Love Under a Rock

Today I received a You Tube video from a wonderful friend of mine who is a trance channel; to sum up the video's message: "You are Loved." For the cynical non-believers, suspend your critical mind for a moment and listen, even if reading is not technically an auditory activity. And if you don't know what a trance channel is, google it if you so desire.

The channel came to my aid about twenty years ago when it was revealed that several of my under-aged loved ones had been sexually molested; not violent assaults but slimy 'cop a feel' maneuvers to their private parts, in both cases committed by supposedly trusted elders.

The turmoil that ensued was extremely painful. Although one can never know the extent of the others' pain, or how their perceptions would inform a future view of themselves, I certainly know how it affected me. A benign world turned into a hell realm of shattered beliefs. Righteous anger arose in my inner warrior that smites all wrongs...except that this warrior was shackled in a dungeon, imprisoned by shame and fear. Despite a fervent wish to do something, paralysis blanketed every contemplated move.

Because I come from a family where nothing was discussed openly except for opera or school marks, no role model existed for confronting deeply problematic issues. In my family of origin's philosophy, there were no hidden tributaries if one pretended they weren't there - except like water dripping on a rock, over time that solid mass will succumb to attrition; the body and soul eaten away by the lie of denial.

Enter stage right the trance channel. In her professional office that looked like a run-of-the-mill therapist's domain, a perfectly attractive, actually beautiful woman of middle age greeted me with the information that she doesn't remember anything once she goes into trance and her guide takes over.

Thank god, my inner shame tells me. We wouldn't want a real person to see my rotting wounds or to witness the seething anger blanketed by a phony smile of rational acceptance.

As the blue-eyed blonde drifted into her shut-eye zone, a deeper voice with a strange accent issued forth; sweet, gentle and with an accent decidedly different from the Los Angeleno now slumped in her chair. Tamaara, the disembodied one, directed me to express my feelings. 

Let out my real feelings? What a novel and totally frightening idea. But since no one was looking, I stood up and took a well-placed large stick next to an equally well-place large floor pillow and began smashing its soft tufts. I will also admit to screaming, "I hate you" and other obscenities at the top of my lungs, directed at the perpetrators who had stolen young (and old) innocence.

I won't exasperate readers with the content of my next ten sessions, but by the time we were finished, the psychic Rotor-Rooter had performed a great service. I learned that unreleased shame, fear, anger or guilt, powered by emotional cowardice, are toxic. I learned that "...there is nothing to fear but fear itself," to coin a famous oxymoron. And most importantly, I understood that beneath every turbulent, misguided, negative, vengeful thought/emotion/action is a desire to love and be loved.

If we were all able to look at each other - victims and perpetrators alike - as human beings searching for equilibrium, saftey, and yes Love, often in ways that range from inapproriate to monstrous, then maybe the knots that bind us personally and collectively would begin to unravel.

Because after all, at the core of all being, We are Loved.