I cry in public a lot, sort of like I did yesterday, while I was walking along a dirt path, in the middle of a dark forest, listening to Eddie Vedder’s voice sing the U2 song called, “One.” I was thinking about the family that I grew up with and all of the pain that is attached to it. There’s always a moment when a certain thought or emotion matches a feeling in my body, and that’s usually when the tears come. When they do, I don’t hold back―I don’t care where I am, or whether or not there’s a man walking with his son behind me (like yesterday).
When it happened, I swung my hiking pole into the air like I was trying to hit a hanging curveball over the Green Monster at Fenway. I was fucking angry. Sad, too. For a split second in time, I didn’t think life was very fair. Not only have I lost two little brothers to a disease that this world can’t seem to shake, I’ve lost my older brother and my parents too. We fail to see the world the same way, which has made it virtually impossible for us to have healthy and meaningful relationships.
I’ve had a rough summer. I’ve been crying more than ever, still grieving the death of my two little bros and the life that has been taken away from me. Even though I wrote my first children’s book―a collection of short stories called “Sentimental Shorts”―I haven’t been finding much fulfillment or joy. My alarm goes off in the morning and I lie there, thinking about my pain and what tasks might be waiting for me that day. It’s not easy to pick myself up out of bed. It is easy to remember that I’ve lost my family.
It’s become a tricky life.
Last week, when I was at another emotional rock bottom (which, compared to my past, was hardly a setback), I received a message from an old friend of mine. She was currently reading a book about mediumship and there was a voice in her head telling her that she needed to pass the book off to me. I was grateful when I read her message, as my entire body lit up in tingles and goosebumps. That’s when I knew that the book she recommended was going directly into my Amazon cart. It arrived a few days later.
I began reading “Messages from Above,” by Monica the Medium, yesterday morning. I was inspired by her story, and how honestly she came about telling it. She has the ability to talk to the dead. She can help people here on Earth who are having a difficult time with grief and coming to terms with a loved one they have lost. She has a profound gift. And she’s sharing her superpowers to benefit mankind. In my humble opinion, that’s very brave and courageous.
Why?
Because I share similar gifts.
Monica describes herself as a medium, not a psychic, the difference being that mediumship is the ability to connect to loved ones who have passed away, while a psychic has the ability to read the energy of a person, place, or thing. I talk to dead people (including my brothers, part of the reason I was blattin’ like a cow yesterday), and I have the amazing ability to read (and understand) the energy of a person, place, or thing. It’s a gift―my very own superpower that has been hiding in my toolbox out in the garage because of fear.
I’ve wanted people to like me my entire life, so much so that I have lived most of my life for others, becoming a version of myself that they would tolerate. What’s nuts is the fact that the people who were closest to me liked me a hell of a lot better when I was drinking a liter of vodka a day and fucking up my life on a daily basis. The more I’ve gotten in tune with myself, the more these people, who’ve claimed they love me, have faded. I’ve let them win. I’ve been stuck in my fear and doubt and have been unwilling to share my gifts with the world.
The same thing happened to Monica: before she started college, she had a random illness that was really dragging her down. She put on weight, refused medications the doctors offered her, and was clearly a mess. Looking back (she told in her story), she was able to recognize that the illness had everything to do with the fact that she wasn’t exploiting her gifts. When she moved out of her childhood home and went to college, she started to answer her calling, learning more about herself and her uniqueness. Coincidentally (or maybe not at all), her illness went away immediately, and it never returned.
I have this rising feeling inside of me that knows that when I step into the truth of my being, and fully allow myself to share my gifts with the world, my sadness and fear are going to vanish like a fart in the wind. I’ve been coming alive all week, and it’s the most refreshing feeling I’ve had since I began writing “Miraculous,” my first book. I know that by sharing my truth, I’m going to lose even more people who have supported me. Finally, for once in my life, I don’t give a shit. By living my life for others, all I’ve done is break my own heart countless times. I can assure you, that’s more painful than being hurt by any of them.
So, here I am, announcing my gifts to you and the world. I have to say, I’m grateful that my old friend followed her own intuition and sent me Monica’s book. I’m done hiding. I’m done waiting. I’ve had enough of hurting myself. Not only do I have the ability to talk to Spirit (which is literally all around us), I have the honor and privilege of being able to connect with plant life, including these very sacred psychedelic plant medicines I’ve been talking about for the last several years. This is what I was meant to bring into this world, to help others uncover their own pain and suffering, leading them towards the life they always dreamed about.
I’m a sensitive dude. People have been telling me that my whole life, and I always thought it was a big problem. I feel things on profoundly deep levels, other people’s emotions become my own. For the longest time, I thought this was a curse.
It’s not.
It’s a gift.
And it’s time to take it out of the toolbox and start sharing it with others.
Time to go, I’m crying again.