In a day of no promises, I have taken the hard way at both opportunities. My sister is away in the mountains and hasn’t called which I don’t take to be any sort of sign at all, but I have had both parents contact me to be sure she’s okay. So I am entirely on my own and yet, somehow, I desire to take the driving in hand. I don’t know what’s come over me in that regard. It hasn’t been difficult to coerce myself, but I’ll get back to that.
Today, I went to the market. Well, first, I went to Target and dawdled through racks of clothes I found profoundly ugly. Even the stuff that wasn’t on sale. That’s not usually the case, but wow, I am not in tune with the marketers at the moment. Or, I suppose in this culture, I’m to say they’re not in tune with me. Got a few essentials like shaving cream and lady-time accoutrements. Slapped them down on my counter in my pink polka dot dress, feeling like a hipster homemaker weirdo with no makeup on and hair askew. Very much like I was a free, weird-ass, bird doing my own thing.
Then, I got to the market and the anxiousness started to filter through. Machines broken down, lack of volunteers, grabby hands saying fix me now, help help help I’m on fire if fire can be a momentary nuisance and not painful and life threatening. But I had something else on my mind and so I let the trouble flow neatly around me, and finally headed for the Tarot reader.
Now, for me, Tarot is not so much about being a conduit for Spirits. As a novitiate reader, myself, I don’t work that way even if, I can allow on the far reaches of my perspective, that’s somehow what’s happening. When I sit down for a reading, I don’t worry about whether one’s being pulled over on me. I don’t mind being cold read if that’s what she’s doing. I don’t mind intuitive leaps about my personality, advice that might be plucked from a medium’s imagination rather than the deep rumbling of the Universe. I just want to be given some direction, some help, some time that feels like it was set aside for both of us to think about me. I don’t care if she’s legit, I care if she’s good. And this one, despite having no reason to be, despite being a random psychic setting up a free booth at our market, was good.
Luckily, she recorded it, but hasn’t sent me the file yet. So this is going by memory. She asked me if I cursed, she said she felt like my energy was making it difficult for her not to curse. She talked about how I’d been enduring something for a LONG, LONG, LONG time assuming that something positive would come out of it and that I’m starting to accept that there’s not going to be a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and that I need to walk away. She talked about me needing to face my fears, to realize how baseless they are, and to turn them into dust. That I’m working on this and it’s up to me whether to continue on the path that’s laid out for me or to make one that gives me more happiness. That I’m starting to be more assured and more aggressive about keeping people away from me that are detrimental to my process.
I said only yes and no, and was wearing sunglasses at the time. But that felt pretty dead on.
She’s also the second psychic who has said she feels like she should give me a hug. That I have a lot of core beliefs that clash with who I am as a person, a lot of negative, painful, beliefs that are rotting me from the inside. She talked about how I’d adjusted to the pain I felt and so long as it stays at this status quo level, I’ve been fine with being that numb. That’s true. I mean, it is.
Then, she asked me if I had a question. I knew that time was almost up and I almost always ask for something less, well, mostly everything you ask a psychic or tarot reader is cliche, it’s you trying to be earnest. So I asked her what I needed to do to find love. And she said, well, for you, I see that you need to do a lot of healing.
Which leaves me a bit of a loss. I mean, I guess I am working on this stuff, and I guess I do want to get to the healing place, but I also think I’m being honest when I say, how the fuck do I heal this…nebulous statement of internal pain. She talked about tearing down all of these ideas of self, down to the very bone and rebuild with positive. But if you genuinely believe that you’re broken or unacceptable or weird or just seem inert to all potentially interested parties. That I can’t get it together and until it’s together, anyone would belittle me for trying such as I am. What’s genuine? I don’t know. I can see from the outside that I shouldn’t think the things I think about myself, but I feel like I’ve got the evidence. Maybe. I don’t know. I feel like I don’t know what else to think, how to look around at the mess and the bother and the exhaustion and say, hey, you and me, how bout it?…whoever this random you would be. How to do that enough that it mattered.
She talked about needing to feel the pain I’ve numbed so I can let it go. It’s not that I even don’t want to feel it, it just seems like I have to go hunting, digging to China for the root of it. That I can’t just say, “Oh, I really wish those things didn’t happen and those things did and cry a bit and be healed.” I don’t know where to go, how to work myself up into a frenzy if that’s what’s required, how to make myself drive a particular emotional road to get to the place with the rot and the sting and the pain so that I can start spritzing antiseptic and sunlight. I just feel like it’s all compacted down and sent away and I’ve drug it out about with me, but it’s not…at hand. And the therapist has never really felt like she was interested in unpacking this with me. Or going backwards. I’m just supposed to breath and meditate and calm. And the hell if I know if what’s in my mind as far as tragedies of childhood amounts to anything equal to the mess I’ve made myself in growing up and away from it. I just was a girl left to my own devices and I’d like to think I’ve muddled through the past thirty years well enough.
I’d like to, but, I don’t, really. I guess that’s the invented political outline of the edge of the country of the pain on the southern coast of the continent of the hurt.