Origins of anger (one)

Deep in a guided, subconscious healing journey, I rage and weep in front of my therapist.

‘I am so angry, so angry at them all! This world is doomed and I can’t do anything. I just want to hurt him, hurt all of them for doing this to me, to us!’ My fists clench as I pound the pillow in front of me, screaming a little out loud and even more inside. In my mind’s eye, I’m a teenage girl, lying on the floor of a chapel, being punished for speaking up, my body shaking in helpless rage.

The therapist holds my expression, guiding me to seek deeper.
‘Is this the source of your anger?’
‘No, it comes from deeper.’
‘Go deeper then. Go to the source of this.’

I find myself stepping out from time. My quest for the origins of anger had brought me to a life experience in what looked like the time of early christianity in the British isles. I can’t access that experience anymore. Instead, I see myself in-between, readying for that life ahead, mentally preparing for the pain I will need to endure in the hands of religious bigots and angry men, knowing I still need to go and do what I can.

I explain this to the therapist, who feels a little worried about where this rabbit hole goes, but bravely asks again, ‘is this place the source of your anger?’
‘No.’ I reply.
‘Go on then,’ she says, encouraging. ‘Go to the source of this.’

I take a breath and plunge straight to the source.

Standing in an empty blue room, I feel devastated. This body is tall, three times of the average human. An ornament is surrounding my elongated skull, resembling some ancient Egyptian statues. My skin is blue, my fingers and toes long and slender. There are many joints in them and each is clenched in rage.

The future is fucked. I can see time ahead as clearly as the time that has past and whatever had just happened, had messed it all up. I weep helplessly in the implications of the terrifying prospect. This planet is screwed. I should know, I’ve seen it before.

I describe it all to the therapist, who takes a breath and asks, ‘how old are you?’
‘I do not dare to say,’ I reply and then breathe in courage. ‘A thousand, at least a thousand years.’
‘In this body?’ 
I nod and continue weeping. My nose starts bleeding.

‘Step out form that vision and imagine this is a movie you are looking from aside. What do you see?’

I deal with my nose and imagine a screen in front of me, placing the vision on it. Now I’m a semi-neutral observer of something that seemed to happen as I carry such strong emotions around it.  

Looking at the screen, I immediately notice the guilt she feels. She’s not angry because of what happened, but because she thinks herself responsible. She’s angry because she feels guilty. She had given advice on something and she was the one they had listened. The results had backfired, badly.

‘She feels guilty. She came here to be an advisor and her advice damaged the future. Now everyone will pay the price for her failure. The planet will get screwed up and she thinks it’s her fault.’

A world slowly filling with fear, war and bloodshed with the truths about boundless love, beauty of existence and the honour/responsibility to take care of everything in God’s garden, slowly diminishing into deep afterthoughts.

I don’t convey that picture to the therapist, it’s uncomfortable enough to witness. The guilt is palpable and the blue being doesn’t seem to know how to let it go.

The therapist intervenes my observations, making a suggestion. ’Bring her out of the screen. Let her sit with you and your mentors around a campfire. Can she learn anything there?’

The tall alien form steps out from the screen to share the conjured campfire with myself and two of my mentors, who have been asked to join me in this subconscious healing process. For this journey, two characters from my book project appeared as mentors. In my book, they are depicted as galactic wardens. It was weird, but I’ve seen more weird and worse in my journeys, so I allowed it.

The blue being sits down in front of me, filled with guilt and acceptance for that guilt. She was wrong, but there is nothing she could do, so she has to accept what has happened and feel wrong all her life. Her truth and sadly, mine too.

Her hands hover over mine as her words arrive telepathically, transferring a package of images and emotions at the same time. ‘I screwed up for this planet. I can not possibly feel acceptance for this.’

She has accepted her guilt, but not her deed. Sounds very similar to my own war efforts with myself. I am also more ready to accept my feelings than forgive my deeds, which is why often refrain from actions…

One of my character-mentors, Deern, snorts in amusement, adding his own telepathic projection to the conversation. ‘You call this a screwed up planet? I could show you a thousand worse ones across this galaxy alone. Millions across the universe. This one here is pretty standard, even mild.’

Images of distant planets, some destroyed, some where only agony resides and some planets that will never see life again. Multiply by thousands. Compared to his vision, a planet where a bunch of left-brainers take over and try to make the reality of life much smaller than it actually is…well it looks like some kids playing cops and robbers, nothing to get hyped up about.

The blue tall version of my deep subconscious accepts that message. Her guilt lifts like a veil from her shoulders as she straightens herself. ‘This is fine. We can accept this. This can happen. It was a possibility as soon as they arrived. I did what I felt was the best thing to do. My action was acceptable.’ 

We look into each others eyes. Hers look relieved and sparkling as we share a moment of forgiveness together. This world is changing again. I’m glad we have come full circle.

Then she’s gone.


That, I guess, was the source of my anger. Or quite possibly one of the craziest journey’s I have ever taken with a therapist. And it did not end there.

Next, I had to go back and resolve the buildup of anger over the centuries, back to the times where early christianity slowly replaced the pagan religions on the British isles.

To be continued…

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