish, very sweet, very comfortable, very unpretentious. He immediately took off his shoes when we sat down to chat, which I liked. He also had the heater on, which I liked even more.

I told him what the naturopath (who he knows) was thinking: that my organs are in such a state of collapse that my "illness" is being expressed through my skin. The Psychic said that, in his experience, hives usually related to some deep-seated emotional stuff. So we went looking for it.

I started with the obvious, upon which I'd spent zillions of dollars of therapy: my parents' suicide and son's shooting. He sensed something earlier, beneath various layers. We chatted some more and came to my adoption. (On the way he came up with some uncannily insightful stuff about me: my empath qualities, how sensitive I am, my obsessive need to know stuff). He explained that there's a psychic biological bond between parents and their children (which I certainly know from my own), and that I needed to find my birth mother (and possibly father) to help them alleviate their guilt and find completion.

Then I lay down on a table, and he covered me and gave me rocks to hold in each hand. We did some yoga mouth breathing and he had me basically cast my parents' guilt trips and control and martyr acts away, telling them I wasn't going to carry their pain and anger for them any more. he touched various parts of my body, and put some oils on various points. And I get to keep my rocks. During this state he asked if I thought my hives were allergies and my subconscious-er self said: nope... not really.

He also said that perhaps finding them, or my search, would give me the story I needed to help the world and that, as a writer, it was wonderful to have that kind of gift to share. And I thought: holy shit! Maybe that's the story I've been wandering around looking for, all the while thinking I didn't have anything significant enough to say to change the world.

We also talked about our pets as familiars and spirit guides. We decided Esmeralda is channeling Rocky. And when I adopted Esmeralda, I was looking for s dog to channel my Kujo. But sometimes we don't get what we want; we get what we need (if the Rolling Stones are to be believed).

I didn't feel like I'd fallen into a wind chime black hole. I still itch. But I feel little lighter.

The Clairaudient is Listening

March 3.

The adventure continues.

Why am I going to a naturopath who has put me at death's door? I am going to him because my acupuncturist, who is fabulous and who I have been with for many years, thinks he is an uncanny diagnostician. And much of what he said makes sense. Things are not functioning in my body and instead of manifesting themselves in something really dreadful, they've been giving me an annoying case of hives. We go after the cause and one of these days these friggin' hives will go away. He also assures me I'll have more vitality and life force, more energy, higher metabolism, and other good things. These all sound very tempting. I do, however, continue to heed the little voice in my head that whispers "scientology..."

And what harm will it do me to cut down to one glass of wine a day? I'll lose a ton of weight and, truthfully, I was drinking too much.

Give up glutens for 2-1/2 weeks to see if I feel better? Worth a shot.

No nuts, no sweets, no sugar, no caffeine... No problem.

No pork. Who cares?

It is a problem, though, trying to cook a decent meal without onions and garlic. Tonight I sauteed the crap out of them and put them into my white Tuscan bean soup.

Then there's the breathing healer. He gave me the phone number with instructions to see him in 10-14 days, so that when I return we can see if I am unburdened of the deep sorrow that grips my heart. (Okay, he didn't say it that dramatically.) I looked him up online, where he is listed as a clairaudient. Are those wind chimes I hear? Is this the time to run screaming from the room?

On the other hand: do I have stuff left over from earlier traumas? No doubt, despite the zillion dollars of therapy. So if I can breathe that out, why not?

Unfortunately something in the combination of things I'm no longer taking left me wide awake all night. I slept maybe an hour. So I am deadassed tired, a total zombie. I managed to cook soup and I'm simmering artichokes. If I can watch a movie is anyone's guess. Maybe I should ask the clairaudient.

The Path of Nature is Strewn With No Garlic

Dissolve back in time to March 1, 2008. This is how the search began.

First I went to see the naturopath. My acupuncturist had been gently suggesting this for some time, since the rash/hives from hell have now lasted a year and a half, and the dermatologist won't refill my cortisone and nothing else works on it and yes, I know that cortisone only suppresses the symptoms but I sure as hell want them suppressed. So I went to the naturopath. He's in Beverly Hills, though not right next door to the Clampetts.

He had me hold this rod hooked up to a machine and he pressed another lead from the machine against an acupressure point on my finger watching hundreds of different readings on his computer while he asked me what I ate and how happy/stressed/anxious I was. (9/5/7)

Results are that internally I'm a mess. My liver is sad and so is my gall bladder. My heart (emotion-wise) is sad, too. Many of my readings are very low and it's time to fix me. So for openers I'm on a restricted diet. No nuts, no peanut oil, no pork, no sugar, no gluten, nothing spicy, no garlic. The good news: I can have one glass of wine a day. The bad news: no garlic! Only one glass of wine! No pasta! To my tremendous relief, he did not cut my fruit lifeline, so as soon as I figure out what to make for dinner each night (the homemade pizza I had planned for tonight is off) I'll be okay.

He also wants me to go see a breathing guy, who's a clairaudient, or psychic. And we've eliminated most of my supplements. I'm not sure how I'll while away the mornings.

Oh yeah. Insurance doesn't pay for him. (There's a surprise...)

Next time I'm supposed to being ALL the supplements I take and he'll run them through the electrical thingie with me attached, too.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

Talking to My Mother

I talked to my mother today. Her name is Joan. She gave birth to me in 1951, in San Francisco, and gave me up for adoption. In her 73 year life, she never had another child, and she never found me though, it turns out, she lived only a few block from me in Los Angeles. She didn't know if I was a boy or a girl. She probably didn't even know the exact date of my birth. She died of ovarian cancer in 2003, never having found her only child.

In February of this year, I renewed a search to find my birthparents and heal all our psychic wounds. I was told that, when a mother gives up a child for adoption, she is left with a psychic wound. The wound can reside in the child as well, and in an empath like myself, it is even stronger. So I embarked on a quest to find my birthparents and heal us all.

I found my father. But I was five years too late for my mother.

Today, finally, I meditated, and then I spoke to her. I tried to reassure her spirit that I was all right, that I loved her, that I wish I could have known her.

I am trying to know her through the eyes of those who knew her well. This is my mystery, my giant puzzle, my quest.