Speak of a Beachhead | Steve Beckow

By Steve Beckow, February 14, 2021

(Golden Age of Gaia)

Before thinking about bringing peace to the world, we may need to bring peace to ourselves. This article is part of that process for me.

I notice I’m not creating as much residue, as much debris in my wake as I used to.

I’m still dropping a royal clanger every now and then, but not consistently (he said, grinning).

I’m so used to me creating left-over resentment that I don’t know whether it’s safe to come out of my shell yet or not.

Three days without pi$$ing someone off. Going on four days.

I found myself the other day leaving the apartment and thinking to myself that there was nothing to be guarded about because I wasn’t doing anything harmful any more.

Not exactly sweetness and light either, but at least not pushing people around with my attitude. The troll under the bridge. Irritable. Kicking the cat.

If I can’t be happy, bugger the world; no one else is gonna be happy. Arrested development very, very young.

It’s like the weather outside has been raining for as long as anyone can remember and suddenly there’s a sunny day. No one can believe it’s true.

Mentally I’m casting my gaze from side to side to see if the coast is clear. I’m expecting to meet my Dad around any corner.

Emotionally I’m taking a big leap into the unknown. It’s OK to come out, Stevie. It’s really OK. The war is over. You made it through.

I can understand the struggle and the long journey back from some forms of abuse. It’s taken me all of my life till now since mine began in the crib. (1) And I don’t regard mine as anywhere near as bad as many people.

Only now am I having three or four days of not being a pain in the ass or downright objectionable to someone.

I’m just starting to emerge from it in the sense of having a wee, small part of me that’s uncontaminated by any of it. Oh my Gawd. There is life after early-childhood trauma.

Speak of a beachhead. A glimmer of light.

Footnotes

(1) I distinctly remember Mom and Dad fighting, while I was in utero. I said to myself: “I don’t want to go out there.”

I had eczema as a baby. Mom and Dad couldn’t sleep. They used to tie my arms to the crib to stop me from scratching and wheel me into the kitchen. They ignored my cries until morning. They meant well, but none of that was clear to me at the time.

Dad’s violence started at age seven. Once I was shouted at from mere inches from my face and shattered/dissociated. I didn’t recover from that until age 58.

In terms of processing vasanas, I’m now getting down to what I once called primal or root vasanas, the earliest traumatic memories. The rising energies are bringing everything to the surface. There is nothing hid that shall not be known.