Some evolved Love Master was asked what she would do under a deadly attack, and she responded, that before she learned to forgive, that her mind would be busy figuring out how to have compassion for her perpetrator. I began continually forgiving my Parents, and the Dark Cabal, as if there were no difference in the way each provided my death, so I want to humbly share one anniversary pain of Holiday annihilation.
Sometimes I rely on memories of repentance to remind me, no matter how well I imagine I am poised with a certain amount of Grace, that, when I know my own suffering, I can really Love Listen well with others like, that Love Master, before she really knew how to have compassion for perpetrators. I learned from my parents, just how painful it is to live without a Conscience, yet we have High-fived in meditation Heaven now, because we came here to experience first hand, about social-norm Satanic ISIS Mercenary Parent/Child Triangulation, to get us ready for Ascension.
I know how much pain it is to pretend we are separate, from how pirates, keep wanting to rob children of their innate innocent Sovereign treasure, so I can imagine compassion was the last thing on my mind, before I, even knew to learn how to live under the ‘spell’ of continual forgiveness. Now I realize how frightened I am of normalcy biased emotional Blackmail here, because after “Hairy Cannonball”, even a raised eyebrow became effective enough for me to terror-pee my pants, without any regular Holiday hesitation.
Hairy Cannonball 070107
Big balls a-rollin and-a spinnin to fat bowl pins; three holes make a frown face and-a strike with tumble sound trickling down to the toes; and-a… CRACK! My eyes become two cane holes in a cow turd and my nose smells of death like a black hole, as my heart stops for a minute to consider going NDE on, or…not. I was in a suicidal rage on a parent’s drunken afternoon, and was particularly daring and fleet-footed at the abused-kid old age of just five, when I threw pebbles at the house of monsters where I slept as a baby. As my step father muckled onto me in an alcoholic rage, we transformed me together to a canvas bag of baseball bats. So violent were our minds together and committed to the end, that we listened to my legs break to pieces of bats and fat bowl pins, as he grabbed my shoulders and slammed in his imaginary home run at the bowling alley in my mind. My legs flailed and whacked on the edge of the stove, counter tops and table, and must have seemed like watching a mad wood cutter at the chopping block working as fast as he was able.
Bbreaking bbones and feet hanging there by the skin, and another view of my batter’s eyes in the attitude of sins, sent this forever picture of endless pain rolling like a bowling ball up to no grins. Just like in an alley, evil smiles chagrin, and that heavy, noisy black ball gathered size as it approached the pins and needles in my mind. Time is forever when we are waiting for the explosion and every so many inches the ball seems to double in certainty that it is coming. As the huge ball rolled into my head from way down there in my little boy legs, it grew hair and transformed into a cannon ball and I fainted under the attack of the pirate ship of my bad dad and his deadly intention. I was never sure what game we were playing until that day when I experienced his colors flappin in the wind, but the broken masts are nothing compared to walking the rest of my life in disappointment and humiliation.
I watched the eyes of a giraffe turn funny just before the lion bit a chunk of his dinner, and I wish I had dissociated just a few moments before I d, I, d, did, so I wouldn’t remember. I believe I was poised with so much rage and curiosity, that I challenged the pirate to see if my suspicions were real; so I could finally rest assure that I was right about his evil intentions all along. For a long time after, I didn’t remember this battle on the stormy sea, and then I put it in a file in my minds eye labeled: “Dad broke my legs and he competes hard at different ball games”. But, just like the killer faces in the bleachers on any sunny Saturday afternoon, my pirate was a killer and he woke up when my skin and I held on so long in the flippin-and-the-flappin. The biggest part of my explosive anger has been the constant reminder of how, very painful it is to NOT have an: “Oh my Papa, to me he was so wonderful; Oh my Papa, to me he was so Grand” honest song in my cannonball head.
No matter what I look like to others, I am not what people tink I am. I live inside this body with the continual fear that a bowling ball will come rolling up my body, expand into a cannon ball, and explode again in my hairy head. Another inside unbearable pain is the one of dissociation when the guts of my mind get dragged through a rough hole in a rusty tin can with switching arcing and sparking. Gifts that are hard to receive are dissociation, the disappointment of knowing my God-like-Dad wants to kill me, and the continual memory of humiliation.
I embrace my intense violent mind modes of interacting and acknowledge my tendency to fear and judge too quickly, like my, not so dear old Dad. As I forgive the man who hurt me, I ask God to paint the true grin of Holy Spirit on my old hairy cannonball, and fill in the three holes in the bowling ball with a good smell and twinkling eyes, that go well with this true grin. As I turn in more and face the Heaven inside me I need to send these old pictures into outer space, and simply…believe in…Christ Conscience at the core.
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