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“Those who danced were thought to be quite insane by those who could  not hear the music”

--Angela Monet

INTRODUCTION

     I was in Roswell, Georgia, just outside the city limits of Atlanta and in the heart of the Bible belt. I was grappling, as most humans do, with the big questions—those HolyGrail questions, as I call them: “Who am I?” “Why am I here?” ”What is normal?” “Can wombats fly?”             

    While pondering, I discovered the power inherent in the simple act of asking a question. The proverbial apple fell from a tree and bonked me on the head, awakening me to the fact that I was living a double life. Few people knew about my covert operation.

     I was a closet psychic and spiritual healer. My secret was under lock and key. That is, until a bizarre chain of events forced me to acknowledge and consider revealing what I was doing. I was a traditional psychotherapist who was hearing voices, talking to spirits, seeing angels, healing people with my life force energy, and much more. The eye-opening experiences catapulted me into an archeological dig where I performed an autopsy of my past. What I discovered in the process was powerful, magnificent, and illuminating. The intense journey of self-discovery rocked the boat of my conventional education, healed me on a level I couldn’t have imagined, revealed my true identity as well as my life purpose, and forced me out of what I coined “the spiritual closet.”

     My expedition was pregnant with questions: “If I accept the truth about my identity, will I lose those I love?” “Would I be outcast by my professional peers?” One by one, the pieces of a grand puzzle were showing up. I would be tempted to ignore the challenges presented to me. Would I accept those challenges? Would I see the opportunities inherent in the experiences? I would come to know that there are no coincidences, there are no accidents, and everything that happened in my life until that point was for a purpose.

     The more the events occurred, the more I was forced to consider that what I’d been trained to believe is normal is merely an illusion. My discoveries elucidated that many natural aspects of humanness get covered up, marginalized, and passed off as unreal or so-called paranormal by the supposed dominant culture—the American Medical Association, the American Psychiatric Association, etc. Those who are initiated into the metaphysical community know and accept what Western science and most organized religious systems consider controversial.

     I tell my story as a means to inspire and to empower people to stand grounded in their truths and to come out of whatever closet they are hiding in. It is also my intent to push my knowings through the doors of Western culture, so that some of the most important threads of human existence and human development are appropriately weaved into the mainstream. It is time for the shift to occur…

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CHAPTER ONE

FIRST, A LITTLE BACKGROUND

     At the same time America was at war with Vietnam, I was in a secret war—inside my house. The people who loved, fed, and protected me would morph into the people who hit, slapped, and whipped my body. Those early years were confusing. In one moment, I could get a kiss and a lullaby. Then, out of nowhere, a hurricane of anger could level me. My bedroom, a place of security and comfort, could transform into a dungeon where I was forgotten. I found myself frequently wondering, “Where is Mommy?” The physical and verbal aggression was no match for being ignored. Being left alone.

     I was born in Portsmouth, Virginia in 1961. I was the second of four children. I had an older brother, Tony, and two younger sisters, Maria and Angela. We were born within a span of four years. Dad was a medical doctor and military officer. Mom was home with us.

      I was a natural visionary and an explorer. I wasn’t aware of those qualities until many years later.  I was also the finder of great things—including but not limited to most of the pets in my family.

     I was precocious. I was unusually coordinated, able to figure things out.  I knew things before I was “supposed to” know. At 18-months-old, I would stand in grim defiance with my fists clenched by my sides—not crying—and glare at Dad, after he’d hit me. I didn’t have the vocabulary to state it, but I sensed something was not right.

     By the time I was three, Dad moved us to a military base in Queens, New York.  My siblings and I emulated our parents’ model of problem solving: physical and verbal aggression. We pulled hair, pushed, punched, shouted, and blamed everyone other than ourselves for our misfortunes. We competed for scraps of attention and love. Sibling rivalry was exacerbated by my need to compensate for what I wasn’t getting from my parents.

     I figured out that it was in my best interest to be the favorite child. That role, I came to believe, could come in handy—maybe, help me avoid punishment. Maria and I were the greatest of rivals. We were practically twins; she was born before I was a year old. I stopped being the baby of the family, before I could walk. She was literally the next egg in my mother’s ovary in line to be impregnated. How Maria and I fought for our rightful position in the family.

     I had a hidden source of help—something invisible to my family and me. I used it as readily as I breathed. I didn’t know what it was. It was just there. A guidance of sorts, an invisible knower, communicated to me as surreptitiously as cells divide. When I followed that guidance, I could break a rule and not get in trouble. Like the time I got my first pet. I was five. I wasn’t supposed to leave the front yard, but something prodded me to do it.

     I knew my parent’s wrath could sting, but I kept going. I left the yard and walked to a sidewalk across the street. I looked over my shoulder. No grownups in sight, I kept following the guidance. I looked down, and to my astonishment, one of my wishes had come true. I’d wanted a little furry pet, and there it was. It was grayish with a pink tail. The fluffy creature was still. I knew I could catch it. No other kids were around. It was mine. It didn’t bother me that the mouse was missing its head. It was soft, barely dead.

     I was filled with joy as I hid my new treasure in my pinafore pocket. If I could keep it hidden, I could get past the parents and bring it to my room. No such luck. Dad cast a shadow over me. Where did he come from? How did he know where I was? I burst into tears. I bawled as he inquired about the contents of my pocket. I was more upset about losing my pet than about the spanking I was sure to receive. He didn’t hit me at all. He threw away the headless mouse and brought me to a pet store. I got a new hamster.

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