The Diner

Introduction

(October 2018)
It was the end of a long day and my family was awaiting my return. A second-hand bookstore I never knew existed drew me in. The pull brought me to the back corner of this unmanned shop, to the Chicken Soup for the Soul section and no further. An invisible wall kept me from moving past that point. I stopped and looked then at my surrounding; the books were neatly shelved, but I had no interest in perusing. I knew something was there for me to find. With closed eyes, I squatted by instinct, pulled and opened the book with the faint glow. This was when I met her, and this was her story.

Her Story

The Courage to Heal: A Guide for Women Survivors of Child Sexual Abuse. This was my book. I was raped. For 10 years, my mother would bring me into their bedroom where my dad stood naked; he would rape me under her command while she called me a whore. Sometimes I bled, sometimes I didn't, but by the time they stopped when I turned 14, it no longer hurt. My mother, she was sweet. She combed and braided my hair every morning and called me beautiful. She made wonderful lasagnas every day but whenever she baked my favourite sugar cookies, I knew she would hold my hand and lead me to their bedroom an hour later.

Did my teachers know what was happening at home? No, I was well-fed, well-groomed, and I thought what my family did in the darkened bedroom every weekend and some weeknights were how my friends spent their family time. Picnics, learning to ride their bicycles, and going to the playground were just names of their different family bedroom bonding, like the code I had made up for different sessions. Sometimes my parents would both take the afternoon off work and surprised me at school to bring me home for our special family times. On those days, I most definitely bled. The nights when they argued, however, I wished I could sink into my mattress and disappear instead of helping the family stick together. Those nights were long, my mother made sure of that, and she would call the school to keep me home the next morning because I either couldn't walk in the mornings or that I didn't do a good enough job keeping the family together and had to keep trying.

When they finally kicked me out at the age of 16, that's the first time I saw kids really doing what my friends told me they did with their parents on the weekends, that's when I realized my family was different. However, I still thought every family bonded in their darkened bedrooms. I still thought that kids had to help keep their families together as I did growing up. I was lost and confused and had nowhere to go.

After a month of starving on the streets, I missed my mother's lasagnes but she wouldn't take me back. ‘Too old, used whore,' she said as she shut the door. At this point, I still did not realize that my parents had sexually abused me; I didn't know what I was to them. A year of panhandling and begging for food scraps outside a diner later, the restaurant owner took me in and gave me a job when his staff quit. He let me sleep in the diner at night until I had saved up enough money to rent a raggedy apartment. But I was fed, clothed, washed, and sheltered. Most of all, I could sleep undisturbed. The quarrels, the screaming, the throwing and breaking of things in the other apartments did not bother me because I knew nothing could penetrate me through my locked doors where I would just sleep after working 2 shifts every day. Work and sleep, that's all I did for 2 years. With all the money I had no opportunity to spend, I managed to save up enough to move into a better apartment block that did not smell like human excrements. I still worked from open to close each day, but I had the luxury of taking a day off and wandering the streets every other week when I wanted to. I wasn't rich but I was no longer scraping by. I could afford to buy magazines and go to the movies, and there's where I learned that my childhood family time were acts that shouldn't have included children. 

I was angry, I was sad, I felt vulnerable again. I was afraid that my parents would come to find me and make me their whore again. I felt violated, I felt robbed. I felt exposed. I thought suddenly that everyone knew about my past and were shaming me because I was the whore; I was the one who made my parents sexually abuse me, and it was my fault that I didn't keep the family together well enough that the raping had to happen so frequently. I was a wreck, but I needed to work to stay afloat. Every day, I steeled myself for the possible exposure and debasing. I felt worthless but I didn't want to fall through the pipeline and be stuck in the gloom. The world all of a sudden seemed so much bigger and I was so small, so lonely. I had no one. My work was my only friend and my family. There was no one I could talk to but myself, so I was my own counselor. I started looking for self-help books on overcoming sexual abuse, tried different mantras and affirmations every day, tried to release my anger and my fears. It was terrifying coming face to face with your deepest feelings, and each morning I would find my pillow soaked with tears. But I lived on and vowed to treat and love myself every day.

On my 21st birthday, I wanted to celebrate a new me, so I bought myself a dress from the thrift store and a lipstick. My first lipstick! It was Cherry Red to match my new dress and my hair. My boss thought it brought out the blue in my eyes and made me take a day off. I had nowhere to go, so he gave me a mirror and asked me to practice smiling. I never realised until then that I didn't smile, and that day, I learned in front of the mirror that one could not really hide behind a smile. A fake smile was ugly and telling. It took me all my energy to draw up a happy memory from deep inside to conjure up a genuine smile, one that was reciprocated by a new customer sitting across from me when I finally looked up from the mirror satisfied. That young man who smiled back at me became our regular from that day onward. Every time he came, he would sit down, take out his notepad and pen, and immediately fall into deep thoughts. His coffee would often turn cold before he suddenly snapped out of his trance, took a sip of it, scribbled a few lines on his notepad, and gestured for his first pastrami sandwich. By the time his sandwich arrived, he would be back into his trance and mindlessly pick up his sandwich and ate it. He sat like that sometimes from open to close and ate 3 pastrami sandwiches but only a few sips of cold coffee. However, he always finished his day with his beautiful, genuine smile for me. 182 pastrami sandwiches, he ate exactly 182 pastrami sandwiches that I served, and then he disappeared. He was gone and not a day went by without me missing Mr. Pastrami. I didn't even know his name. It felt like he had taken something from me and left me hollow. I had no idea what to do. It was the most empty feeling, like I was floating aimlessly in the vast ocean without an anchor.

 6 months later, he returned, but in his hands was a big bouquet of red roses wrapped in red paper and red ribbons. On his face, a bigger and brighter smile for me than I had ever seen before. He returned on my birthday, exactly one year from the day he first came into the diner. This time, there was no notepad and pen, there was no cold coffee. Right there, in the diner, we celebrated my birthday by sharing our first pastrami sandwich.

He was a journalist and an aspiring novelist. I liked his stories; they were funny and cunning. Even serious, morbid matters such as war and death could be turned into something light and intellectual by him without losing respect for the subject. He made me laugh, I meant laughing from somewhere within me that I didn't know existed, laughs I didn't know I was capable of laughing. He would come to the diner before closing so we could sit and chat. He would help me close up and then walked me home. Sometimes we would stop in the park along the way or watch the water trickled down the stream in silence. He loved me and I was bathed completely in it as he was taught by his parents to love generously. Never once did he ask me whether I loved him nor did he pried about my childhood. I wanted to love him but I didn't know how; I was just happy being happy.

Months passed and he invited me to live with him. Seeing me a few nights a week was no longer enough for him, he wanted my face to be his first sight in the morning and last sight at night. No one had ever made me feel so loved and wanted and I wanted to say ‘yes’. But my memories of bedroom-sharing was exactly what I had been working on overcoming. I couldn't tell him why, because I didn't believe there was any way he would still love me if he knew about my past. He was insistent, driven by his mad love for me, so I agreed to try. I kept my own place that only I had keys for so there would be a place for me to retreat to whenever needed. Knowing my hesitation to share a bed, he had moved his home office out to the living room and set up a bedroom for me. His thoughtfulness touched my heart and I believed I began to feel love, which I thought was the most beautiful feeling. I wanted that feeling to last forever and he promised it would as long as I let him. Wonderfully in love and very much loved, I would let him know by lunchtime each day where I would be spending my night. From one night a week, it progressed to 3 within a month and a half. The feeling of having someone who genuinely loved me and would protect me from all harms sleeping in the next room gave me such peace that I would sleep soundly without waking up with tears or from nightmares. 

Never once did he try to come into my room at night nor did he make any sexual advances on me. With respect, he told me that he acknowledged my hesitation and would let me take the lead when I was ready. I had no pressure to be at his place when I didn't want to, and although he was relentlessly full of love, I was never rushed or expected to become anyone but myself. However, I couldn't get myself to spend more than 3 nights per week at his place without feeling exposed and fearing a dependence on him, so I maintained my Tuesdays-Thursdays-Saturdays routine which he gladly accepted. On other nights, he would still come to help me close up at the diner and walked me home whenever he could. But 3 nights a week, we would walk back to his place, and sometimes just sat in front of the fireplace appreciating the sounds of our breaths in concerto with the crackling of the flickering fire before he walked me to my bedroom and bid me goodnight.

Our tri-weekly cohabitation went on for another 3 months when I started feeling guilty for not making love with him. It was obvious that he did want it but loved and respected me so much as to not impose himself on me. By now, I had read enough magazines and seen enough movies to know that lovers express their ultimate love in bed. I wanted him to know that I loved him and I wanted to express myself to him by making him feel good, but the thought of sexual intercourse repulsed me. Each time I considered making love to him, my thought would lead me into my parents' darkened bedroom, to the nakedness of my father's body, and the pains, the tears, and my mother's words. I was a whore, I was worthless. All I had to do was to keep my family together but I was no good at all. I started thinking how worthless I was and that he only brought me to his home because I was a whore, but a whore who was unwilling to go into his bedroom. I started doubting him, I started thinking that he would get angry one day and burst through my door to yank me by my wrist into his bedroom. Although he had always kept his doors opened except for sleeping to keep things transparent to me, to show me that he had nothing to hide, in those moments of distrust, his bedroom turned into my parents', his cologne turned into the smell of freshly baked sugar cookies, and his whispers of love and commitment turned into my mother's degrading chants. I was a whore, I was worthless, I couldn't even keep my family together. 

3 nights turned into 2 nights, and 2 turned into 1. Some weeks I couldn't even find the strength to be inside his apartment at all. He knew something was wrong, he asked, gently, but I couldn't answer. I started asking him not to walk me home for the reason that it's too late and I didn't want to keep him up because he lived across town. I started lying about having made some friends and would be spending time with them after work. He was happy for me to have found friends, but he knew something was wrong, so he showed up at the diner early one morning, sat down, took out his notepad and pen, and fell into deep thought just like the first day we met. An hour later, when he came out of his trance to sip his cold coffee and made his order, there was a little red box sitting on the table when I served him his 368th pastrami sandwich. He gently but firmly held my hand with the plate still in it, knelt down onto one knee, and presented me a small but beautiful diamond ring, telling me that he wanted to make me happy for the rest of his life, even if it meant that I kept my own apartment across town and only spent time with him whenever I wanted to. If that's what it was required to make me feel safe and happy, then he would gladly support that. Everyone in the diner was urging me to say ‘yes' but I couldn't. I couldn't imagine feeling that guilt for the rest of my life, so I turned around and ran out into the streets, back to the safety of my apartment, my sanctuary. I hid there, sobbed and sobbed for 2 days straight without eating anything. When I finally stopped crying, I realized I was just too broken. Who was I to think that I could ever be fixed? There was no room nor strength in me to love someone else. I was only a used whore who was too old even for mms parents who brought me into this world. There was no reason to live, so I closed all the windows, turned on the stove, blew out the flame, and curled up in my bed to sleep forever.

Forever, I thought, but I was wrong. After some time, I woke up, angry. So useless was I that I couldn't even kill myself. I sat there on my bed feeling angry at myself and tried to figure out a foolproofed way to end my pathetic life. Though I never thought there was a god, I started cursing him for not letting me die. I knew I was too worthless to go into his kingdom anyway, but why wouldn't he let me burn in hell? That’ what I deserved, right? But no, my wish to die wasn't even worthy of him to let me have it. I was useless, I was worthless, I was pathetic, I was a whore, and I wished I had scissors sharp enough to pierce through my heart, even though I didn't know whether it was possible to kill a hollow heart. I wanted to take an entire canister of sleeping pills but I was down to 3 pills. Mouthwash and detergent were probably too disgusting for me to drink enough to kill me. The razor blades on my shaver were too small and protected for slitting my wrist, so I decided to try jumping out of my 6th-floor window. To make certain I die from the fall, I would drop down head first. I got up, walked to the window to climb out of it. My legs were strangely weightless but I thought it was either the effect of gas poisoning or because I had not eaten for several days. Standing at the window, I turned back to look at the wretched life that I would be leaving behind, and that's when I saw me. I saw me curled up in bed just the way I had after blowing out the flame on the stove. It took me a few seconds to grasp what had happened. Then I joyfully exclaimed, ‘I am dead!' My deathwish was granted, I was worthy finally of one thing, death! Life would no longer bother me, no one could hurt me anymore, and I no longer had to pretend that I wasn't broken.

Oh, how wrong was I to think that it was all over? The euphoria of having successfully died disappeared when I realized that I was still here even though my body was lying there lifeless. Just because I physically died, my soul remained, and the emotional pains, the psychological traumas, and the deleterious thoughts persisted. In fact, it hurt more now knowing that I failed to end it all. Pathetic, absolutely pathetic, I couldn't even put a stop to anything. Weeping didn't help, screaming was futile, nor could I hit anything to let out my frustrations. There wasn't a way I could stop the pains and the shame. 

I sat there in the corner of my room staring at my fragile, exanimated body, feeling more hollow than ever before. What was I to do from now on? How do I stop this pain? Where am I supposed to go? Am I stuck here in this room forever? Questions and questions kept popping up in my head. There were so many questions that my head started hurting though I don't even know how that was possible when I no longer had a head. To stop me from all the questions of uncertainty I turned my focus to more familiar grounds. I started wallowing in my pathetic existence. How could I had been so stupid to get myself stuck in a situation where I had nowhere to go but with all the pains and fears still completely intact? Why couldn't I love anyone the same way everyone else does? Why did I make my parents do what they did to me? Why was I not better at keeping them happy and the family tightly together? I shouldn't have been born; I was a waste of space. My parents shouldn't had loved me, they should had had a different child, a more lovable child, prettier, who was better at keeping the family together. How could I had wished that upon someone else? To wish for another human being to endure what I did, to end up as broken as me. How sick was it of me to wish that upon someone else? Why was I even born? Obviously, I was not good at being a human being, and now, not even as a ghost.

I was deep in pain when someone knocked on the door. Instinctively I responded then got up to open the door. Of course, he didn't hear me and let himself in with a key after waiting a few seconds. He went straight into the kitchen to turn off the gas, then walked right through me as though I wasn't there, he went to open the windows. I did not recognize the old man with the key, but the face following him made my heart jolt. Ignoring the elder man's warning of gas poisoning, he approached the bed carefully to where my body laid. He gently kissed my lips as though trying to revive his sleeping princess from her deep slumber even though there were no beauty, wit, grace, dance, song, and goodness in the person who once inhabited that body. He whispered into my ear as though he was afraid to wake me up, then ever so gently, he shook my shoulders. No response. My uninhabited body laid there unresponsive. He sat down on the bed next to me and watched me, so lovingly as though he was seeing me sleep for the first time; then silently, his tears trickled down his face onto mine. He knew I wasn't waking up; my charming prince couldn't bring me back to life.

He sat there in silence, tears streaming down now. My hair was glistening from his sorrow. It was beautiful, he was beautiful, his love was beautiful. I wanted to touch him, to hug him, stroke his hair and wipe away those tears, but I couldn't. I wanted to tell him I loved him but I couldn't utter those words even after death. I loved him, I thought I did, or at least that's what I thought love should had felt like, but I couldn't say the words because I didn't trust myself. My parents said they loved me too, but they broke me then threw me out like garbage when I was no longer of use to them, so what did I know about love? How could I be sure that telling him I loved him wouldn't turn my prince into the beast? 

The police came and so did the paramedics who decided I was not worthy of resuscitating. Before they wrapped my body up in the bag, he asked to see me, and from his pocket took out a little box, opened it, and slipped a diamond ring onto my finger. ‘Yesany more I exclaimed! How much I wished he could hear me say ‘yes', if only just one word, I wanted him to know that I wanted to try to spend the rest of my life with him. But who was I to think I was worthy to burden such a perfect man with piecing my shattered being together? Who was I to think I was worthy of so much love for the rest of my life? But wait, what life? I wasn't alive anymore. Could I have told him my story? There would had been no way he would still love me if he knew, like my parents, he would find me too broken and useless and no longer loveable. He would cast me out like a piece of refuse as I deserved. But he gave me a ring, he wanted me to be with him for the rest of our lives. Yes, that's because he didn't know who I really was. He left without me noticing and so did the last uniform. Once again, I was left alone in my sanctuary, though it was no longer a safe house for me but a prison. There was nowhere to go, no place to be, and nothing to do. I sat back down in the corner and waited, waited for something to happen. I didn't know what, but something. I didn't want to take up any more space than I did crouched in the corner of my room. That was the extent of my existence, a corner, the foot of a wall, nothing more.

Some days later, the landlord came to pack my things and so did he. He stood there in my room waiting while the landlord packed. He took hold of the box with my meagre belongings then wordlessly exited. Dotted in my room still were a few books and magazines, my red dress hung in the closet, and a brand new tube of matching lipstick that he had left on the desk as though in hopes that I would return and wear the scarlet outfit one last time, or to preserve his own memory of that beautiful moment when we first met. The sun shone and the moon beamed, I didn't know how many cycles went by before the landlord entered the room again to pack up the remainder of my things. By then, I had fixated myself on my self-help books trying to find answers to my pitiful existence. No books could possibly tell me why I was born, why I was abused, but maybe, just maybe one of them could teach me how to put back together the shattered pieces. For all I knew, I had eternity to try, but maybe even then it's not enough because somethings just can't be fixed. What else was there to do though? That's all I had left with me.

Initially, I tried opening the books and flipping through the pages, but I couldn't physically manoeuver them; my hands would just go right through. After trying and failing repeatedly, I gave up and sat there staring at them. I had no idea what else I could do now that I couldn't even read the books. I sat there, staring blankly at the room, studying the details but everything stayed the same every single day except for the dust collecting on the surfaces. When the landlord came to collect my last bit of things, I thought to myself that it might had been time for me to vacate the room as well. Without a single idea as to what to do, I followed my last belongings and found myself in a second-hand bookstore. There, I decided to stay. Had I ever thought of visiting him to see how he was doing? Every single day! But I couldn't get myself to do so. What right did I have to see him after having hurt him so deeply? Or maybe I was afraid to find out he had already forgotten about me and found true happiness with a worthy person as he deserved? Or maybe he never loved me? All these thoughts kept me from going to find him, so I thought a used bookstore was as good as any place for me to spend eternity. At least here it would be quiet and unlike being outside in the busy world, I wouldn't be reminded everywhere I looked the life I lived and the things I never had a chance to experience.

People came and went, some happy, some not, but none bothered me; no one knew I was there. The quietness of the bookstore was calming. There were moments I found myself fascinated by people so enraptured by a book that they would sit there to read for hours without a single care for the world around them. I wondered what it felt like to be in such entrancement, for it was as if they were sucked into the books they held in their hands. A thought came to mind as I studied these readers: if they could be so absorbed in a book that they could forget about the physical world around them, wouldn't it be possible for me to ‘enter' the worlds in the books in my ‘mind'? So, the next time someone was engrossed by a book, I stood right by him and started reading the traveller's tales in his hands. Not long after I started reading, my world shifted, and I found myself IN the book, not reading it, not living/experiencing it, but surrounded by its words. The words entered me without me reading them, and I sailed through the book about a flying island, immortals, and conversation with a Japanese emperor ??? in before he finished reading 10 pages. It was indeed a captivating story about Lemuel Gulliver's travels. I went to the only other person there who had just opened a book and even before she had closed it out of disinterest, I swam through it. It was the Diary of Anne Frank, which I had read as a child but wasn't then touched by the details. I cried for hours before I noticed the store was closed for the night. I went back to the back corner where my books were shelved and crouched down for the night.

The next day, another regular came. She picked up a romance novel that I had no interest in reading seeing how it made her blush. A man I had never seen came in and browsed pulled out a big thick book about tools or home improvement that was meaningless to me at this point in the afterlife. A while later, a mother came in with her daughter of about 8 or 9 and we giggled through a few comic books together. Many more people came and many more books I read from their hands, but none of these were what I really wanted to read. I needed to get back into my books to find an answer. If I were to spend eternity here, I didn't want to be stuck thinking that I made my parents sexually abuse me, nor did I want to remain feeling the way I did and believing that I was worthless and useless. It wouldn't change anything in my life as it had passed, but I did not want to spend eternity in emotional pains. For that, I needed to get back to my books, any of them so I could read through it for some helpful advice, but no one had needed them; they were lucky. 

Each day I hoped for a broken soul to come and open my books so I could read them, but many moons passed without anyone noticing my books at all. During these months, or maybe years, I read self-help books on how to tell your parents you were homosexual, how to fix your relationship with your angry mother, how to discipline your teenage son, and pet bereavement etc, but no one needed to overcome trauma except for a person with all limbs intact briefly opening a book on living beyond amputation before cashing it out. I started calling out for help. I was desperately in need of help. With each disappointing day passing, I became increasingly depressed. I was indefinitely stuck in this world that I couldn't manoeuver, and there was nothing I could do. My life was miserable and so was my afterlife. Every day I felt more worthless and pitiful than the one before. Each day I shrank deeper and deeper into the corner. I still read books, but they were meaningless to me. I no longer felt the thrill of reading about adventures, horrors, fantasies, or science fictions. Even stories of great humans who lived amongst us couldn't inspire me. These people were born destined to be great just as I was born condemned to be filthily useless except for abuse. Even that I was not good at and was eventually not even considered useful in that regard. Just one person, I thought, just one person to open one of my books even with disinterest so I could delve into it. Or by some miracle, I pray that someone might even accidentally knock one of my books off the shelf so I could slip in. But no, I was too worthless for this simple wish to be granted. No one was as pathetic as me to require reading my self-help books.

Did I ever meet other ghosts that I could have talked to and seek help from? Yah, I had seen them around, but I was sure that they could see me as transparently as I could see them, so none would find me worthy to talk to. Plus, they were stuck in this realm too, being called the ‘invisibles' by some of the living, so what use would it be for me to talk to them? It's not like they could help me get out of my situation. If they could, they themselves wouldn't be here, right? At least that's what I gathered from seeing that none of the ghosts I saw were ever happy.

What was I to do? I wailed without feeling the warm, salty tears on my face. I screamed to the heavens for help. Heck, I screamed to Hell for help as well. I screamed to whoever would listen and help this most worthless of souls. I didn't care if I had to be in hell for all of eternity only if I knew I was going somewhere, anywhere! I gave a soulful scream, one that shook my whole being and projected beyond the bookstore I dwelled, into the streets. The vibration was nothing I had ever experienced before and had totally scared me for there was no knowing what I did. Would the heaven or hell be mad at me for disturbing the vibration of the world around me? I was scared now, I quickly retreated to my corner of the bookstore and crouched there, afraid, awaiting my punishment. The person manning the shop seemed to have felt the disturbance and went into the back room to avoid experiencing my impending doom. Was that going to be the end of me? Would my soul be eliminated somehow? Or would I be tortured for eternity for what I did? I had no idea how I did it, but I truly wished I hadn't done it. The wait of the unknown was torturous on its own. In those moments while waiting for the response from the universe, I realised that my entire existence hadn't been that bad if compared to being burned in hell for all of eternity. It was agonizing waiting for one's doom, but I had nowhere to go but to stay in my corner. I was certain whoever was going to catch me would find me regardless of where I went, so why not just stay put.

My wait did not last long, soon I felt there was a disruption in the residual vibration of my scream. Something or someone had entered this field of energy around me. I was scared but told myself that at least it meant something was going to happen to me and I would no longer be stuck here for eternity. It had never happened before, but I felt the energy approaching as though there was a bungee cord between us, and I could feel the source of this other being approaching. It was definitely a female, a soft but strong energy that seemed determined yet unintentional. She was most definitely here for me, however, it didn't seem purposeful nor malicious, in fact, I would say there was a sense of benevolence in her being. Her pace was brisk for someone browsing but nor was she quick to approach me. She stopped to admire the gemstones and crystals for sale but not for long before she continued her approach to my corner. It confused me watching her for I was originally sure her arrival meant the end of me, but she seemed to be unaware of that, nor did her energy and being seemed like a soul killer. What was she doing here then? I couldn't tell. Was she really here to end me? Or to bring me to my judgment?

Finally, she reached my threshold, it seemed like there was an invisible forcefield that sucked her in and she was to remain in it until she had dealt her ???. She stood there, breaths away, looking at the shelves around us, reading some of the book titles. Oh my god, was she here to rescue me? I prayed now, earnestly for her to open one of my books, whichever one, even for a split second. Ay, even if she was meant to pull out a book and accidentally drop one of mine, I would be happy. No, but she tried to leave seeing no titles that interested her. The forcefield stopped her, so she stood right there and studied the shelves more carefully and read some of the book titles out loud, all biographies of greatly influential people. Turn around, turn around, come back this way, PLEASE! I started crying. I need you! Miraculously as though hearing my plea, she turned and walked straight to the self-help section. She read more titles, looked confused, then closed her eyes, squatted down. With her right hand barely brushing against the books, she pulled out one of mine. The thickest of them all. I jumped, I shrieked, a joy that I had never experienced overwhelmed me. Now, please, please open my book. Any page, even the index, or whatever. Drop it in disgust even, as long as the pages were opened, I would be forever grateful. And she did, she opened my book with her eyes closed, again. She read the title of the chapter. Without a single moment of hesitation, grabbing this long-awaited opportunity, I immediately dived in and swam in the words but couldn't find what I needed. Her, looking once again confused began closing the book only to pause as if to give me more time. When she finally closed the book I still hadn't found what I was looking for, but it seemed as if she felt my disappointment and eagerness to read it further, she took the book with her. Oh no, should I stay in the bookstore and hope for someone else to come read another book that had more helpful advice? Or should I go with her? I had to decide right away. My book, one of my books was leaving, and I had to make a choice of whether to leave with it knowing that she would open it again and I could try finding what I needed in this book or to stay and hoped that same thing would happen with someone else and another book.

I didn't have to struggle with the decision for long, for once again the forcefield stopped her from leaving with my book. Was she going to stay and read more of my books? Or was she just going to return this one onto the shelf and leave? Why was the universe taunting me like this? Why couldn't I just move onto something else, whatever else, just something else? She walked back to the shelf, placed the book back where she found it and tried to leave again. I wept, the deepest tears I had ever shed. That's it, my only chance was gone. I guess I had to just stay here in my sad corner of this second-hand bookstore for all of eternity. But there she stood. Why? She closed her eyes again! Why did she keep doing that? Then she said "Ah, that's why! Hi!" What? ‘Hi'? Was she saying that to me? She could see me? No way! Not only did she open my book, she could see me? What was this all about? What's the purpose of her being here? I realized quickly that I didn't care about the ‘what', only a little bit of the ‘how', but instead, I started begging her to stay and open all my books for me to look for my answer. She said no, she had to go home to her hungry children. I pleaded, but she said she couldn't. What she said next was beyond my wildest imagination. She told me I needn't stick to my books, that she could help me, and invited me to follow her.

Could that even be possible? Or was it a ploy to terminate my being somewhere else? I couldn't sense any ill intents in her, so I decided to take a leap of faith and trusted her. Maybe the universe was finally taking pity on me and sent her to help me. I didn't know what she meant by helping and how she could help, but as I decided earlier, anything, anywhere, was better than status quo, so I followed her out of the still unmanned shop.

When we stepped in through the doors of her home, I was overwhelmed by the joys that she received from her young children. It was so beautiful to feel the way they loved each other. Was this what she meant by helping me? To show me, familial love? She had no idea what I went through, had she? I was starting to regret following her home as it was becoming torturous to watch them be happy with each other. I wanted to leave, but where to? She seemed to have felt my intention, and even though she was busy attending to her family, she came over and told me to wait, promising to help me once the children were asleep. So I waited on her sofa next to her wall of books ranging from parenting to cookbooks, angels, and exercises. What caught my eyes were the ones on energy medicine and karma. I had no idea what they were about but was intrigued.

Our Conversation

When the house was finally quiet, she came down to me as promised and we conversed. 

B: Sorry it took so long. Thank you for trusting me to come along with me. How can I help you?

R: I don't know how you can help me.

B: I can help you move on to the light when you are ready if you let me.

R: How? The light? It sounds beautiful, it must be a good thing; I am not deserving of it.

B: The light is where our souls rest and then we can decide whether to come back and live again.

R: Why would anyone want to come back and live again?

B: Because there are many things to learn in life, including love in many different ways.

R: Whatever you say, I just want to move on, to be rid of my pathetic being.

B: There is no suffering in the light, but you can't get there when you are suffering.

R: Well, then I am doomed. There is no way I can get there.

B: If you don't mind, tell me your story. Why are you here? Maybe I can help you find your light.

I hesitated as I had never told anyone about my life at all. No one, not a single soul, not even him whom I thought I loved. Could I really tell her? What use would there be? But what harm was there? I was not going anywhere anyway. Who knew what she could do? She was the one who showed up when I called out for help, right? There had got to be a reason for her to be there. Heck, why not. But to tell her about my past? To reveal who I was? What was she going to think of me? Flashes of my past started flowing into my mind. Even before I uttered a single word, she started:

B: I sense that you had a rough childhood, something about not being loved by your mother, but your father was involved in some terrible act, too. No pressure, take your time. We don't have to do this tonight if you are not ready.

R: How did you know all that? Who told you?

B: You, your thoughts did.

R: In that case, I might as well tell you. You seem to know it anyway, so there is no need to hide. 

B: I do not pry, I only see what you want me to see.

So I showed her my life when I was living, everything that happened in my story.

B: I am so sorry you went through all that. I cannot imagine how it was like for you, but I ensure you it doesn't have to happen again, nor does the memory of your childhood have to continue to haunt you.

R: How? I am stuck here and no psychiatric drugs could help me now. Unless you are a psychologist who is willing to do sessions with me for free, you might have a slim chance of fixing me. I am very broken.

She briefly told me a few stories of some of the souls she had helped and how she helped them and I thought, hey, maybe there was a chance. A chance was better than no chances, right? Plus some of the souls she had helped were in pretty bad situations too. If she managed to help them, maybe there was hope for me.

R: Sure, let's give it a try! How does this work?

B: Now, you have briefly told me about your life, but I need to know why you are here. What is it that's troubling you most, that is keeping you earthbound. Is it because of your missed love? Your self-pity? … It's your mother, you want to know why she did what she did to you… You are not angry at your father because you believed he only did what he did to please your mother, although you wonder why he would put himself in that situation, you are not concerned with it.

R: Yes, why did my mother do that to me?

B: I sensed that she was sexually abused as a child. Her father initially brought home his friends to rape her when she was young. They were in his shed, surrounded by tools. Your grandfather would stand there and watch. After the first few times, each with a different man, he started calling her a ‘whore', accusing her of letting men have sex with her, and would then sexually abuse her every time as soon as his friend had left after raping her.

R: Oh my god, I never knew. I cannot imagine how she must have felt. How could her father invite his friends home to rape his young daughter? Now I understand why my mother was so broken. She was as broken as me. Would I have turned out like her if I had stayed alive and had my own children? Would I have sexually abused them?

B: I don't think that is something you should be thinking about right now. You know that will not happen, and if you stay here in this realm in your current form, then it will for sure not ever happen.

R: But you said I could come back and live again. What if I sexually abuse my children in my next life?

B: Well, if you manage to move onto the light, hopefully, it means that you have learned your lesson and will not carry it onto your next life.

R: Yeah, let's hope not. But how to end this vicious cycle? Where did this all start? Why was I destined to be the victim of my mother's sexual abuse? Why me?

B: That is a good question… I see a past life. You were a knight, it was a war… you were in a village that your men just fought off the enemies and occupied it. I saw flames, looks like you were going to burn it down, but in the middle of it, in an open space outside a hut, you had your men held the village elder next to you and watch while you raped his wife and daughter, then slaughtered them with upward strikes of your blade from where you violated them. One of your men-at-arms raped the elder's son about 20 feet away. You castrated the boy with the sword still dripping with his mother and sister's blood. Your mother was the village elder, and your father, the son. So, it seems it's the karma between you and your parents that caused the sexual abuse in this life.

R: Oh my god, I did that? Oh my god, I would be angry too if I were my mother. How can I stop that? It's not like I could go apologize to them now. Man, I totally deserved their payback… What did you call it? Karma? Yes, totally. But how do I stop this? I don't want this to keep happening to us? But even if I want to stop it, could I? without them? What if they don't forgive me? Can we still stop the karma?

B: Well, let's do whatever we can, ok? You can stop this from happening to you again, but they will still have to learn their lesson. You are not responsible for their learning nor can you take it away from them. We are only accountable for our own soul regardless of how much we want to step into someone else's path and fix things for them. The only proper way to dissolve any karma is to learn the lesson and move on. By learning each lesson, we become increasingly enlightened.

R: I don't care about being enlightened. All I want right now is for this vicious cycle to stop. I understand now that I endured what I did in this life because of what I did to my parents in a previous life. I regret having done that and I wish they could forgive me. I want them to forgive me.

B: Right now the most important thing is for you to forgive yourself. They might not ever forgive you, but that's their lesson to learn, and similar things will continue to happen to them life after life until they learn.

R: Would you be willing to help them learn their lesson or tell them I am sorry if they ever come to find you? Would knowing that 'I am sorry' help them to move on? You can find them, right? Maybe you can find them and help them?

B: Yes, I can find them but only if I am meant to find them. If I do cross path with them, I promise I will help them. If and when that happens, I will do my best to help. Whether they learn their lessons is entirely up to them.

R: I wish I didn't do what I did so none of this karma would happen. My actions, prideful and condescending, ended up hurting everyone involved, including myself. I am regretful but understand that I was young and reckless. I should forgive myself for my hotbloodedness and hotheadedness. I was trying to prove myself in front of my men, but what was there to prove? That I could subdue 2 unarmed village women and robbed a young boy's manhood? That I could disrespect women and disregard lives? That was very foolish of me but I know that is no longer me. There is no way I would or could do something like this right now even if I were alive. I forgive me.

Suddenly, I saw a light, I bright, warm, inviting light. I couldn't see what was in the light, but I knew it was something good. It was welcoming. Whatever was on the other side felt like that's how things are supposed to be, warm, accepting, calm.

R: Is this the light? This is a good sign, right? Does this mean I learned my lesson and this karma is resolved?

B: Yes, it is. This is the light for you so you can leave this plane. 

R: What's on the other side?

B: That's for you to find out. But on that side, your soul can rest and you can come back to live again when you are ready.

R: I don't think I want to come back anytime soon. I am tired of this karma thing, this vicious cycle. Who knows what other evil things I did that will haunt me with its karma in my next life? There is no guarantee I will be able to meet someone like you then to help me figure out what the karma was.

B: That's entirely your choice. The angels are here to receive you now.

R: Wow, the angels? What had I done to deserve that?

B: We all deserve to be received by angels.

R: Can I just rest in their arms for a long, long time. I am so tired from all these vicious cycles.

B: Yes, you can choose that. The angels are willing to embrace you in their arms and enfold you in their wings so your soul can rest.

R: Oh, I would like that. I am so tired, I think I should go with them now.

B: They will help rejuvenate your soul. When you are ready, live again, but only when you are ready.

R: You should write our stories into a book. I don't want anyone to ever have to go through what I did and died as pathetically as I did and be stuck in this realm. Being a ghost is more miserable than being alive. Not everyone will get to meet a ghost counselor like you, so write for the living. Help them learn before they die.

B: I do have that intention and have written many versions but none felt right. I will continue to try because I know I am meant to do it,

R: I will come back and help you if you do decide to write my story.

B: Thank you. Guess I might see you again then. Until then, goodbye!

R: Goodbye! And thank you for doing this, not just for me, but for everyone.

B: You are welcome! I am blessed to have the ability to do so. Enjoy the light!

In the loving, protective embrace of the angels, I was shielded from the earthly pains and carried into their soft, reassuring white light.

Affirmation

I am not a victim, I am a survivor. I killed myself because of my mother but I forgive her. I wronged her in the past and she was broken. I take full responsibility for my past actions and accept my karma. I forgive myself.