From the depths within my spirit screams, arms outstretched, head tilted back, pulsing fire through my veins. With shallow breath and racing heart my voice spews raw emotion – pain; facing the absolute death of my self – it beckons me to give in, let go, and allow the demons to escape from open lips in a sorrowful, broken roar. There is no control here, only complete surrender, lest my throat closes and I am ever-unfinished with the soul-crushing work to find redemption beyond this darkness. All I want is to defeat it, as its hold has threatened to take me down far too many years, and in this moment, I would give my last breath to know its end.

Beyond tightly closed eyes, under this veil of blindness, presently I see so much truth to what is attempting to pass through me. I know what it is I need to release, but I have failed to untether my grasp no matter how noble my intentions may be to do so… I am fastened tightly, and screw by screw I’ve worked to separate myself from this loss, yet the bolts are rusty, and I only get through pieces at a time – far too many years in the rain; I know this brokenness too well. When I consider what was lost, it makes sense why I am broken, yet tethered to love when it is lost is merely a fool’s portion and I am no fool. So, why then, why can it not just release me?

Sometimes I seriously wonder if there is more at play here than the manifestations of my unease – the anxiety and the sadness – if perhaps there is another factor far beyond rational explanation working in obscurities, pulling the strings to keep me tethered to all I’ve known as truth even though it is slowly suffocating me… If the demon clasping his claws around my throat was put there for a purpose I have yet to understand. Maybe this crushing weight on my neck is here to teach me something bigger. He, the ghost traveling around the shadows of my mind, is the master architect of all my pain, with his cosmic noose choking me until I fall to my knees to ensure I remain where he once held me. Tied to the love that was lost, stuck in the darkness where we last stood together, both begging for the chance to breathe again. Maybe he keeps me here because at least that is better than the emptiness of letting me go.

Maybe I keep him here, because at least that is better than the emptiness of letting him go.

Every part of my being wants to scream out… Shaking the earth and breaking every eardrum with pure sorrow.

Breathe fire from my lungs.

And run.

Run to the beginning to make sense of the end. Run to the light to finally set aside this darkness.

If ever I needed to feel the air in my lungs as deep as it can go, it is this moment when the rope is tightening and my feet are dangling, and try as I may my hands cannot pull hard enough to stop the fact that I cannot breathe.

Hot tears pour now, I did not ask for them. My fingers though busy with this work are trembling slightly — if I pause… close my eyes…

Draped over my head a black veil. To the gravesite where rests two souls, their former selves, though we yet both live on opposite sides of the world. I’ve resisted this too many years too long. . . I tremble, and I rage, and I scream out for the searing end – the bitter end. Far separate than anything presently called my own, far different than this life I dwell within now, but the beginning of love. The beginning.

I was never prepared for the story to end, more difficult still is how it ended, and what I was left to carry for the remainder of my years.

Generational suffering: Mother, Grandmother and Great-Grandmother before me. I was handed a package tied up with a bow and with one last breathe the one whom gave me life, with hers ceasing, assured the universe that I would be tethered to this burden, so long as I remain suffocated and tied down to everything I am not strong enough to release. What was given to me I did not ask for, and perhaps would alter time itself to have changed it, no matter what other consequence would be born from that; I can think of few things more painful than the truth, however, and would gladly throw my fists up to God Himself and beckon Him to bring it on, if He could have saved me from this one thing.

There are worse things in this life than what was given to me – I have never buried my child or witnessed the atrocities of warfare. I have not suffered the pain of cancer or watched someone I love go through that until they met their final breathe. I know my pain is subjective, but all things considered most of my family would simply like to shout at me to “get over it”, especially all these years later when my life looks fucking amazing on paper. Just the same, however, I would never say to any of them that their hurt is invalid or a waste of time, I am saddened sometimes that the only outlet I have now for my own story are these words. These words do not speak back; they do not affirm me or help me to believe I am going to be just fine. I wish those whom knew me in the before would at least allow me the freedom to express these things without condemnation, alas, to these keys I go – and I am grateful I have this. I bear this on my own, but days come when I would give anything to use my voice instead of my hands, and have someone who was there, then, tell me, “it’s okay to have these feelings”. So many years later, that story is nearly forgotten – lost to all but the only two remaining whom lived it. One is me, and the other lives on the other side of the world and offers no help; I think his throat is closed as tightly as my own.

… The sky is gray again today, and the cold wind soon will blow. The weather is worsening and with the coming week I will be setting intentions for the difficult work to come. Soltara is five weeks away from today, and my first meeting with Ayahuasca comes shortly after we arrive on the shores of Costa Rica. She has been working in me even now, and I think the tears came today for the purpose of pushing me to these keys. To organize these thoughts – or if anything give them a space to breathe apart from me. I have so much to ask her, so much to bear with honesty and openness, but I am a bit afraid.

Mostly that this pain needs to tear me apart, completely and finally. I fear I will be ravaged and wrecked and ultimately meet my end – the end of everything I’ve carried, the end of all I have known since my mother’s darkness was passed down to me. I fear the noose around my neck will tighten and I will have no choice but to succumb, at last.

My intention today is that I allow it, and I find a rebirth into something beyond this sorrow. To the light I want to run, and I want to arch my back, outstretch my fingers, and scream with everything I have if it means it leaves me – fire engulfing all of this pain in flames of deep blue and crimson red. I want to purge it from my spirit and search for meaning inherent in the pain I’ve carried with me all these years. I am ready, but I have some fear to work through as the days keep moving forward calling me closer to this tremendous work. It has already begun – I am grateful, but this place, presently, it hurts me. And I cannot breathe.

I want to meet the demon with his hands on my throat and get to know him, and then tell him his job is done now. I want to scream at God and ask Him why He thought I was strong enough to bear this burden, and I want to thank Him for thinking I was strong enough for this growth – I want to say thank you for giving me perseverance, and these words to write – because without both, I am not sure I could have endured. And I want to find the little girl I once was and show her that Father never left us, and she can be safe with the story He has written for our life – we are safe, Chrissy and Christina, the child and the Woman; Me. I want to find my soul which for so long has been hidden deep inside of me, afraid to shine, unable to speak up and make herself known, buried under the weight of shame, regret, and longing for the days I can never get back. I want to be vulnerable with myself and learn how to be vulnerable with others. I want to tell my mother that I am sorry she was handed her pain, and that she ultimately was not like me – the demon with alcohol on its breath gripped her throat and she let him take her away from five children, a Grandson, and life itself at thirty nine years old … I want to forgive her for death’s final kiss and giving me so much pain before she died that I would not recognize myself for years to come.

I want to be free.

I want to breathe, and laugh, and love deeply. I want to not be afraid. I want to be the highest measure of myself I can muster, and stop dragging this darkness with me, manifesting itself into the world and into those I love.

I want to break generational suffering: It ends with me. It ends because I am choosing for it to end, and I will continue to try until it does. Surrender control, Christina.

One labored breath at a time. The storm will fade, the skies will clear once more. Just… Hold on a bit longer.

You will be just fine.