Day after day, I hear things in my brain. All day, every day. Sometimes, they sound like they are directed at me and others are more like echoes of the deep past. I’m not actively thinking about anything in particular. I am waiting for God to return to me, to step into me and feed me the information to fulfill Their goals. This is how I did it before, too, but then I got too sick to function and I couldn’t hear Them.
I never believed in God before. I wouldn’t even call myself an atheist. To say I am not a theist is to say theism is valid, for one thing. I understand it as an expression of culture and former animistic thinking that we as human beings began with. Everything around us has a spirit within it. That spirit has thoughts and feelings. I commune with these spirits quite frequently.
Oh, good, we lost all the people who don’t want to believe in doing the greater good. Thanks for staying! Now let’s continue down the rabbit hole.
Everything does have the spirit of life except fossil-fuel creations. Oil in its natural form has a spirit of death. We are transmuting death into receptacles to eat out of… I can’t say we’re too bright with that fact just staring me in the face. But trees? We have absolute proof they talk to each other via mycelium that connects the roots. Thus I believe humanity may be able to talk to each other via mycelium in the guts. The fungus is telepathic and symbiotic, if that’s the truth of all things. I’m not really sure, but I’m killing off everything in my body so we’ll see if I’m still hearing things I never heard before. After all, a reiki attunement brought me here to begin with.
I’ve always been… weird. You know, that one person you have come to fraternize with that is eccentric without being rich. It’s like I don’t give a shit what humanity thinks — this is what everyone tells me. The complete opposite is true, it’s just that they don’t give a shit how I feel, so I created a second me to take care of all the shitty stuff in life and then there’s the core me that likes to do the rest of all things. The second me can get boring to others, always cleaning and preparing for the next day. Most people wish they were her. Me, too, sometimes.
I actually believe there might be eight of me. I’ve been battling each and every one of them into submission. However, the worrisome part is that God apparently is getting angry enough to kill a bitch(TM). Earlier, I recall fiercely declaring to the air that they started this and now it’s going to end, and then one of my signature weirdo spasms happens, moving my entire arm and hand like the monks of the East, capturing the spirit of the wily bitch trying to pull me back down to death and then combining it with physical therapy (or other divine gestures I don’t understand?)
That’s right. God moves my body for me now. I can move it on my own when I’m alive enough, but that’s barely ever. I remember bumping into my couch over and over when he began to play puppeteer for me, apologizing to the faux leather beast — I’d rather have real leather now, I think. WHERE DO ALL THE COW HIDES GO?! WE KILL BILLIONS OF COWS A YEAR, DON’T WE?! WHERE THE FUCK IS THE LEATHER GOING? That shit lasts for YEARS!
Anyway. Pardon my outburst. It happens far too frequently. In fact, I’m afraid to speak to people because occasionally I will start motor mouthing words that don’t come from my own head. It’s tourette syndrome with entire conversations. We even talk back and forth, actually. Very conversationally. Whereas schizophrenia is more like imagined sounds that aren’t there and other impulses within the brain that make you think everyone wants to kill you and stuff. The opposite happens — every time I harm myself (my favorite is banging my head against the door frames or simply punching myself in the head) — we stop and “God” cries, begging me to quit. He’ll force me to quit.
I want to die. I’ve wanted to die for years now. He tells me it’s my ex-psychopath, Mr. Carter. The one who deserves to die is him. He put me through HELL. Just the other day, I was explaining to someone “normal” hanging out with me in my head something about me and they “got the memo” so to speak around the five or ten minute mark of conversation. That man made me bitch and whine for three hours, staring like HE didn’t understand ME!
He better not show up on my lawn. If he does, he’ll be breaking the law. I could put him away for life if I could prove he knew better, but I can’t. I think he’s just plumb stupid. God will judge him when he parts from his physical form. I know that. It’s interesting to know that “fact” now because I didn’t believe. I lived the life of a saint because I wanted to be a good person. He tells me that’s what we’re supposed to be doing and it’s not religious at all. You don’t have to worship a damn thing other than your dinner plate. (Isn’t that convenient? We all need to eat.)
But men like Mr. Carter convince women to starve themselves, trying to get skinny when they have complex medical problems that go beyond calorie counting. If calorie counting was all I needed to get skinny, I would be a Barbie. I would be there. I would be that “ideal weight” bullshit y’all sell in a bottle.
Let me tell you something. It’s two in the afternoon. I have eaten two bowls of onion soup, two slices of beef, and two slices of bread. I also had a little soy milk in my espresso. I was satisfied with that until just now. I have been awake for seven hours. I forecast the rest of my day will contain an incredibly simple strawberry nut salad and another serving of meat and an immense bowl of stir fried vegetables. (Maybe two bowls.)
THAT’S ALL I CAN FIT IN THERE.
Why? Why indeed. I eviscerated my organs. They don’t work like they should, not even after two years of attempting recovery. (SORRY, PRIYA! I still love you.) My spleen finally works well enough to eat raw lettuce, broccoli sprouts, and strawberries. I should wait for it all to come to room temperature, too, for best results. I’ll top that with mixed nuts, soybean oil, and salt. (Are you CRAZY?! Strawberries and salt?! There I did it for you.)
The thing is, I’m not exactly sure how it happened yet, but I’m getting ideas. The G-man, as I call God (and you are invited to do the same… also Lady God, Lord God, Sir God, Madame Universe, Alumnus God for you enbies…), is beginning to tell me what went wrong so I can write to you all about it.
Make no mistake: A DOCTOR DID THIS TO ME. I WAS FOLLOWING HER FOOL’S DIET! They were supposed to be my primary physician and instead I withered away at eight to ten pounds of weight loss a month while they patted me on the head and said GOOD JOB!
Good job killing yourself, kiddo.
Then, coming back from the grave, some asshole entity throws away my fucking job, resigning on 7/7/2020, which my boss wouldn’t accept and instead put me on F.M.L.A.. (Thank you!) She kept hoping I could come back, but that thing that hijacked me wouldn’t let me. I can’t even answer my phone or instant messages right now. The mail piles up. We’re not dealing with life, apparently, until I’m no longer on death’s door. Until my organs work the way they should, I could die at any moment.
I absolutely have kidney failure. I know it’s reversible, but I bet doctors don’t know it’s reversible. #FUCK YOU.
I have multiple system failure and I live to tell the tale. Psionically activated by something out there in the Universe at large. I am now God’s vessel and vassal. Though I prefer to call them The Universe(TM). It’s less personal that way. I don’t have to pretend there’s some sky daddy or sky mommy out there who gives a shit about my existence. (They do anyway.) My belief in their existence (or lack thereof) never changed whether or not they existed.
Our first message is simple:
Life is bigger than humanity.
Angel-Sansara 