My relationship with this blog has been complicated from the moment I started it. I didn't really know what exactly I wanted to do, or what to say. Peter, the only Patron I have, even now, has believed in me from the start. He has always encouraged me to write my thoughts and tell the world how I see things, even when we don't agree. As I work on this blog, though, there's one post that I feel I have to write, because it's been hanging over this whole enterprise since July, 2021.
The Black-Haired Girl
Before we get to the actual... well... dying... it's important we cover some preliminaries. Starting in 2004 or 2005 I began having dreams of a little black-haired girl. These dreams ranged from monster fighting dreams to peaceful afternoons at a park. Due to my baggage, which I have documented more than good enough for everyone on this blog, I didn't really take to these dreams terribly well. Some of these dreams involved actual waking visions, where she would be sitting at the head of my bed! I went to psychologists and exorcists, all of whom gave me a clean bill of health. They were confused, but they confirmed I was not delusional and not demonically oppressed or possessed. They had no idea what to make of me.
Understandably, I was not heartened by this.
July 2021
Unfortunately, C-PTSD came along and made these dreams all the more fraught. Oh great, turns out an adult did take advantage of me, and I'm having dreams of some kid! This sounds irrational, and it is, but just the idea of me having access to somebody of the opposite sex but younger, in any capacity, no matter how "unreal", tripped off something really profoundly scared in me.
And, just... well.. time took its toll. Early-mid July 2021 I hit a really dark place, the darkest I have ever been. There was a moment when I realized that I could either continue to suffer and wait and hope, or inflict my suffering on others. Make them as broken as me. I was tired. I was starting to consider the latter. I don't mean "huh, what if", but "yeah, that's something I could do".
And then this popped up.
Something in the quiet strength in this video... it broke that resolve in me. I just sat there, staring at the screen. I couldn't go forward with it. I just couldn't. And that was extremely painful. But I knew I had to go on.
July wasn't done with me, not even nearly. About a week later, I had a vision of the black-haired girl. While awake. It was intense. The vision was a promise of something to come. Suddenly I had this feeling of going down a slide towards a new grounding. The exhilaration was not what you would expect. I had a hard time handling it, at first. What everyone else would call "A sense of direction" I called a loss of control.
And then I got this tooth infection. Boy, you don't know pain till you got one of those. The pain was so exquisite they had to put me a particularly strong narcotic... and warned me that I would have a hard time processing emotions, on account of what the drug had to do to make me not feel the pain in my tooth. Boy did they undersell that one.
A day after I started taking the meds an estranged friend of mine died. She and I had never really patched things up, and her dying broke open a dam of unresolved feelings that I didn't know I had... while on a drug that made processing feelings extremely difficult. While processing a vision. While suffering from flashbacks. It was a lot, but I doing my best with it.
And then, on the same day, in the same eight hours, another friend of mine and I had an argument. It was a bad one. He was at a low point, and had decided that he was done with trying. He'd been having a really rough time, too, and finally couldn't fight certain battles anymore. He knew it was a bad idea, and I called him out for it, telling him he couldn't give up, not yet. He exploded at me, saying he couldn't do it anymore. I pushed back. Hard. Told him he wasn't a coward, just tired. He had every right to be tired. It didn't matter what I said. My friend was done. He said as much. And he would appreciate it very much if I stopped pushing him. He knew what he was doing.
I had done the right thing, or as close to it as I could. But it didn't stop me from waking up the next morning and feeling more tired than when I went to bed. I got up, walked into my bathroom. Lay down on the tile. And died.
No really. I was over my body. I saw it. I went cold.
Suddenly, I felt something push me back into my body: No. You have fought too hard to give out yet.
I had the vision. Again. And the warmth of it pulled me back into my body. I felt my body warm back up. I stood up. I felt... normal. Well, as normal as you can being on a narcotic that makes you not feel a bad tooth infection.
I went to work.
Came home.
Lived my life.
Most people think a resurrection should come with a choir of angels or a permanent glow. For me, it was just the ability to stand up and do a Tuesday.
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