In this quiet moment, I am performing deep psychic surgery on myself. I have created a sterile safe place in my heart-mind and am using my third eye to call in my orderlies.
I’m calling in Frida Kahlo, John Lennon, Kwan Yin and the huntress, Diana. Frida, another impaled goddess, makes me look deep into the richness of the blood red energy of my infinite enraged self as she lays me in a state of suspended animation. John holds the masculine space of my feminine aspect and we begin to tackle feelings of abandonment that can cause complications during surgery. The waters flowing from the eyes, hands and vagina of Kwan Yin create a multi-dimensional baptismal pool. Diana’s steady eyes and hands guide my operation. Her pinpoint ability to kill the root with the feminine antidote at the tip of her arrow is just what I need to stop the damage from killing me.
I have made an incision around a very deep puncture wound caused by a sharp red energy spike. It has pierced through my body right below my rib cage from the front, creating a protrusion out of my back. It frightens me when I touch it, and so I am doing my best to keep my blood-pressure stable and maintain the integrity of this deadly poison as I implore the ascended aspects of my infinite self to guide this shit out.
This energy spike has already done damage. It is what gave me my type 2 diabetes. It is a manifestation of rage.
With deepest gratitude, I can finally feel my rage. I can finally see it although it has been with me all my life. It sneaked into the processed food I was eating when I couldn’t talk about my feelings. It was present in the aspect of me that was left down the bottom of the well of repressed sorrow and neglect during my formative years. It was in all of those times I chose men with serious emotional problems to fuck, fight, and fix. It’s a fucking judgmental bitch that tells me that I am unworthy of any joy or happiness because I was and always will be a pig slut.
I have fallen prey to being connived that the expression of anger is wrong, and I, in turn have become pickled with grievances.
I have got to feel this out. I have got to return to my innocence. Was I ever there? Perhaps I was born under the sign of fire because of this baseline of rage that has burned through the women of my family line and put me on this inter-dimensional surgery slab.
Rage lurks and waits for you to impale yourself upon it while it laughs about the surprised look on the face of your barren corpse. It gives such a shocking thrust that you don’t even realize it has done you in until the moment the bitter taste in your mouth tips you off that you have been poisoned.
As I search for the root with objective precision and an unflinching eye, I realize.
We celestial little girls with tender hearts and spiritual insight never deserved to have our mouths clamped shut with heavy hands. No girl ever did. Our innocence was not meant to be gorged on by a feeding frenzy of heartless dogs disguised as family members or trustworthy authority figures. Those old world soul-eating rituals have no place in the space of the holy infinite.
I let out a primal scream. Diana has entered the incision as I begin shaking on the table, balling my hands into fists to fight against combustion. A hot, white light emanating from within and from Diana’s orb begins to lift a dark sludge from my depths, forcing my mouth open wider and wider until I am disrobed from my human sheath. As I experience the weight of the world fall away, I wonder am I dying?
I try to scramble for what has always kept me grounded, slave to the salve of normalcy, but my hands are unable to wrap around my own viscous form. I am long dead. I was left to the wolves to be feasted on and used as soil for seeds of rage planted inside me before my first woman’s blood.
My rage body begins to reveal itself as Dianic love energy draws it from my true boundless form. The block is quickly removed.
As I lay suspended, with an open hole in my body, I call in the vibrational heat of Icarus’ melting wings to fill me with dripping humility and wisdom. Kwan Yin’s waters have risen, and I surrender to being submerged under the crystalline baptismal waters of compassion. I begin breathing deeply in goddess utero. I am cauterized and cleansed.
There is a hush over the sacred space of my heart-mind. My healing masters take three distinct steps back and let the mother goddess nurture me back to wholeness.
A midwife wearing a cloak made of the light of the dawn enters the space. My ascended orderlies fall under the weight of the greatest measure of love back into their karmic time streams. I can feel the crushing pressure of being called to rebirth and yet I am hovering above myself observing under the midwife’s tutelage.
We begin to sing the song of life. We call forth transformation in the language of ancient queens. As the dryness of my old bones fades into the turbulent nebula of a birthing star, I am emerging from sacred waters as the caretaker of my innocence and the master of my internal universe.
I await discovery.