Finding My Way Back - June 18th, 2022

Lost & Found: Before I Was Who You Think I Am

I feel like I’ve had everything quite a few times…but it never felt like enough; it just seemed, from the outside looking in, like it should have been enough. The fiat, the popularity, the validation, the pleasure, the ecstasy, the lived out fantasies, the thrill of all things taboo; and the idea of these things were my psychological and emotional fuel.

Ideas regarding what could be, should be, has not been and might not ever be plagued my mind and my heart.

I don’t quite remember when I stopped appreciating life for exactly what it was at present and engaging with each moment as it unfolded. I can’t pinpoint when I became under the impression that creating a fulfilling life for myself was about setting up shop in the material realms before ensuring that my relationship with myself was solid, nurtured and held in the highest regard. I got more lost in the density of this dimension than I could have ever imagined I would despite it never being my stomping grounds. I guess that’s why I feel like I’ve been in limbo; the laws that govern 3D are not synonymous with the laws that govern that of the unseen. And from the looks of how things have been unfolding for me, I, at some point, made the wrong side my foundation.

As I inquire into the night, I couldn’t help but ask myself where it all “went wrong”, where I lost myself, when I became so careless with myself. I went as far back as I could consciously recollect, only to find Nikhol, the writer. And this is not to say that this is or was the seat of my identity, but it was the last place I remember seeing myself before I got tossed in the lost & found.

Where It All Started

I used to have journals on top of journals of writings; any thought or sentiment that arose went on paper, no matter how mundane, underdeveloped, premature or fleeting. I got it out. I didn’t share them with anyone because well, they were like love letters to myself. I had complete and unwavering regard for what was happening in my internal world; more than that of what was happening externally. Some people couldn’t handle that and would invade my entries because I guess, somehow, they felt they were missing out. Even in these simpler times, I suppose I was somewhat of an enigma; but I hadn’t made an ego identity out of it…yet.

I remember how violated I felt when my caretaker read one of my diary entries. It felt like the one place I had to myself, that I could make my own and be my full self, was violated. I already had so much choicelessness in my life; from my mother transitioning when I was 2 years old, my father being incarcerated, moving from NY to the DMV once my aunt got custody of me; coming from poverty with nothing but hyper-intelligence, volatility and creativity to ensure my emotional and psychological survival.

For the majority of my youth, I was so deep inside of myself…so free. Creating worlds from my own abstract, boundless emotions. I felt safe and protected within these worlds because it all belonged to me; I knew how they were created, why they were created and the significance of the effect it had on my mind. There was no one to jade or corrupt my thoughts + emotions because they simply did not have access; and this is long before my days of over-sharing. But somewhere along the line, living inside of myself was not ideal for the people around me. And I remember when it became a theme to start “making something of myself”’ for the world to see, consume, validate or destroy, even. Either way, it just didn’t seem acceptable that I had all of me to myself and it was perpetuated that I had to begin externalizing things that were otherwise very personal and sacred to me to ensure my worldly survival (their idea of it, at least).

Losing What Always Brought Me Back Home

Slowly but surely, I tried to break out of my shell. I mean, I was always outwardly expressive and unique, but I was never aware or conscious that I was…I simply was. And this naïvety, if you will, is what protected me from shame in my earlier years.

In attempts to bring what was organic and natural for me into conscious awareness for public display, I was met with criticism, rejection, shame; all kinds of strange phenomena that I wasn’t used to experiencing or feeling in the worlds I had created for myself within. And this is not to say I had never been embarrassed, bullied or humiliated prior to…it’s just that now, I was actually trying to be seen as some “thing”; be that a writer, singer, dancer, actress…I felt as though I had to climb out of my skin and walk around inside out; risking my delicate innards being tarnished for the sake of approval or “making a name” for myself. I suppose this is where things became unnatural.

The Subtle Art of Selling One’s Soul

What was most alarming for me is when I stopped writing; at least for myself. The more and more I “put myself out there”, the less I was interested in doing things for me. Everything had to be to be seen, validated and praised by others; and I guess it went so undetected because it wasn’t in excess yet. Nonetheless, it was happening and it was happening fast; chipping away at everything that was near and dear to me. Singing was no longer a thoughtless joy of mine, now my voice had to be trained and I had to compete and perform. Writings were coined as my “ticket in” because of how articulate I was in a world where apparently, good writers are scarce. Dancing was now about showmanship and if I didn’t have that “edge” that dance teachers and industries the same were looking for, I could forget being nurtured into the best version of said art. I was now in a world where the simple, sacred joys of self-expression were no longer beneficial if it could not bring forth validation, attention, praise or money.

And during these delicate years, my mental was very fertile; meaning, I was downloading all of this into my psyche and overtime, without my knowing, it became the very blueprint of what drives me today.

The Walking Dead

I can vividly recall when everything became forced and performative; and I didn’t stop because when I look around me, “brute force” seemed to be the way to make it to “the top” (wherever that is). Nothing felt organic or fluid and the hardest thing for me was summoning inspiration that wasn’t naturally there there for the sake of someone else’s approval; even if I really wanted it. My best creations were never brought forth like that internally, so why would they miraculously do so externally?

For some reason (perhaps because of this blueprint that was now running the show), I commenced; except now, I was jumping from creative outlet to creative outlet. I never saw anything through to completion because on some unconscious level, due to the nature of my driving force, I knew the end of either road would be bleak and void. So the impulsivity served as a distraction that I disguised as “awakenings” or “liberation” when really, it was a form of denial that everyone seemed to admire in a world of planned, measured movements.

The Split: Me vs. The Idea of Me

My expressions wouldn’t come out in front of others as they would when I was alone and that frustrated me; nothing I did or pursued was about me anymore and more so about an idea of me. I would create and kill off ego identities by the day…and actually took joy in the freedom of being able to do that.

And these weren’t necessarily fake personas, they were all aspects of me that I was dying to embody, showcase and be accredited for; be that in the form of recognition, praise, money, whatever. But the goal was not internal fulfillment at all anymore, it was all about bringing fragmented identity constructs to life through spiritless ideas (no matter how pure in principle & concept); and I couldn’t do this without removing myself completely.

If I was too “in it”, it would not fit into projected timeframes or the boxes that held the ideas together long enough for someone to invest their time, money or energy. If I were to embody the underlying principles of my ideas and the organic ebb & flow through the many layers of myself that rose and fell with my life cycles, it would clash completely the many identity constructs I impulsively shifted in and out of and the fixed ideas that spun in their orbit.

Surely, I must have been under the impression that remaining connected to myself ensured that I was spiritually alive, yet compromised my worldly survival.

I don’t think I had much of a clue what was making me do the things that I did, but I do know that at some point, something really didn’t feel right. I felt like I was smothering, I was clearly forcing things, I was exhausted and I was not truly living; and just like everyone else, I normalized it and made it look good. Many would call this realization a “spiritual awakening”, but really, when you look at it, I just became present enough to take a look at my surroundings and decide that the way I was doing things was no longer worth it to me.

I wanted to find my way back home and I attempted to do just that with this vile blueprint (unbeknownst to me) still in full effect.

Finding Out Why The Caged Bird Sings

The moment I touched down in the tropics of Costa Rica, I remember this stillness. Yeah, I was there with my lover and we were following yet another idea of what could be, should be, etc. But in moments where I was suspended in the abyss that nature effortlessly submerges us into, I met myself again. But I didn’t embrace her, I didn’t play catch up (like I am as I write this), I didn’t pour into her. It was like I noticed her in a cage; I might have even unlocked the cage door, but she had been in there so long that she didn’t know what to do with the opened door…and I was far too consumed with my ideas to welcome her back home.

So, she sat in an unlocked cage, watching me prioritize everything but our reunion. I can imagine it might have been rather confusing for her; bringing us all this way to a place where we could finally silence all of the external chatter and catch up, and all I did was create my own mental chatter because well, at that point, I didn’t know what to “do” without the presence of some form of chatter.

Without an idea to pursue, I was afraid that everybody would be looking at me like “now what? now what? what you gonna do now? what’s the plan?” And even if there was nobody actually saying it, I had heard it for so long that it was now playing on loop in my mind; consider it the soundtrack to that blueprint that I downloaded in my adolescent years.

Please, Come Back Home: Childbirth Edition

The second strangest phenomena while in this new country was getting pregnant with my first son. I never saw myself having kids (for reasons I didn’t necessarily explore) and actually didn’t even believe my reproductive system could do such a thing. I remember when I found out, I had no clue…how could I not feel such an extreme change in my own body? That threw me off.

But then, I had a very subtle psychological break: my life would no longer be “mine”…but from the looks of it, was it ever, really? The freedom to jump from idea to idea, from identity construct to identity construct; was that not it’s own enslavement loop?

Childbearing completely obstructed that loop. But the blueprint was strong and firmly rooted in my psyche…so of course, “the show must go on!”

My Ego Identity As The Driver, My Spirit As The Passenger

Things seemed to (externally) go uphill from there (with a few traumatic bumps in the road, aka labor + childbirth), but as far as my relationship with myself was concerned, things were actually getting worse (internally). My son became apart of yet another idea, and so did every friend, lover and project of mine. Honestly, I had gone off the deep end and the (desperate) energy that I was generating while doing so brought me lots of attention. None of my “great ideas” had successfully assumed form and I was desperate for at least one to come into fruition. And I was under the impression that the more pure and wholesome the idea, the more guaranteed it was to assume form.

But again, what I was missing was personal embodiment of said ideas. And this is not to say that I didn’t hold true to the corresponding principles in my own life here and there; however, when it was time to pursue the idea, I was outside of myself and operating from one of many identity constructs that I allowed to survive the longest; for some reason, I didn’t destroy this one so quickly. And because of that, I now had an ego identity that was so firmly anchored, that I was thoroughly convinced that this was “myself”.

And while my core essence was still very much in tune with worlds beyond what could be grasped with the 5 senses (hence, my gifts + insights), my essence was an enslaved passenger that I milked for content, lives and whatever else could bring my ideas to life. But she was dying; and every time she felt something, it was not honored, nurtured or fully felt; just thrusted outward for the world to consume.

This ego identity that I confused for my own self made me a creator of form without substance. And the reason I was unable to catch it (or be checked on it by others) was because I actually had an authentic source of substance that I was pulling from (my core essence/spirit), but very few people got to experience her directly.

A few could see her locked away deep inside of me, crying out for help. And I think that because of this, they remained committed to my work; awaiting the day that I finally chipped away at my ego identity to enough of an extent where she’d no longer be a passenger for them to experience through mere channels of expression.

Armageddon of The Mind & Spirit

There was a war going on inside of me. My Spirit would pull me to do a thing that completely clashed with what my idea ridden ego identity was pursuing. I know I confused the shit out of the people closest to me; seeming like an angel one minute and a sterile robot the next. My Spirit didn’t hold onto much but my ego identity did. My spirit knew how to forgive but my ego identity would not let go of the memory and would even play it on loop as some twisted means to summon the highly charged emotions that fueled whichever project was being pursued.

The longer it took my ideas to assume sustainable form, the more aggressive, bitter and hasty I became. I clung to the form of what it was that I wanted to bring forth and magnetized what I needed to do so through the wisdom produced by my Spirit. Anything that did not fit into my idea, I ridiculed it, disposed of it or even broke it down completely if it truly threatened the spotless formation I had in mind. In essence, these ideas were becoming void of life (duality).

The Most Aggressive Ego Death I’ve Ever Experienced

It was not until I got pregnant with my second child that this monster of an ego identity began shattering before me…and when I went to pick up the pieces in hopes of desperately piecing my precious ideas back together, shards of glass would get stuck in my finger tips and I would suffer.

Every attempt to save what was clearly meant to die ended up being a blood sacrifice. I felt like I was getting further and further away from myself when really, I was getting further and further away from the ideas…which I unknowingly started to mistake for who I was. Every time an idea shattered, I felt lost; like a fish out of water. And truly, I thought the purity of the idea would be my saving grace. But form without embodied spiritual embodiment is not sustainable. When I was most present (which this 2nd pregnancy has forced me to be) I was forced to become a direct embodiment of the principles that these ideas represented and found that these ideas that I was trying to forcefully manifest were already here! It’s just that with me not being present enough to embody them, I only get to experience fragmented versions of it that seem fleeting, but what was really fleeting is me.

Embodiment gives us the keys to experiencing the kingdoms that are hidden before us; and when we abandon our Spirits, these kingdoms seem to vanish as we are plummeted in restrictive density and all associated hardships.

Amidst this ego death, my ego identity has thought of the lowest shit to ensure it’s own survival.

It was so desperate to survive, that it was willing to get rid of the very blessing that was bringing me back home to who I was before any of you could begin to form a single thought around who you think I am. Thoughts of abortion and even adoption came up, which made me crumble in a way I never have before. And as I was forced to be present with the reality of what my ego identity was nudging me to do to ensure it’s own survival, my core essence broke through the very doors that once held her captive and said NO with a force I’ve never seen her embody before.

I want my baby whether the father chooses his ideas over us or not. We will be honored and we will guard that honor with our lives. We will not suffer in silence. Ideas will die so that we can live. We surrender to being blessed, broken and given again and again.

So, here I am at 4:24am, writing not for approval, performance, validation, content or guidance for others, but guidance for my damn self out of the lost & found.

For the first time, for as long as I can remember, I am writing for me, not for what others can consume. If/when this falls upon eyes other than my own, what they think won’t matter because for the first time in a very long time, I did not write this for anyone.

I wrote this to find my way home; to set my Spirit free.

Writing for my own sake is the last place I remember being connected myself, so I figured that I could at least start there and follow the omens.