Happy Christmas Eve - Unaliving

That fucking blanket. Violet Blood Series Part II.

This Violet Blood Series is a recollection of my path to my personal power. The life events that led me to becoming The Purple Peach. I will do my best not to make these too lengthy. To tell the entire story, I’d have to write a book or a series of books…well maybe this is the beginning of that, who knows.

This series is not for any other reason than to remind you of your personal power in your world as I describe certain events that put me on the path of taking mine back;

the discovery of my Violet Blood.

Trigger Warning: self harm, suicide

continued from part I…

It was now Christmas Eve.

I had slept a bit but still felt the abscessed reality of the day before tugging on my insides.

I went to the bathroom and washed my face, matching myself in the mirror with a question and answer.

“Why am I here? If this is what life is, it isn’t living and I want out. I’m done.”

I felt like life was sending anything and anyone towards me to see how much I could take before it truly broke me.

Why?

I didn’t deserve this reality. I was a good person with the ability to carry even the heaviest of loads. Constantly pepper sprayed and cut off at the knees.

It didn’t make any fucking sense.

Her camaraderie with victimhood and shame

Before you ask, yes, I did say something about the ‘swipe right’ event.

At around 7 am, I called the police, reported my assault and was called a liar. As soon as I shared his name, I was shut down. Apparently, this guy was a cop’s kid in the area and could do no wrong. The cop, sorry “police officer”, on the other end of the line was a woman too; what a shame, I hope she heals.

I then called a friend and told her what happened.

I wasn’t going to keep quiet, not after the last time I didn’t say anything. She, being compassionate by nature, was helpful to talk to. She listened. It had never happened to her though so she admittedly “didn’t know what to say”. We wished each other a happy holiday. Disconnect.

Again, “why am I here?”

I immediately sought therapy after this assault and hoped for the best. I wanted someone, anyone, to help me navigate how I ended up on this path to such a decadent fall.

The therapist I found seemed perfect.

She had a background in trauma and had a wild side with her hippie tunic and homemade earrings that graced her photo on her website. I reached out to her and made it clear that I needed help today, like right now, holiday or no holiday. She could sense the urgency as I was on the brink and scheduled me in for the early afternoon.

I drove the 40 minutes to her office, well… her living room, and sat down across from her. She welcomed me, offered me tea with a calm demeanor and a big toothy smile. I felt comfortable enough to share the events of the past evening.

Big. Deep. Breaths.

This isn’t weird, she hears shit like this all the time.

So, with reckless abandon, I opened up to this seemingly perfect stranger, sitting in her brown lazy boy chair, whilst staring at a tv tray adorned with crystals, feathers and precious metals.

Surely she would be able to handle this recollection if she was truly as “spiritual” as she had been showing the world she was. That word though.

I spoke for about 20 minutes, starting with a little history of some past assaults, drug abuse, depression and the institutions I had been placed in. She took notes and seemed to follow without any issue. I began describing the events of the last 24 hours before she stopped me, looked me dead in the eye and blatantly announced that the assault was “my fault”. Pointed finger and everything, drenched in tears I could have strangled her.

I was at fault for being involuntarily entered, choked, and beaten. I was the one who had put myself there by inviting him in to hang out. It was all on me.

I’m the asshole. a shameful being of impurity.

My inner monologue became boisterous with the voices of the me’s that had been shut down by those meant to help and protect me and people like me; the truelove humans blamed for their own pain. Big hearts with open veins.

Then, like clockwork, in came the internal demolition team.

What in the actual fuck did she just say to me?

This fucking bitch!

Are you fucking serious?!

WHY AM I FUCKING HERE?!

I was spinning underneath my intentional bitch face: my sweater grazing the bruises that were forming on my ribs.

I painfully swallowed down my thick-spikey rage while playing with the frayed stitch on the arm of that brown lazy boy chair.

In comes the logical voice.

“Calm down, breathe. She’s an idiot, don’t give her any more of your time. Just get out.”

I smiled through the shittiest of grins.

“You know what…I think I’m gonna go. That was not okay to say to me, or to anyone.”

She was offended. I didn’t care.

I thanked her for her time, paid her in full and without taking my entire day out on her, got in my car and left.

I never scheduled with her again.

The most fucked up part, the truth that hit me on that drive home…she really did have a point.

It had been my fault, and here’s why:

From the moment I entered this prison planet, the entity named Death would often wrap me in his blanket without my conscious knowledge and send me spiraling into Demolition Town.

I was 4 years old the first time I became enthralled with my own expiration. I still have the scar as a reminder. The first time I had flatlined was after being swarmed and stung on a red ant hill at 9 months old. I was DOA at the hospital and somehow came back.

Point is, I did not own this Death blanket; it was gifted to me from before, another life possibly and I was its caretaker.

I continually asked for it. The pain and shame. I understood it so well, it was my twisted comfort zone.

My fault, my choice.

Every thought is a choice and my thoughts were reckless, abhorrent and what some would call “insane” at times. That fucking blanket.

My internal self-loathing had asked for it. I could see that, I felt that in my core. That fucking blanket had me hating myself, beating myself up and stealing my innocence, every day from my first breathe and now a random ‘swipe right’ had done it for me.

As within, so without.

The acknowledgement of all this was too much for my fragile psyche to handle.

I didn’t want to spiral, I just didn’t want to feel.

I didn’t want to die, I just didn’t know how to live. Here.

Where in the the fucking world is here anyway?

I wanted the consequences of my actions to take me out. Deeper self pity. So on that day, Christmas Eve, I decided to put a hard stop to the spiral.

Union in a Vortex

I arrived home, dragged my ass up the stairs into the guest room and locked the door. My mother, afraid I was having another blanket-induced-episode, asked me a few questions on the other side of the door. I couldn’t process her words with any kind of present awareness so I just responded, “I’m tired, I’m going to take a nap.”

My ever-loving-powerful-as-fuck mother responded with a heavy sigh,

“Ok sweetie, I love you.”

Mom always knew when to say those words, even though I couldn’t feel them. So I made my decision and walked through the process.

A bottle of wine, handfuls of opiates and xanax, a certain British band on repeat and after about 30 minutes (I think), that was it.

I felt my heart trigger its last emission.

What happened next, well…I still don’t really know.

None of us can really know.

At first, nothing.

A voided screen that was somehow darker than anything I had ever physically experienced. After flailing for a moment, I gave into the weightless no-thing-ness. I looked down at my hands and saw through them; an empty container. After decades of trying, it had happened.

I had been unalived.

Peering into the void I saw what looked like a pin prick in the far distance. I tried to move towards it but my efforts were useless.

It was headed my way regardless. It began slowly swelling as it got closer and closer. Spinning in a delicate display of blues and golds. As I focused on it I saw, in my peripheral view, the trail of tears that had lead me to that moment. It began to play, my movie reel. A series of films lining up to the holographic space I found myself in.

Replays of what I had chosen to put myself through in response to that dreadful death blanket. The self-mutilative path I had chosen each time that blanket was thrown over me. Then I began spinning, in all directions, at once. I was blasted with a wave of, what felt like, a beating heart. The blast came from the left, just in time for a few head shaped silhouettes to show up in the center of that bright light.

These beings, who I now know very well thanks to my good friend silence, pushed me back into my flesh suit.

I gasped for air, dumbstruck by the sunshine streaming through the plastic blinds of my family’s guest room. Flabbergasted by this joyful union with the setting sun.

Paralyzed and mute, with a bleeding heart. I had let go of life yet it chose me, again.

I had been somewhere.

I didn’t know where, but I knew I had to get back there—in the nothing. I knew there were answers there and I was full of questions about my pain that not one of the countless Therapists, Counselors or Doctors I had been poked and prodded by, could answer.

Their tests, medications and analyses weren’t enough to get to the depths of the power of that fucking blanket.

So I would.

I did.

Break my own curse.

The Purple Peach

continued in part III…

*I have since worked through, ad nauseam, the ‘swipe right’ event and other events from my past. I love my story and receive it as my own, reframing it with every drop of my violet blood. We can all overcome anything. We can die and come back to life.*