My own miracle
I can cry again.
That must seem absolutely stupid and trivial to readers of this blog, but it isn't. I lost the ability to weep gradually as a result of bullying by my adoptive mother, and then by my foster parents (see tags "autobiographical" and "personal" for more information on that). What tore it was the persecution I underwent from my foster parents, the Hastings, after my fiance in a car wreck in 1963. They wouldn't even let me cry after his death, and threatened to have me put away in a mental hospital if they caught me crying. It was a threat with real teeth in it -- I was absolutely terrified of that possibility, because of the shock treatments I'd been forced to undergo at one to lower my IQ because the doctors there diagnosed me as "sick" because of my intelligence, and my foster parents knew it. It was bad enough after my adoptive father's death, when my adoptive mother, Jane, jeered at me and made fun of me every time I started to cry. But what happened after Evans's death turned me to stone inside, and I couldn't cry. I just couldn't, no matter how sad or otherwise emotional I was.
When my late friend Gary Csillaghegyi died, I cried for weeks over his death. When my cats died, I cried for weeks over their deaths. But never for myself. Never. And eventually I stopped crying, and life went on. But eventually I stopped crying, and life went on, and I couldn't cry any more.
On 9/11, the sight of all those poor people, many of them on fire, poised on ledges above the 90th floor of their building as they nerved themselves to jump, and that of people who had already jumped shown against the walls of the Towers as they fell to their deaths, combined with the fall of the Twin Towers and the descriptions by shaken news personnel of the events of the day, I did begin to cry. Not for myself, never for myself, but for all those people who died that day, and all the horror the rest of the nations suffered as a result, especially the families and friends of the dead. I cried spontaneously every day for weeks, months over the horror of that day. But eventually I stopped crying, and life went on, and I couldn't cry any more.
But when I had that wonderful dream of the 2nd of this month, I cried all that day, not out of grief or sorrow, but joy. And I've been weeping on and off ever since, sometimes in sorrow or anger, sometimes in joy. People must think I've gone crazy, but I don't care -- for the first time since I was a small child I can weep freely, without fear of people persecuting me for it, and the release it gives me is wonderful. And that release was triggered by something that has come about because of my studies of qaballah, that dream, and the fountain of joy it released in me. And similarly, my increasing ability to write about what happened to me as a child and later, providing information here that could someday help countless others who have gone through such torments of the damned at the hands of cruel people who took advantage of them to heal from the wounds in the soul that that torment inflicted on them.
People have told me that the study of Qaballah leads to demonic possession, and that Qaballah is "simply black Magick." Oh, really? So, demonic possession is responsible for grief, sorrow, and weeping, and black Magick is what causes such a possession? Does your church practice exorcism on people who weep, on people who grieve, or on those who dare to speak out about the evil that scarred their souls and crippled their spirits? If so, that's one sick church, and anyone who clings to it really ought to examine his or her motives for doing so.
No, Qaballah won't make you a multibillionaire, or even affluent. It won't make you handsome as Adonis or as beautiful as Aphrodite. It won't make you famous, or beloved of millions, or turn you into a successful movie star. It's just a way of perfecting your relationship with God and your fellow human beings, of learning about yourself and dealing appropriately with those aspects of yourself that really need some work done.
But it can also bring enormous joy, and shed light on things that can help make life worthwhile. It can ease the heart and turn the mind to tasks it was intended to do all along. If those things aren't worth anything to you, or they seem diabolical, well, that's too bad. But they are worthwhile to me, and I intend to keep right on studying Qaballah. And weeping openly and unashamedly over and for myself, for the first time in decades, in a freedom of spirit I haven't been able to enjoy since childhood.
That must seem absolutely stupid and trivial to readers of this blog, but it isn't. I lost the ability to weep gradually as a result of bullying by my adoptive mother, and then by my foster parents (see tags "autobiographical" and "personal" for more information on that). What tore it was the persecution I underwent from my foster parents, the Hastings, after my fiance in a car wreck in 1963. They wouldn't even let me cry after his death, and threatened to have me put away in a mental hospital if they caught me crying. It was a threat with real teeth in it -- I was absolutely terrified of that possibility, because of the shock treatments I'd been forced to undergo at one to lower my IQ because the doctors there diagnosed me as "sick" because of my intelligence, and my foster parents knew it. It was bad enough after my adoptive father's death, when my adoptive mother, Jane, jeered at me and made fun of me every time I started to cry. But what happened after Evans's death turned me to stone inside, and I couldn't cry. I just couldn't, no matter how sad or otherwise emotional I was.
When my late friend Gary Csillaghegyi died, I cried for weeks over his death. When my cats died, I cried for weeks over their deaths. But never for myself. Never. And eventually I stopped crying, and life went on. But eventually I stopped crying, and life went on, and I couldn't cry any more.
On 9/11, the sight of all those poor people, many of them on fire, poised on ledges above the 90th floor of their building as they nerved themselves to jump, and that of people who had already jumped shown against the walls of the Towers as they fell to their deaths, combined with the fall of the Twin Towers and the descriptions by shaken news personnel of the events of the day, I did begin to cry. Not for myself, never for myself, but for all those people who died that day, and all the horror the rest of the nations suffered as a result, especially the families and friends of the dead. I cried spontaneously every day for weeks, months over the horror of that day. But eventually I stopped crying, and life went on, and I couldn't cry any more.
But when I had that wonderful dream of the 2nd of this month, I cried all that day, not out of grief or sorrow, but joy. And I've been weeping on and off ever since, sometimes in sorrow or anger, sometimes in joy. People must think I've gone crazy, but I don't care -- for the first time since I was a small child I can weep freely, without fear of people persecuting me for it, and the release it gives me is wonderful. And that release was triggered by something that has come about because of my studies of qaballah, that dream, and the fountain of joy it released in me. And similarly, my increasing ability to write about what happened to me as a child and later, providing information here that could someday help countless others who have gone through such torments of the damned at the hands of cruel people who took advantage of them to heal from the wounds in the soul that that torment inflicted on them.
People have told me that the study of Qaballah leads to demonic possession, and that Qaballah is "simply black Magick." Oh, really? So, demonic possession is responsible for grief, sorrow, and weeping, and black Magick is what causes such a possession? Does your church practice exorcism on people who weep, on people who grieve, or on those who dare to speak out about the evil that scarred their souls and crippled their spirits? If so, that's one sick church, and anyone who clings to it really ought to examine his or her motives for doing so.
No, Qaballah won't make you a multibillionaire, or even affluent. It won't make you handsome as Adonis or as beautiful as Aphrodite. It won't make you famous, or beloved of millions, or turn you into a successful movie star. It's just a way of perfecting your relationship with God and your fellow human beings, of learning about yourself and dealing appropriately with those aspects of yourself that really need some work done.
But it can also bring enormous joy, and shed light on things that can help make life worthwhile. It can ease the heart and turn the mind to tasks it was intended to do all along. If those things aren't worth anything to you, or they seem diabolical, well, that's too bad. But they are worthwhile to me, and I intend to keep right on studying Qaballah. And weeping openly and unashamedly over and for myself, for the first time in decades, in a freedom of spirit I haven't been able to enjoy since childhood.