Savant and/or Squashed and Perfectionist?

I'm grossed out by the idea I have to be seen to be valued by this world.

Seen or heard or shared. I get it. There's a movement of people happening that understand the kind of journey I'm doing. Walkabout. Holy Shamanic Walkabout as process for ascending. I'm not alone. There are lots of Chosen Ones out and about in the land these days. A lot of them are leading online. A lot of them are sharing with their tribe. Some are hermits like me. I even got asked pointedly by the spirits what I would do about breaking out someone who is that much better at being alone. 

I didn't really come up with any good answers about that one. I'm still trying to figure it out for myself. 

I was a lonely kid. I've realized that more and more since I'm staying with my family right now, and I don't feel safe to take phone calls around people. I don't get to be my real self hardly at all. I try my hardest to be more of my authenticity around my nieces and nephews since they're able to mostly sense what's going on even if they don't know what to call it is Narcissism Soup. 

I could go on for a long time on lessons I think I am here to learn, but mostly I'm here because it's like going back in time to have a look around in an old journal. The more I've changed, the more this family has stayed the same. I even have age-doubles with my sister's kids going through a lot of the same kinds of things I went through -- all the way down to people not having enough value on health and hygiene. 

Did I really need to get cornered to here to value my writing like this? Writing because there's nowhere to go and because there's no other way to get real, no other way to get me to share something than to take away all other avenues to authenticity. I played with dolls a lot as a kid, like Robin Williams, whose spirit visits me sometimes to laugh and laugh. I wrote a lot of short stories, and some have even come true. I learned to see the world like a journalist and to mix things around. 

And then, when I was 41, I got a hysterectomy. 

When I was just 21, there had been a dream. In the dream, there were these 4 faceless entities, guys, tall and thin and felt familiar. And they said, "We're going to remove organs from your body and then fuck you." It wasn't a question. But I was so happy about it that I said, "Yes!" And so that's what they did, like on a surgery table and then took turns fucking me like a horror-porno. But then I came out of whatever the stupor was and was very upset about my organs being removed. And so I went from the barn-like outbuilding into a ranch house, brown brick maybe, like someone's home. And there was a woman in there, whose face has seemed familiar to me since then as someone who shows up around realm-shifts and times when I would know I was Training for something. And so I tell her that I'm worried I won't survive without my organs and so she doesn't say much but puts me to work on repetitive things until I calm down enough to tell her again about worrying I'll die without my organs. And now she shows me my ceramic salad bowl filled with bloody chicken eggs that are dried and crunchy and red and crusty. Looking at them made me sure they weren't going back into service. So, I said, "Well those aren't going back." And went outside into the lawn, picked a tree, sat under it with my legs crossed to have a peaceful moment before I die, and died. When I died, I woke up here, which was jarring and stayed with me for a long time. 

After my hysterectomy, I was reminded of that dream a lot. Especially since I got predated by a psychological sadist about 5 weeks after my surgery and haven't felt like I was living in the old regular world in even longer than that. Something about depersonalization on that level really takes ya out of yourself. In context to being a shaman and having asked The Mushroom for my writing abilities back, and having a longtime fascination with my shadow and that of humans in general, it makes sense that I had to get caught while I was extra vulnerable so that I could keep getting broken open to find out. There are gentler ways of doing this. I get that, but I'm committed to continuing my surrender to the path and let it show me what I need to know. Even when I wish is could be friendlier anytime now. 

I guess the year I was 41 was also the year I heard myself singing in a new way. I had connected again with my dance and wrote several poems. Something happened. 

I've always had a little bit of talent for almost anything, but any of these things were suddenly heightened and my grace was improved. I'd had Music that I could switch on or off anytime for as long as I can remember, humming, singing, words or without. Anytime I want music, it's there. And dance now. I say the dance is in and I let it out, and it is never the same two times so I call it the Freestyle. I move in ways I never knew I could and almost always get to live the surprise of what moves I'll be doing next as I'm With Flow. 

Talking in Tongues was a new. I had always been able to sing any kind of sound or syllable or allow it just to be random and like jazz or classical music sounding, since I have a choir background. Or maybe it was a blues tune that repeated some phrase over and over from my soul. But where did this Talking in Tongues Language come from? I know it's a language because of how it repeats. But then I don't have to be thinking any kind of thing for it to come out. And some of the words remind me of Hindi, but like Din which is Day. And it is always a surprise to me. I either have it on and allow it to pass through me, or I have it off to get along with people who wouldn't get it. I hate being held in by people who wouldn't try to get it. Nevertheless, here we are.

A lot of my challenge with being something is getting past being too shy to share. I'm still struggling about being too shy with my gifts. Writing not least among them. Speaking and storytelling not least among them. Driving and navigating not least among them. All those psychic jedi abilities not least among them. Music and dance, not least among them. (Don't ask about my guitar, it's madder at me than most of my exes and I managed to take one with me on an entire adventure with no songs to share... even if I wrote plenty to the lakes and trees.)  Having visions and making them available, not least among them. How I make love, not least among them. 

I call myself an Idea Hoarder because I have a backlog of stories and visions that I never did anything with. Some of it is because I would tell people about them and nobody else seemed to like them. I love my ideas. And I loved them enough to remember so many of them. And I loved them enough to tell someone, though it was probably always the wrong someone. And I loved them enough to keep notes about them. And I loved making them up and living them in my imagination. And I loved inventing solutions to problems. 

Probably, I'm a Squashed Perfectionist who couldn't bear to see them done half-assed or in the wrong spirit. Some of these ideas have been good enough not to throw around, which is why I'm not even boasting about them here, neither. 

I can find lots of reasons not to do some of these. Don't get me going again about cults and how many different versions of a cult I've even come up with. 

Whether or not I've been able to make myself prove all these levels of things I've been training and learning over my life is besides the point. Proof must means you asked someone else's opinion of your thing, and they supported you. I have held onto myself without support so many times that I probably won't even know what to do if I get some. So I keep asking myself, "Isn't that just going to be fun to find out?"

I'd put "Divine Guidance" as one of those areas I've been following when it comes to who I share my ideas with. Surely if I was supposed to have someone receptive to share them with, that's who would have been sitting there to hear me? I really do think it works like that. Funny enough, I had someone express doubt in these miracle connections while talking about being the person on the helper side in the same example. It really does happen. So why hasn't it? 

Probably so that I'd feel wealthy with my hoard of business ideas, schemes to cause communities, or just saving them all for a rainy day in the nation. Blocked seems to be how I would also describe my relationship with the money I might have needed to make any of them work without all the help. Blocked from help and finances. Otherwise, the people I'd bump into on the subway would be scouts for some show or restauranteurs ready to invest. I really do come from a world where these kinds of things are just easy, even if you end up working your total ass off once you get the opportunity. 

Do I love my own abilities and ideas enough to put them out there in front of the right ones? Or am I waiting to find out what will happen if I don't? Is there really such a thing as timing? Or have I just been doubting myself that much all these years? 

The version where I have tried for help and haven't got it is almost as sad as the version where I've doubted myself too much to try.