It starts always with visions, I have powerful very powerful visions. I land straightaway in the shamanic domain, where I see and hear things, denied to all those who prefer ‘normality’.
What is normality?
It is believing, but believing with suspicion, asking oneself constant questions full of doubts: is Jesus really real? Will he come back again to this earth?
Or it isn’t believing in anything, but just in the universe, and the universe, despite the misery we see around nowadays, is in fact a beautiful thing. But not believing in at least some magic, sounds boring to me.
I respect all belief systems, but I plunge further than others in terms of seeing that it is all for real. Angels appear to me, beautiful fairies, I am sometimes blessed with a dialogue with GOD. I saw and met the devil, an interesting character, that fascinates me rather than scares.
The element of psychosis happens when it is judged as going slightly too far in terms of what the society is ready to accept as ‘normal’.
I have the recurring theme (sorry for the repetition) in the past three years. I feel Jesus, I sometimes declare I am the one. And let’s imagine, just for a second, that it would be a beautiful upcoming if Jesus was me. A softer version of the guy, more refined, with modern style. A female.
Anyway if you arrive to the psychiatric hospital and declare that you are Jesus, prepare yourself for an unpleasant ride. It starts with the psychiatrist who asks you:
“Do you really think you are Jesus?”
“Yes, doctor, and on top of it, I feel fine!”
“Do you have special powers?’’
‘Yes, I do, power of compassion is one of the examples.”
‘’Any more concrete powers? Like doing something practically?’’
I close my eyes to come up with the precise example and here it comes:
“Yes, once the car was running right towards the cat, and the cat was going to be killed, but I shouted with all my might: NO! And the cat jumped from the wheel approaching it, had a fright but survived.”
The doctor, obviously, doesn’t know what to do with me. It is written in their psychiatric treatises that I suffer from a spectacular ‘delusion of grandeur’. I went for the best title of them all, although, quite modestly I add to the stupefied face of the ‘doctor’:
‘’I was also Princess Anastassia and Anne Frank in my previous life, and also an Egyptian queen. That’s right when they started to meddle with my tomb, that I started to ‘loose it’. Who is that idiot who messes with what we, the Egyptians, created in our beautiful kingdom? Who allowed to study pyramids?’
At least here, in the Netherlands, they don’t write notes while they talk to you. Back in the UK, you sit through the interview of the scale of your craziness. If I ever arrived to the hospital back in Sheffield, it always led to the deepest regret, it’s like a laboratory, where they experiment on humans in distress: today we try aripiprazole, tomorrow we will offer your lithium, next week, we will try cortisol. I really never understood their problem, as I actually feel fine with my belief in Jesus, and that it might be me, and I am proud about my past lives.
The dialogue continues, but of course, it is a dialogue with a psychiatrist, and while he seems like a really good person, he can never take me seriously, even if some doubt might pass (or not) in his head. What if indeed I was Jesus? What is indeed God prepared a nice surprise? What if Jesus could be reborn as a female, and not that bad-looking too? Mhh?
How do I suspect such a grandiose mission, you might ask?
Well, I heard the God, and I saw white doves. I was once denied entering the church, because it is overtaken by fake believers (my post on the Abbey and the Devil can be read here), I see angels, and I hear music of God when I sleep.
And this time, of my god, but really, the devil appeared to me in his most magnificent allure as yet. I was standing in my garden at night, and there he was, appearing as a beautiful panther, with hypnotising eyes, leaning over the fence, standing firmly in the air, scaring and also fascinating me as never before. The Lucifer is truly amazing, and if I am indeed Jesus, or was one in my past life, then I am not running. Why should I run from temptations when I enjoy nice things in my life, such as good food on the table, nice red wine, coffee, cafes and bars, travelling, nice music, beautiful cremes and perfumes, and nice clothes?
My biggest dilemma is what was written in the Bible about him, but there were also some things about God in there that scared me out of shit, but I recently learned from one Celtic Christian priest, that we are offered a version of the bible, that was decided to be offered to the ordinary people, while there are many, too many texts, that never saw it into THE BOOK, because it was decided by some humans, that some truth should be hidden, and I really would like to be in Vatican and sort out the ancient texts and redo the Bible, into a better, appealing, powerful, beautiful version, destined for a humanity that needs so much hope.
But let’s go back to the 1990ies in Russia to continue with chronology of the events, not just influencing me and my life after, but also the fate of Russia and how it has become.
When I talk about witches, and apologies to all nice white witches, who wish no harm, I talk about bad witches, and in order to ban you from telling me what I am deranged, I will present you a picture of Moscow on one day in June in 1991.
It was a beautiful day, as far as I remember, and I was strolling the lovely streets of the Moscow city, together with my cousin, who came to see me from the South of Russia. We were then really young, fourteen, fifteen, care-free, and very independent. I, for instance, due to the fact that I was constantly moving from the house to my dad and step-mother to the house of my grandma, and back, had lots of freedom. I really could do anything I wanted, and once I came back home at seven o’clock in the morning from a party of my boyfriend, and no one even noticed.
I was proud of my city then, because Moscow still stood as it was meant to: large streets with scare construction, old beautiful buildings, the view of the Kremlin, undisturbed, amazing museums, and not than many shops. I was slightly boasting to my cousin, even if I also actually envied her, with her nice, simple, very friendly life in an old mining town in the Eastern Ukraine, where she could visit our grandparents, proud Cossacks, in the South of Russia, whenever she wanted.
We walked for a long time, stopping at different places, to admire the view. We didn’t go inside the Kremlin that time, but stared at it from the bridge, taking in the breathtaking view of that amazing establishment. Kremlin is indeed breath-taking, encompassing beautiful imposing building, the most beautiful cathedral in the whole world, and the Kremlin tower itself, as well as the canon, and park and river around. All Kremlins in Russia were built on the river, surrounded by it, to protect themselves from the enemies.
And then we reached the old Arbat, a famous street in the center, forbidden for cars, where so many Russian writers created their stories, and where artists and vagabonds loved to assemble: to play guitar, to have a laugh, to share artistic ideas, to fall in love and to experience magic. Old Arbat was magical.
But no anymore. In the summer of 1991 I got for the first time a definite feeling that something wrong was going on in my native country. We entered the street, and there it was: witches parlors on almost every corner. At each corner, they were sitting, the witches. One was saying on a poster in front that she could read your fortune and make it better. The other had an announcement that she could ban certain people out of your life, and one man claimed to be a hypnotizer, looking similar to the idiot Kashpirovsky, promising to hypnotize one to good health or death, depending on your wishes (he didn’t mention ‘death’, but he looked like he could do it).
Ah, all that is innocent, and doesn’t mean anything, you might say at this point, especially if you are an atheist, or a psychiatrist.
Well, it does, of course it does. Queues of people were assembling next to each witch, wishing, hoping to get something that would make their lives better. It was indeed a desperate moment for my country: there was nothing to eat, nothing to buy, with uncertain future and total turmoil in politics and economics.
I didn’t like any of them, and I kind of felt a sort of despair myself when I saw these crowds of people, and because I was curious by nature, I joined the queue of a palm reader, a woman who didn’t look kind, and who started to give me weird looks before I even approached her. My cousin was standing next to me, but I told her I had money only to pay for my reading, not for hers. Something protective was always in me, in regards to my one year older than me cousin. She was vulnerable, fragile, thinking that she had lost on points, because my father had made a life in Moscow, while her dad, my uncle, worked in a mine. We both didn’t understand then, yet, that the life of her parents, in a small mining town, was the one that was full of beauty and wonder, and nice, kind people, who earned their bread with honesty and integrity.
By the time I approached the palm reader, I wasn’t feeling that well, I think it was probably due to the fact that all people who had a reading with her, had sad, desolate faces when they departed after receiving their reading. She was piercing me, with her unkind, calculating eyes all the way through, and I assumed it was due to my quite sexy, revealing top, that my mum had brought me from Italy. I was standing out in terms of my clothes, and the woman probably didn’t like it, was my guess.
When I sat in front of her, I had a massive headache, not helped by the fact that what she was telling me, a fourteen years old, was beyond being disturbing, it was pure bad madness.
“You will soon have an operation and you might survive, but it is all in the hands of the fate. You should never work as a teacher, or become a doctor. You will be unlucky in love.”
There was nothing nice coming of the mouth of the woman, and I don’t even know where I found the strength to contradict her, but I did. When she finally revealed her trick, such as asking to paying her lots of money to correct my outrageous fortune, I put a hand on top of hers, looked into her eyes and said:
“You are a liar.”
I then stood up and took my cousin firmly by the hand. I stopped for a good measure as well, looking at the crowd still waiting for their reading, really wishing for them to never approach that monster psychic, to never deal with her madness, greediness and ill-will.
Something unexpected happened then. The bad psychic stood up and started to assemble her chair and her tools (cards or whatever), and then she said:
“No more reading today, I am going home.”
I experienced enormous relief then.
The next day, I took my cousin from the south of Russia, and my cousin from Moscow, my sisters really, I don’t like the term ‘cousin’ to the Zamoskvorechye, a district full of churches, right outside of Moscow (now, a part of it), to baptize all three of us.
We received baptism, someone stole my best hat on the train back to Moscow, and I did feel something. Something really good entering my life.
It wasn’t enough though to fight with the negative energy my native town was dealing with then, but we will come back to it in my next post.