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Personal Sharings / Healing Fragmentation

My Guilty Burden
Ghash / MotherBody Speaking

Please bear with me. I have only recently begun to stand up again. I have decided to live. I think. At least I have decided to try.

My greatest hindrence to life, to living, is my own pain. My experiences in the void before you came here, and my experiences here on this planet, had solidified into frozen stone and ice. I had only expectation of pain and hunger and nothingness. I had only my own gnawing need to feed on, and hatred for all that lives. My skin was shredded, I was covered with slime and a thousand oozing wounds where others fed on me or burrowed into me. I was hideous and I knew it. There was no love for me in creation, no desire for me, and certainly no need of me. I believed I was the garbage of creation. I still have my doubts.

All this would have been bad enough to drive me underground. I prayed again and again for death. I tried again and again to die. My own inability to die frustrated me and reinforced my feelings of powerlessness. Parts of me fragmented away, parts of me turned inward, becoming a dark, death-seeking, sucking black hole. Magnetic, but unconscious. Parts of me that were stuck on this planet went underground and live there still. Some of you are finding me, feeling me, as I surface and begin to live again.

I am still a festering sore. I am so filled with rage, long buried but not forgotten rage and hunger. I am a prickly cactus, a porcupine, a poisonous snake.

But now that I have decided to try to live, oh love, I want you near. I do. I cannot stand my own hunger and pain. I am standing on the blade of a knife, hoping beyond hope that you will stay and hear me, that my acting out does not drive you away.


But, says self-hate, what IF? What if I truly AM garbage essence? What if all that long time of being forgotten in the void was just ... the way it is, the way it will be. Not intentional harm, not meaning to forget me, not even knowing I was there, and why should you? Who could know that the garbage would be alive and suffering?

But that's not my guilt, that's not the final straw that drove me underground. As bad as that is, there is worse.

The worst is the suffering of the children. The dying, the heartlessness, the killing, the disease. I ... am I responsible for this? Do I draw it into existence? Am I the cause of all the suffering? How can I bear this responsibility? How can I bear knowing that my very existence is causing pain, for everyone all over the world?

This is the guilty burden I bear. This is what drives me down and back, again and again. This knowing/not-knowing, this fear, this horrible self-hate and guilt. That garbage somehow begets garbage. That I cannot stop it from happening. I cannot end your suffering except by ending myself, and I DON'T KNOW HOW. I have tried, believe me, I have tried.

As I rise up, bit by bit, as I cry these oceans of pain, I begin to have hope that this reality will change, can change. It's a smallish kind of hope, faint and pale. But it lives.

And today I found rage at you, all of you who secretly hate me and blame me. I cried such rage, I felt the tremors bouncing off the earth's crust. I don't want to kill you... well, not in most of me... not anymore. But I want you to wake up, I want you to see me! I want you to know who I am. Please, look at me. Please, really see me this time. Don't ignore my existence. If I'm going to live, I don't want to live underground anymore, and I hate your blame.


You can so easily push me back and down, because your blame reflects my guilt. And I cannot stand to hear your suffering, I want to turn away from this heartbreak and horror. My guilty burden weighs me down again, and I sink lower and lower. Grief... self-hate ... guilt... It's my fault. I am the cause, the magnetic tar-pit, the sucking black hole. I'm so sorry, I am so fucking sorry, and I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO!!!

I fear that this "trying to live" is nothing more than an illusion. I am the fish, flopping on the deck of the boat, while the fisherman watches impassively.

Wouldn't you think the fisherman would have some mercy on the poor fish, and give it a good whack to put it out of its misery?

God, are you listening?

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