Am I hearing voices? Am I becoming a person you gotta be a little worried about? Kept an eye on? You know, one of “those” people?
All right, with full knowledge that anyone who wants to use this written declaration to “”302 him” into Norristown State Hospital or some other psychiatric ward, here it goes:
I have been “witnessing” conversations. In my head. While on the cusp of a what “normally” would be a deep meditative level of conciousness. I’m not crazy. At least, not in the medical sense. Got PTSD and some run-of-the-mill neuroses, like obsessive compulsion, depression, and regular anxiety. Most of which are under control. Most of the time. All right, some of the time.
But hearing voices? And not just a word or two, but whole sentences, with unusual and, to me, unknown names of people and places being mentioned? I wouldn’t bring it up in fear of being committed, but I think it may have something to do with meditation and my “exposure” to new ideas that I never gave much thought to in the past.
Like reincarnation and past lives.
Go ahead, smirk as you read this. The garrulous Greek is “off his gourd.” Now we can really use this “admission” of mental illness against him. But, just wait, my good “lawyerly” friend. What if the people who hear things are actually tuning into some sort of mystical channel, an energy source created through constant meditation and spiritual exercising?
Still nuts, huh? Ok, I can’t speak for every body, but let me just tell you of my “off-the-wall” theories. Hold back your cynicism and try to be open. We got a deal?
I took a course last year involving past lives and “regression.” In one class, we were to focus on a past live and were guided the first few moments with a general outline, and then . . . freed to see if anything developed within. It did for me, as well as the four or five others in the class.
I pictured myself as a low-level lord, one of those from the old English feudal times, but not necessarily England. I was responsible for the lives of several workers as well as their families. In one scene, I visited a bald, husky man with course-looking garbs seated at a thick, bulky wooden table eating with no utensils as his wife served a meal and his son assisted the mother. All were dirty. So were their clothes. Had terrible hair cuts.
I wore something akin to a robe, some outer covering of a bland brown color. Wore a white clothe around my genitals, I guess for an undergarment. I was taller and leaner; had dark, oily skin, and a big smile as I made my rounds from one hut to another. I was not a rich man, but comfortable and content with my station in life. My hair was dark. Almost black. And curly.
The last scene showed me dying of a wound received in a battle. Either from a sword, arrow or some other devise from what I thought was the Middle Ages. I leaned against a tree that was in full bloom. A field lay to the left front of me. It was daylight. I held my stomach with my right hand while lying on my left side. I was sweating profusely. But not afraid of death. It is what a warrior learns to befriend, I thought. Death.