"One of the first things an empath must learn is how to protect their own heart without shutting it down. It is a lesson in discernment and love." Feelings. Emotions. Stories. Sharing. Insight. Premonitions. And more feeling. Spirits. Ghosts. Demons. The void. A voice reminds me, "don't throw litter in black holes." Having a hypersensitive personality (HSP) or emphatic qualities is one of the markers of living with (C)PTSD. Multiple layers of trauma manifests in a hyper aware body that easily absorbs the pain of others in a knowing fashion. My abilities are heightened by the "supernatural" - seeing ghosts, leaving the body, feeling various energies in objects, people and places; however isolation has presented an obstacle - an ever reoccurring one - seekers in search of guidance and/or comfort. Providing comfort is an immediate response for an empath for they have been helping others most of their lives. In my case taking on adult responsibilities at a young age, living the death cycle coupled with delayed experiences in regards to milestones (i.e.., losing one's virginity, multiple "graduations" and accomplishments ignored) erected an invisible faulty defense system. Seekers seek and always find. Those in pain seek the sensitive for the light. For guidance. For a shoulder and an ear. For commonality. When the commonalities are so similar excitement is the result. The empath knowing the void so well enters the space of another constructing in the dark stacking building blocks of possibilities on an empty canvas of white shining in the darkness. Getting lost and found in the dark - similarities clung to as old friends. Bad habits. Fall deeper into the abyss of disenchantment. Longing and desire. Captivated by synthesis. Intoxicated by possibility. It has happened before. Empathic sisters walk by my side although apart - our thoughts intertwined. They knew. Didn't know the specifics and knew. My energy was pouring out into an empty well. Flowers spilling over the brick. Possibility. The body morphs as the soil beneath the bountiful garden springs forth its fruit. Sisters raise their hands and reach out electronically and exchange wisdom. To psychically ground. To return home. To leave the dark castle. The pleasure palace constructed with divine intent - masculine / femme - syncretic synthesis offering complete openness. The condominium of vulnerability. Before it led to mass extinction. Self loathing. Self hate. Drinking all the time. Powdery substances. Nicotine. Leaves. Food. Junk food. Anything to dull the pain. The familiarity of understanding. The pain that binds. The collective longing and insatiable thirst for something more. Collapse inward in the mind space. Neglect the body. Literally die. "You deserve all the honeys," she said. Process. Ride the bike some more. Watch the water. Observe the planes coming and going. Lift off! Flight! New possibilities. New directions. Locating that wonder. Finding that pulse and seeing it through. I will buy a motorcycle and ride it alone. Flickers of light along the journey captivate the mind. Thai body work on a "fit brother," Krishna cat-callings, peacock fierceness and octopus tenacity. On the box a myriad of lights showcase my wares - the contours of a body once beaten emerges in an incandescent glow announcing my arrival as I scan the crowd. She sits in her hat. Eyes a glimmer in admiration. The side glance opposite stage right. She dances. She speaks. We "Fade to Grey" as we reminisce. "Change Your Mind" croons Gary Numan behind a cake of makeup as we dip before the mirror - opposites side by side. Alcoholic lubrication alongside a sober peacock finding its pulse as multiple hands grab or slap its behind. I scan the crowd to a sea of open eyes a dazzled. Admiration. Connection. Strangers. Possibilities. Conversations. So much excitement I forgot my hogtie rope as I dressed and jumped off the box for the front room exit. I was greeted by Stevie Nicks. The first woman I ever thought was a "witch." I'm reminded of my blood sister and her affinity for Fleetwood Mac. I recall Prince crafting the song "Stand Back" as I lift my backpacked burdened muscled arms skyward to the angelic chorus: La, la, la-la, la, la, laaa, la-la La, laaaa Dance at the bike rack. Connect with a Bay Area Native cat. Suit up. Ride the humid night air in my vest. The air soothing my steaming pits. The quiet before the El Nino storm. My new ink exposed in more ways than one. Shedding skins and taking in. No more playing in the darkness for now. Empathetic love is priceless. It is a gift. Don't let it kill you.
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AuthorDarren Brown, PhD. ArchivesCategories |