BLOOD ON THE WALL
This is a true story of a woman in Canada. It comes from a book I read 16 or 17 years ago, and don’t even know how to find the author or the book. I therefore am paraphrasing from memory, and my memory of it is pretty solid because I have used it on multiple occasions to teach one of the most basic lessons there is to begin penetrating the depths of true understanding. It’s a case history given by an hypnotherapist.
Her story goes something like this. One day she awakens in her home at the usual time in the morning and moves off down the hall on the way to the kitchen to get the coffee going. As she passes a hobby room she keeps, in which there are model houses she has built and some dolls, out of the corner of her attention she sees something red splattered all over the wall behind the model house.
She continues walking, unwilling on a conscious level to truly LOOK at this, and on a less-than-conscious level she’s just needing her coffee and whatever that is is not yet registering.
She makes her coffee, has some, it sparks her mind a bit, and she moves back up the hall on the way to the shower. This time the red stuff on the wall has her full attention, and needless to say she’s absolutely alarmed by it. But there’s no time to deal with it right this second and so she runs through the routine to go to work.
Her work is a largely empty, unhappy and unfulfilling career path, for her (as of course many love this type of work, which is beautiful), and she feels a binding obligation to it, a “no way out” feeling. She works as a caregiver and mentor to mentally challenged patients and she found out too late it just wasn’t her thing. But anyway through the day she’s able to temporarily forget about the “problem” at home.
When she returns there, lo and behold the problem didn’t solve itself, and so this time she puts her fingers to the red splatter, feels it on her fingertips, smells it, tastes it. It’s blood. Now she’s way alarmed. The first thing she does is get out the bucket and cleaner and scrubs it off there, but of course it leaves a stain. For now, though, she’s satisfied.
Rising the next morning, walking past the same room, she sees the crimson blood spatter there again, even larger. Obviously her internal alarm system is on high alert. She’s pretty scared. She cleans it quickly again before going to work. Once there, against her better judgment, she phones her parents. Her mother, a horrifically poor parent and as vile a person as you could ever know, tells her that she’d “…always known you’re the spawn of the devil!” And her father, a perpetually apologetic imp who’s never really been involved in shaping her, said, “Why, that’s too bad, Dear. What can I do to help?”
They talk a bit more but get nowhere. So she calls her friend and tells her what had been happening. Her friend wants to come over and stay the night. She agrees. They together do a better job cleaning it up and spend a relatively peaceful evening together being girls. I can’t remember – they may have even painted over the stain, symbolically covering it up.
Next morning, the liquid crimson demon is there on the wall again. This time her friend is every bit as alarmed as she is. Echoes of her mother’s typical insanity assaulted her thoughts, and the way her mother raised her tended to cause her to believe that everything that happened bad in the world was her fault. Since neither of them had time to try to break all this down, it’s decided then and there she would stay at the friend’s house.
Over the course of the next few days life’s vagaries keep her mind largely off the “problem,” but when her mind did go there it was sheer ashen-faced anxiety. Strangely enough, her dad sees some sort of ad for a hypnotherapist and wonders if it’s worth a try. He gets her at work and recommends it. She reluctantly agrees, after all, “What? A therapist? I’m sick or something?”
So she goes and sees him. He’s a professional, with a comprehensive intake procedure which includes an extensive interview. The first thing he wants to probe with her in a conscious state is whether or not she has telekinetic capability. So he prods and prods, trying to get her to remember at least one episode that telekinesis can be used for explanation.
She finally remembers a strange date she had with a nice man. When they got back to her place, while he was a perfect gentleman, she could still sense that he would like to have sex with her. This was a singularly unappealing idea because she had never enjoyed sex, suffering what was fairly barbarically referred to as “crotch lock.” All this she wound up sharing with the hypnotherapist. As the night wore on, she felt herself wishing with great power of emotion behind it that it could just be 1 o’clock in the morning instead of the 9 o’clock in the evening that it was.
A few instants later it seems that all her clocks had moved to 1, and she pointed it out, saying it’s late. He checked his watch, was stunned, but complied and left in something of a daze. So there’s the first big aha! She’s telekinetic without knowing it, and most people are. That explains how the blood got created. Now the therapist must find out why it got created.
Through regressive hypnosis, an unbelievably effective tool, they go back in time. The first thing they uncover is that the day on which the blood first appears is the anniversary of an abortion she had had, but had literally already blocked the memory from her conscious mind. Being told all your life by your mother that you’re the spawn of Satan tends to make one disagreeable towards un-Catholic ideas and thus she’d also hidden that part of her life from her parents.
I don’t know how many sessions there were, nor what was discovered in each, but I do know the sequence of important events, so I’ll relate it as a single narrative
Together, subject and therapist, they go back in time. One of the first truly traumatic memories she has is being in the bathroom with her mother, who is using a broom handle on her six or eight year old vagina, trying to make sure she never gives in to the evils of sex. We needn’t get more graphic than that. Needless to say, this was the source of her discomfort with regard to anything sexual. So, another hurdle surmounted: she’s had an abortion, and her mother was incredibly abusive.
So they go back farther in time, pre-womb, pre-between life, to a previous life. As an advanced hypnotherapist myself, I can say with some authority that in regressions people tend to go right to the lives that are causing the present problems because those events are closest to the surface. So she has a memory of being an attractive 18-year-old girl in Chicago in something like the 1850s. She suffers from wander lust and a hunger to see the world, so she leaves at that young age and heads West.
Winding up in a Colorado mining boomtown, she’s a very popular saloon girl. The town doctor takes a particular shine to her and more or less pays a “retainer” to keep her services exclusive to him. This is done with the knowledge of the entire town, with the exception of the doctor’s wife, or more likely she refused to see the signs, which is of course a psychological condition most of Western Culture shares.
As is pretty much always the case, the local self-righteous and therefore typically evil Christian presence takes umbrage to this whole affair. He’s the town Parson, but he keeps his peace for the time being, until she becomes pregnant. He then begins cooking up a plan, which he then takes to the sheriff. It’s basically that no cheap saloon whore has any right to rear a child of God. The sheriff is a peaceful man who just wishes that people would mind their own business, but there isn’t anything he can do to stop the well-respected town Parson from stirring up the pot.
As her term draws near, the two of them let the doctor, the father of the baby, in on the plan, which is to take the baby from her a few months after birth, to place it in the proper care of a God-fearing local orphanage.
When the baby is a few months old, the town Parson and the sheriff go to her room in the top floor of the hotel and saloon. The minute they walk in, she knows something’s up. She loves her baby daughter very much, and would, without so much as a fleeting second thought, fight a lion with her bare hands to a bloody and screaming death to protect her, and she would win. The town Parson has a foul and snarky look on his face. The sheriff appears apologetic, but his eyes are trying to communicate something like “just go along with this…we’ll sort it out later.”
But he says, “Just give me the baby. It’ll all be all right.” There’s a bit of a struggle, but he wrests the baby from her grasp. The shotgun she always keeps next to the bed…she grabs it and points it. The town Parson leaps at her and a struggle ensues. The gun discharges, killing the sheriff and baby, splattering blood all over the wall.
The hypnotherapist has now seen the second instance of something involving a baby deep in her psyche, the first being the abortion she had had a year before, to which she obviously associated the blood on the wall in the hotel room 140 years earlier. So with her kinetic ability, and using the little model house as another deep psychological association with a longing for a happy family, she produced the blood on the wall in modern times, essentially as a message that it was time to dig that old stuff out and be free of it.
The town Parson walks out of the room, carrying the shotgun. Some ruffians partying in the saloon, drunk and excited by the sound of gunfire, are already clambering up the stairs. The town Parson points over his shoulder and says to them, “Go show that murdering whore what we do to murdering whores in this town.”
This gets quite graphic, but purposefully so. It has to. The reason for that is we all have to look directly at the content of our own consciousness, because what I’m about to share is in there.
The cowboys haul her out of the room and down the stairs, dragging her as she screams from the depths of an impossible anguish we have all, in fact, experienced. They drag her to the slaughter house and hang her on a hook. They then begin bull-whipping her until her skin hangs off in fronds. Under hypnosis, she realizes she recognizes at least two of the men, whom she knows now in modern times. One of them, who is now her father, produces a large buck knife, with which he disembowels her. Laughing, they leave her hanging there, dying with her entrails lying in a heap beneath her feet.
This episode in her life is in fact an episode in a life that includes many physical costumes played out on many stages. The hypnotherapist can now connect some dots: why her present-day dad is sad, apologetic and almost useless as a parent. Why she has an association of bloody walls. How the anniversary of her abortion is what triggered it, and why she had in fact suppressed that event as though it were also a past life, yet only a year before. But not everything was explained yet, such as the cruel behavior of her mother literally her entire life, why her job was unfulfilling, and a few other tidbits.
So in they go, navigating the caverns of psychotime, digging for clues. The next life that arises to their attention is one where she is living in perhaps 15th century England, in a large village. She is a single parent living in typical tenement squalor with her 8 or 10 year-old daughter, who is a Down’s Syndrome child. Naturally the villagers fear the child, and the whispers about town are always that it is a child of Satan. If it were up to them, the child would be taken to the edge of town and given the boot. She of course knows this, so keeps a keen eye on her daughter, who she loves very much, and would of course kill an entire village, with her bare hands and a snarl on her face, to protect her.
Routinely, she goes to the market, which is only a few minutes away. This is always safe because the round trip isn’t even 15 minutes all told. On the way back a couple friends are standing at the door of a tavern. They invite her for a drink. She refuses. They push. Peer pressure gets to us all one way or another and at last, after much cajoling and rationalizing, she relents and has a drink with them. A few minutes later the town fire alarm goes off, the bucket brigade self-assembles, and she instantly knows it’s her place. Her daughter dies in the flames while she runs screaming through the panicked throng and billowing smoke.
The local Anglican Parish Priest knows what must be done. Even though he himself considered her daughter to be a child of Satan before her passing, now that she had passed she was a precious child of God, and for this her mother must be cleansed for remission of sins. Clearly the best way to do this was to tie her to an upright wheel. The wheel was turned by a crank and the “devils” would fly out of her hands and feet. Her despair was so deep and so complete that she was nearly catatonic, and somewhere in her she was cognizant of the fact that nothing they could do to her could come close to the punishment she was doling out to herself, so wracking, so forceful, so baleful was her guilt.
In the midst of this supremely righteous, and obviously advanced religoscientific ritual, a bucket of pig’s blood would be thrown on the sinner. Had something to do with blood and Jesus and more blood more Jesus. This was done, but the incompetent fool who did the blood tossing missed her, got only a bit on the wheel, and the rest wound up splattered on the wall behind the wheel.
There! thought the hypnotherapist. Another symbolic event of blood on the wall, and having to do with yet another child. From her vantage point, she knew instinctively that her present-day job of the support and teaching of mentally challenged children had to do with repayment, to assuage the guilt of leaving her Down’s daughter for ten minutes longer than she should have. That she had personally re-experienced these events and with his help had released them, her overall attitude, health and personal well-being was quickly on the mend. This showed him that most likely there were no other lives that needed to be dredged up, but she wasn’t satisfied on a couple of fronts, such as why anybody would choose such horror, for she was now completely aware of the fact that she had. What clued her in was that she intuitively knew that both her mother and father in the present-day life were acting on her behest. And so they strategized to take her to the between-life place to find out why.
The first thing she recalled was presenting herself in chains, wrist and ankle, to what could be referred to as a panel of Karmic Lords. She herself used the chains symbolically, without knowing it, to illustrate that she was presently incarcerated, as she should be, for her crimes, manifesting the chains to clearly show her sense of responsibility. In this manifestation of chains, she realized that there was essentially no difference between what we manifest here, in so-called real life, and there, in so-called spirit life, that it is truly the same thing. They tried to gently release her mind of the chains, but she resisted, thinking this was her due. She didn’t really know yet, and still doesn’t, that absolutely everything is a feature in her mind. For her, the only way out was to requite herself for her sins in ways that would make damn sure she remembered for future life experiences.
So snippets of memory came through. She could see how she literally begged a long-time associate spirit to act as her mother, to torture her as a child in the bathroom, and to continue the pscychological torture through the rest of her family life with her parents. She could see the incredible pain that this complying spirit would undergo just to fulfill her own wishes, and now she felt a pang of guilt for cajoling this “friend spirit” into doing this for her, much like the guilt Jews feel for having leveraged the spirit that acted as Hitler into doing for them what it selflessly did.
She saw how she begged another associated spirit being to be her father, to be there again with her, but to remain ineffective and in the background as a parent, so that she herself could find her way out of the woods in her own way. Again, she could see in “his” face the pain he would feel deep inside as her father, and never understand why. A sort of grim satisfaction was also involved in this for her, because she hadn’t quite forgiven her father, who was both the disemboweling cowboy, and the friend at the tavern, for being so instrumental in her torture, but at the same time perfectly aware of the fact that she had both chosen it and that her resistance to forgiveness was a paradox.
There were snippets that included the town Parson and Anglican priest, the same spirit acting in both roles. In “his” routine fragmentation, he’d often played bit parts for people in their chosen experiences, but she could see that his spirit had collapsed into this patterning and he thus functioned in this capacity very well, quite infrequently learning anything from them. He in fact volunteered. You could say he was of the Dark, which is in the largest scheme of things just a source of patterning for endless like roles.
The Karmic Lords did everything they could to indicate that she didn’t need to do this life in this way, that Karma was something that could dissolve by recognition alone, but she was adamant. What is not so well known is that what we call spirits, because it truly is not the soul, can have limited reasoning capacity. It’s important to know that this spirit person also has a soul, the same soul that each of the embodiments had, and would have. With her limited reasoning capacity, a spirit not yet fully endowed with the full range of capabilities gained while in physical bodies, she refused the Karmic Lords’ gentle but firm admonishments and chose to fling herself headlong into a life that she felt would repay it all in one go.
While still in the between-life place, she was then put in touch with the child she had aborted, anachronistically of course, for time is only a word concept to describe unfoldment of all that has already happened. This was almost too much for her to bear. She felt unready for this encounter. But shock value can be extremely effective.
The spirit that would be the unborn child was awesome. “Where do you get off assuming the mantel of guilt for something that is my choice? That is so humanly arrogant. You did this for me! I wanted the experience of being aborted. Many do. It’s a fascinating gestalt of experience because it is such a polarizing issue in the general stupidity of Western Culture, and those of us who give it a try experience being the focus of such inflammatory feelings and political debate. You, yes you, in your huge loving and giving way, agreed to do this for me, and yet, like humans tends to do, you made it be about yourself, and you truly had no right to do that. But I have no reason to forgive you for this. My mind is larger than that. Let your mind be larger, for forgiveness is just a tool for those who don’t understand the choices they make.
“But here’s what’s going to happen. I am again going to be born of you. Through your therapy and all the releases you’ve experienced, you are going to learn to truly love the sexual experience with a loving man. You’ll meet such a man, but since we want it to be such a surprise we’ll not introduce you to him in this space. I will be the product of that union. Now that you have the much larger world-view that you do, you will give me the environment I need to blossom fully to my intended potential in this next embodiment. I have important work to do, and you’re my way onto this stage. I know how strange it will be for you to look into the eyes of a helpless baby and know that a fully developed, brilliant and powerful being is in there, but you’ll use that to learn to know the world in a much larger context, because you will know that same thing about every baby being born on Earth. And as we move towards the future, the occupying intelligences are going to be increasingly advanced. Now get on with it.”
This woman became much more complete in her life, many questions answered, and she immediately left the job she was in and started doing what she wanted to do instead of feeling obligated to do. She met a man, fell in love, and had a baby. When she looked into the eyes of that baby, she knew she was but a child compared to this awesome entity who looked at her with a knowing and penetrating glance.
Most of all, she was perfectly aware that what she had gone through is a blueprint, with many unique permutations, for the experience of everyone on this planet, and that acceptance and release were the only way out of this self-programmed and -imposed prison, a prison whose purpose for existence was about to come to an end.
And into the next level of experience many would go. Of this, she had some vague notion. But raising this child according to an understanding she was given on another plane of mind was her highest priority. Everything else would take care of itself.
But she did vow, with all the power she could muster, to remain aware of what she had learned. Has she? Who knows? Maybe the drama is too addicting. Maybe she remembers to look beyond the appearance of whatever she is looking at. Either way, it is what IS.
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