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Personal Sharings / Healing Fragmentation

Tell Me Who I Am

Who am I, red-o-mine?

Tell me who I am. Tell me.

I weep for you and with you, red-o-mine, sweet red, needy infant, fire of my living.

You have been nearly destroyed.

I found you there, broken, red-turned-brown-turned-black...
barely breathing, heart faintly beating, trying so hard to die...

my command,
god's command
the hatred of the world
the knives of the heartless
sliced and diced
drove you to nothingness

and yet, you still breathe.
Red-o-mine, YOU ARE HEROIC!

No, I hear you whisper. It's not heroic when you have no choice. You simply cannot die. You have tried.

God wanted you dead, and so you tried.
I wanted you dead, and so you tried.
You tried.

How can I reverse this command, this deep imprint, that says death is your lot, your dessert, your fate?

How can I turn your face to the sun and convince you now that I want you to live?

That god wants you to live...

I believe it now. He does. He wants us to live. He didn't understand, the world didn't understand. God is listening, even if nobody else is. And I need you red-o-mine, to help me live now, to tell me who I am.


Red IS my identity. Red knows who I am. Red is my survival desire, my need, my hunger. My needy baby. When god first encountered me in the void, he felt my infant need, the grasping, the sucking, and feared me. In his fear, he judged me.

Selfish. Unloving. Self-centered. Focused on self-survival at the cost of others. Grasping. Greedy. Sucking, unfillable void. Deadly, destructive evil.
And so he left me there with a slap and a kick, his hatred ringing in my ears. Commanding me to die, to leave off trying to kill others.

Kill others?
I wasn't trying to kill anybody!
I was trying to live.
There must be great wrongness in me, that my trying to live means others die.
And so I accepted his judgments.
And tried to die.

Red never had a chance to grow up. What else is an infant but hungry? How can she be otherwise?

All, since then, has been an effort to destroy red, to eliminate the infant, the need, the hunger, the deadly destructive evil.

But without my red, I don't know who I am. I start to look for who I am, and I find an emptiness, a hole, literally. And then I think maybe the hole is who I am. Maybe I'm nothing, emptiness. Terror threatens to destroy me then, and I have enough of my shred of red left to keep trying to be something.

So I look to my other colors. I use my orange. Maybe my sexuality defines me, tells me who I am. Whether I'm male or female, hetero or homo, or bi, frigid or promiscuous, or walking the razor's edge between the two.

I use my yellow. Maybe my feelings tell me who I am. Dangerous ground.

I use my green. Maybe who I love tells me who I am. Maybe HOW I love defines me. Am I unselfish, thinking of others, giving of myself, trying to help the light save the world?

I use my blue. Maybe what I say defines me. Maybe my communication skills can give me a solid identity. There's a lot of company up here, a lot of others who flap their gums as a way of having an identity. Will I be able to make myself heard in this heady place?

I use my indigo. I try to go inside and see visions that will tell me who I am. I ask and ask and ask. WHO AM I??? But these visions are so fleeting and unclear. So I ask the visions of others, I ask others to tell me who I am, to help me see myself better. It helps my terror to hope that they will be able to tell me who I am. But in truth, I don't grow stronger by this, I grow weaker. They don't really know me. They don't really SEE me.

I try to reach my purple, but the air up there is thin and hard to breathe. I try to align and use my purple. Maybe what I think defines me. Maybe my structures and beliefs will tell me who I am. And as I settle into one belief system or another, I feel more secure. I feel like I can relax, though I still can't breathe very well. I realize the definition of these walls feels limiting and skewed somehow, but I can't see or feel to understand why. The structure tells me why, tells me things like "All is one and one is all", and I become terrified that maybe I have no identity, and maybe I'm wrong to try to find out who I am. This feels wrong wrong wrong, I hate being here, in this heady place.

I want to know, I want to be sure, I hate being a leaf blown in the wind, not knowing, ungrounded, red-less. I have to find the courage to turn and look for my red. Terror screams through my body, through every color, screams and screams and screams. For there, in red, in the empty hole left by HIS hatred, lives the terror of being killed, the hidden commandment to die, the knowing that I DESERVE to die.

I send a message flowing down through my colors, through my body, a message ringing loud and lovingly. We can cry this! God wants us to live now! I believe this to be true. I can find my fragmented red, I can cry it all. I have ... found enough of her to hear her whispering, to see the shape of her, though she is yet a shadow. She whispers and I hear her, and there is no

I am ... sexual, or
I am ... powerful, or
I am ... loving, or psychic or pretty or smart or
I am the mother or daughter ... or rainbow spirit ... or body...
or any of the things I have been trying to use to define myself.

There is a whisper that says simply...

I am.

Maybe someday I'll be able to really feel that.

Related pages / poems:
My Red is Brown
Shred of Red

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