Oh, my lovelies. This is an uncomfortable post. A post that I both want and don’t want to write because…well…because…(I’m trailing off here in case it’s not obvious). How do I put this? “Just put it,” says a small voice in my head. “Trust that people will get it–the right people will get it.”
Then, cut back to an image of me absolutely squirming in my seat. Jumping out of my skin. Whirring away into the air like a puff of smoke. Gah!
I don’t want to publish this post because it will expose things, reveal even more of my tender underbelly, the part that I protect savagely, the part of me, ironically, that I can no longer protect by keeping hidden. The part that, due to recent circumstances, now needs to be opened up to the light, exposed…exposed…exposed…not closed off and shoved to the periphery. I have to start talking about this. And, by doing so, I *hope*, the need I have for such fierce protection, such armament, such a strong “Viking” mode that I have chosen to use and express from much of my life (and likely before this life) will soften. I *hope*.
This urge to un-mask and admit what I’m about to let loose into the world makes me nervous. Or, more accurately, it makes my ego extremely nervous. My ego doesn’t want anyone forming an impression of me as one of “those people”. It’s quaking at the thought that people will be afraid of me after reading this or nervous or stymied around me in some way. My ego is afraid that others will think I’m one of those “Sedona freaks” who believes in crystals, Tarot, meditation, and psychic ability. But, the truth is: I am. I am one of those people. I do believe in all of that stuff. I use those tools. I’m learning more everyday about so much of that stuff. I can’t control what others think of me. I need to own this part of who I am. So, I have to fess up. Tell the truth.
<Cut to a soundtrack of my ego screaming.>
For the record: I have an almost debilitating social anxiety. I’m an exposed nerve ending. I’m acutely uncomfortable around other people. Always. I’m on edge almost all of the time. I’m exhausted by my interactions with others, not nourished or encouraged or built up. One or two people around me is fine, but anything more than , say, five people and I’m a mess. Inwardly. Outwardly, you’d never know that I was so uncomfortable, so on edge, because I’ve learned how to activate the “auto-pilot” and largely disassociate my way through interactions, parties, crowded sporting events, malls, public-speaking events, conferences, on-site work, airports, yoga classes, and so on. I’ve learned how to fake my way through situations that most others simply take for granted and never sweat. Speaking of sweat, I do it alot when I’m around other people. That’s how you can tell. If I’m sweating profusely, I’m anxious. It’s how I was wired from the get-go. I cannot change it.
A girlfriend of mine (really, more of a loving sister to me. I love you, LaVerne), and I were talking about life one day. We had taken a long motorcycle ride together and stopped in a small Route 66 town for some lunch. We sat waiting for our meals when the topic ventured into the realm of the psychic, which it unnervingly does with me often and is happening with more frequency as the years go on. In the course of this conversation, it occurred to me that my “anxiety” is probably something else. It’s not just “GAD” (general anxiety disorder). It’s deeper.
Que the dramatic music: Duhn, dunh, duhn.
The tiny tendril of a thought began blossoming inside of me and before I could stop it or edit it away, it hit me: my anxiety is probably tied to my heavily (and I mean HEAVILY) suppressed psychic ability. AGH!
There, I said it. In public. I can never take it back. I’ve published this post. It’s in the world. Hoh-shite! RUN! Move away. Disappear. Go live on a deserted island with no Internet. Never be seen or heard from again.
Truth is: I’m psychic. (Hey, we all are. Yes, even you, the one rolling your eyes). But, apparently, I’m really, really psychic. Or, so I’m told. The problem is: I’m deeply reluctant to be this way. I’ve run from this “sensitivity” for a very long time. I want to say that I’ve run from it all of my life, but I didn’t consciously know that I was like this until relatively recently. I had no solid clue until approximately ten years ago. And, to be honest, I still kind of doubt it. I don’t *quite* believe that I am. Why? because I push it away. I don’t work with it consciously. I don’t do readings on people. I don’t use it. I don’t like it. I run. I’m talking “on-fire-running-away-from-it-as-fast-as-I-can” running. So, I often can’t tell the difference between information that I’m “receiving” and information that originates within my own thought stream and psyche. I cannot differentiate between my stuff and other people’s stuff. It all feels like my stuff.
At any rate, it’s obvious to me now that my deep sensitivity is tied to this, whatever you want to call it: “ability”, “curse”, “gift”. I’m not comfortable with any of it. And, this post is freaking me out. But, it’s too late now.
Most of you know that my sensitivity is OFF THE CHARTS. I am incredibly sensitive. Not in a simpering, weak-willed, collapse-in-on-myself, wallflower way. No. I’m incredibly strong-willed, bold, fierce (when required), and tough. When I say that I’m sensitive, I mean that I feel EVERYFUCKINGTHING around me 24/7. I feel things from the world (planet, universe, cosmos, deep space) on a daily basis that would send most people to the loony-bin in less than two weeks. I feel EVERYTHING. My running joke is that if a moth dies in the Amazon, I feel it. It registers, it washes through me, and it has an effect on me. And, it produces feelings inside of me.
I’ll give you an example: I’m so sensitive that I cannot drive past a livestock truck without full-on tearing up. Yes, actually crying. I mean it. It happens to me nearly every time I see one of those trucks. Why? Because I absolutely feel all of the consternation, terror, sadness, and uncertainty of the animals being transported in the truck. I can even feel the emotions of the animals that were carried in the truck prior to the ones that I’m driving past. I can LITERALLY FEEL THEIR EMOTIONS, their full-on awareness of what is happening, how they know where they are going, and the fact that they are going to die. They KNOW IT. I can feel their deep grief, their worry, their physical pain, their sickness in some cases, and their sense of loss at being away from others with whom they grew close. I feel it all.
This is not me being crazy. It’s not me making it up. It’s not me trying to get attention. It’s not the writer in me writing fiction. No, no, no. IT’S REAL. I know it because it is AWFUL. And, it’s OVERWHELMING for them and for me. So, I cry. Oh, and let me tell you: God forbid I see a tail or an ear poking out of one of the little slats in the truck. That’s enough to make me pull over and outright sob. Not kidding. My level of sensitivity is epic. It scares the shit out of other people and it scares the shit out of me. But, it finally occurred to me that this sensitivity is evidence of my psychic ability. I just never connected the dots until recently.
To Be Continued….
In the interim, are you aware of your psychic abilities (whether latent or in the foreground)? Share your story here. I want to know how you cope with it or if you’ve embraced it and actually use your abilities. I’m eager to hear your journey, friends.