Slut. Druggy. Homeless person. The likes of which all have been deemed subhuman by society. They shame you, haze you, assault you, take your pride, your dignity, your rights.
“You can’t sit with us” the world echos back to you. You’re not good enough, you’re not trying, you’re not nice, you’re a thief, a liar, a whore. All of these things which take away your humanity, demonize you, stigmatize you. And there is where lives are lost. To that straw breaking the backs of the already injured.
They would cast you onto subzero streets before seeing you as human. So, you walk your plank.
I have stood at the end of my plank many a time, only to have death run from me. Even he doesn’t want me.
☹️
I went into the woods looking for some peace and quiet. I entered an eerie, thick swam area. I saw an angel before me.
“I’m scared” I thought. “What if a snake bites me.”
“Well its a good thing you’re wearing steel plated knee high boots” the angels voice entered my thoughts.
So I walked through muddy terrain. I walked through a drizzling rain. I walked until the strap on my backpack broke, just with the dawn. Then I left the beaten path, to an area that looked perfect for containing a fire. I hung my symbols of protection in the area, and a deity too. Before this deity, I lit a fire. It wouldn’t get started, The earth was wet. So, I grabbed a deck of tarot cards. I asked a question. I received a touching answer. I threw it on the ember that would not start. It blazed.
I asked another question, another answer drew tears from my eyes. The fire roared. Smoke of wet leaves and sage purified the area. The king of snakes. The power of fours. Justice, The Empress, The Ace of Cups. I am a snake that would die before coming out of its hole. The Hermit. I need to kill my fear. I add surrounding brush to the fire. I’m almost out of cards. I notice large holes in the earth. My shovel uncovers something. A snake, terrifyingly big, dead beneath my fire. Think. Contemplate, reflect. The Four of Cups. What now? Ten of Cups. The World.
I dance around the fire. I drink. I smoke. I celebrate. Death. The King of Snakes.
I gather my things. They form a bundle that looks like a baby girl. I hold her. It feels so good. Like pure joy. She’s not sick like me. I weep. I carry her, like a baby, all the way home.
Whether this experience was skitzophrenia, or mushrooms, or a brain tumor or meth withdrawal, was it not the same experience for me? How would you feel if it was you?
