When I was 4 years old, my mother divorced my father. This catapulted me into the dark years of my childhood; she married an alcoholic man ten years younger than her. Almost immediately, the beatings began, the tearing apart the house, the shattering glass, and the shouted accusations of infidelity.
My mother was indeed promiscuous. To see her now, crippled by major strokes (though living independent with minimal assistance) would give anyone inspiration to the determination of the human spirit, and foster compassionate forgiveness for a woman who now lives with the memory of past mistakes. I fly ‘cross country about every 3 months to visit, fix things around the house, and administer hugs whenever possible. The issue isn’t about forgiving her; it’s about forgiving me.
In early kindergarten, one day we were assigned to play house, and I was matched with a Japanese girl named ‘Susan’. As the play went on, I didn’t know what to do. One of the other children said “Do what you see at home”. I hesitated, then pushed Susan over the stacked crates that were the pretend walls of the house. I began shouting the obscenities I had heard nightly at home, including accusations that she had f----- him.
It’s a hazy memory after that, but I know I was sent to the principals’ office. Shortly thereafter, every Monday morning, the classroom intercom would beep twice. My teacher would dutifully pull down the intercom switch, and say “Yes?” Invariably a woman’s voice announced: “Send Roy Stokes to the office, please.”
This went on for a few years. In fact, the class began chiming in with the announcement. Classmates asked me what happened when I left to go to the principals’ office. I said I played fun games with Mrs. Hopkins. It wasn’t until years later I was told she was the school psychiatrist. My outburst had made clear to the school what the conditions were at home, and they were trying to help.
I arrived home from school one day to witness yet another drunken beating, which ended with my step-father dragging my mother upstairs to rape her. At 6 years old, I was helpless to do anything.
This exposure to unhealthy sexual behavior became compounded when I was molested at 9 years old by the neighborhood homosexual. All these events and experiences forged my outlook on sex, and those sexual energies would dictate much of my behavior well into my 50th year. It was then I began to try to sort out the spiritual from the human, the healthy from the unacceptable.
I was prompted to write this because of a walk I just took. In the woods, I pondered some old ghosts from my past, wincing at the memory of my kindergarten outburst. My Guide Spirits told me something very loving, and I wanted to share it with you:
“You’re not responsible for those days or actions.”
And I’m not. I have accepted responsibility for volumes of things I did and said, particularly during the 30 years of my own alcoholic follies. I went into Alcoholics Anonymous when I finally realized I was becoming that abusive step-father, and it was a matter of time before I began reenacting those horrible episodes with Janice…the first true love I have experienced this life time. I approach three years sober.
My heart asks the ages to send my feelings of apology across the days to Susan, and all the others over the years, and I am confident those messages get through. I am now asking Roy to PLEASE let go of that which was never my fault.
In the current Earth ascension, as these impacted energies are rising up to all of us, it is not a sad task, and I embrace it for the universal healing it offers. It feels a lot like the look Bette Davis gives the old man at the end of “Hush, Hush, Sweet Charolette”. All this time, in the back of my mind, I convinced myself I was somehow to blame. Now I am convincingly informed, by kindness, that I didn’t create those distant flickers of ghosts.
I only harbored their whispers.
