On the Up and Up

Things got worse before they got better. After Lyra died I began to wonder what happened to her when she left us, so I started looking into near death experiences (NDEs). I read hundreds of stories and watched dozens of you tube videos where people told what happened when they were clinically dead, then were revived. Except for a few minor differences, their experiences were remarkably similar. There is a woman where I live who had two NDEs when she died on the operating table twice and was revived both times. She told me her experiences, which were very much the same as the others. And if all that hadn't convinced me of the authenticity of these stories, I was was absolutely certain of it when my therapist, whom I trust implicitly, told me about his NDE. And I was comforted. I can think of Lyra now without bursting into tears because I know she is safe. I picture her now as a spirit of radiant light, in a place of infinite love, joy, and peace.

But there was a dark side to my newfound knowledge.

I was still deeply depressed, so depressed I felt like I was sinking down into the mattress of my bed, shrinking physically and emotionally into nothingness. I believed myself to be utterly useless, like nothing about my life would ever improve, like all I was in the world was a burden. I didn't feel alive and I hated it but was even helpless to do anything about that. I longed to be with Lyra again, to join her in that wonderful place of comfort where there is no pain. And I devised a way to leave my useless body, go to spirit and go back Home.

But I never do anything impulsively. I hadn't been seeing my therapist very long by that point and I knew better than to confide my plans to anyone. So I sought out spiritual information on the consequences of suicide. I don't believe in the devil or hell because I think everything is made of energy, even what we call God, and that love is a vibration of that energy. So I concluded that, if there were any consequences to me it would come in the form of holding back my soul's journey a little. That was OK with me.

So I was very much at a spiritual and physical crossroads. I felt unable to talk to anyone I knew about this, mostly because it would distress them and because they wouldn't be able to help me. I didn't feel comfortable enough with my therapist, yet, and I was afraid he'd be obliged to report it and I would end up in a hellhole of a psych ward, which would just make things worse. So I did something I never thought I'd do. I called a psychic. I did a lot of investigating of different people who claimed to be psychic. Some of them, I decided, were more greedy than psychic. Charging $700 and up per hour-long telephone call was a clue. Then I saw a friend on Facebook refer to a woman named Lori. She worked out of her home and I could just afford one hour-long session. I won't go into great detail, but I told her about the crossroads I found myself facing.

My money was well-spent. By the time we finished talking, I had decided to not take the easy road, though it still looked awfully attractive. She convinced me that I wasn't finished with my purpose for being here. Between us, we decided it had to do with my writing ability. I was still completely stymied by that huge, dark, monolithic writer's block I'd been suffering since I became a paraplegic and, besides not having a clue what to write about, was more afraid of writing than I realized at the time. So I started a journal of random thoughts and a gratitude journal, on her advice. I was sporadic about it, but I did it. On dark days, I tended to write things like, "I'm grateful I wasn't struck by lightning today," or "i'm grateful lunch didn't taste horrible for a change." But keeping a gratitude journal, when I did it, started turning around my perspective on life.

So I let my therapist in on what I had been going through. I was interested in what he would say and do. He leaned forward and listened very seriously as I spun my tale and let him know that I had made up my mind not to kill myself. When I was through, he sat back and kind of laughed in a relieved way. He said that I had pretty much put him in an awkward position, but he could see that I had given a lot of thought and consideration into my decision. It went unsaid that there really was no need to make a report, since I was not suicidal any longer.

That was when I knew he cared and I could trust him. Then we started to make real progress.