Flashbacks of Memories to be Forgotten
Everything I hold onto has a purpose; a lesson. When the purpose has been fulfilled—mastery gained through practice, with patience and discipline—I perform a ritual to prepare the body for release.
A Ritual of Release & Forgiveness
I sealed this shoe box with a promise not to open it until after the publication of I’m Not Wearing Any Pants: Undressing a Diagnosis, expected in 2026. Primary drawings of a flattened pair of pants, and a skirt that looks more like broccoli than clothing, childishly decorate the lid. The brand of shoes belong to Katy Perry, a significant figure in my 20s and 30s, through marriage and divorce. The alter-ego rebelliously deconstructed her Christian beliefs in the digestible form of pop culture.
I can grow up and away from this, too, in my own way; I can be a person separate of the people who thought to create me to be
a person separate of the people who thought to create me to be a person separate of the people who thought to create me to
be. now i /\m: creator
I all but forgot what the box contained, which was the point. These were things hidden from sight so they might also be hidden from mind; things that trigger living memories and ignite the body.
what is concealed must be healed
i /\m: forgiven
I decided to open the box early to aid the book editing process.
The compiled manuscript—only a fraction of 24 year’s worth of journaling across print and digital mediums—sat at a hefty 675,000 words; the cutting room floor has only seen 158,000. The shoebox content helps me, as writer, identify where to focus the editorial eye next.
A glass candle wrapped in a True Reflection affirmation from 2021 tied with a red and white thread.
she is love. this is my true reflection. she is an artist. she is unafraid to love who she loves. she is unafraid to share her love and voice and process with all who choose to listen. she waits patiently, with wisdom and discernment for the invitation. she loves her shadow, and the secrets we share in the in between—for only us. she is slow and graceful: methodical. she can be quick and clumsy: joyful spontaneity! she has good posture and composure: she moves! she is an old soul and she is innocent. she lives the life she loves because she knows her worth and her value. she knows what she needs, what she wants, and expresses without apology. she is a dew drop and she is a storm. she is the rose petal and she is the thorn. she is wise and drinks from the fountain of youth. she is true.A palm-sized gold framed school photo of me at 12-years old; <f/>other’s favorite. It sat on his desk for years. I took it when I last lived with him, during Covid. Who says the estranged aren’t sentimental? Does sentiment require hope? Hope for what?
The only bible I have is <m/>other’s from her youth, a graduation gift at the ceremony from The Order of the Rainbow for Girls, with gold-lined pages. Separate from the United Pentecostal Church, pre-<f/>other’s influence? The stack of bibles collected in my lifetime, I left behind—in a closet, with the parents, spiritual prison—those inscribed with notes from my ghosts, the inner children, and those gifted to me as a blessing: a bible <f/>other preached from, a bible <m/>other made notes in, and grand</m>other’s bible, dedicated to me with a poem on the day of my birth.
RAPTURED: A Novel on The Second Coming of The Lord by Ernest Angley, published in 1950, was handed to me by <br/>other. He was reading Stephen King but this wasn’t just another horror story. This was a novel interpretation of coming soon true events. By age seven, I had a healthy fear of the Christian apocalypse and I did not expect to live for long. The idea of the rapture and Jesus coming “as a thief in the night” terrified me, and I pretended to speak in tongues to save the soul—a lie that cloaked me in shame. I was consumed with survival and being good enough until I cracked on my 40th birthday because I hadn’t died yet. The End Times continue to drag out.
88 REASONS Why The Rapture Could Be In 1988 & ON BORROWED TIME (Two Books in One) by Edgar C. Whisenant is the booklet that circulated the UPC sect creating mass hysteria. I remember week-long revivals requiring daily attendance; I was baptized to cleanse the body of sin so I might get to heaven. <br/other did it and little sister wanted it too. There was no more time to be wasted. Hell is now.
All in the Name: How the Bible Led Me to Faith in the Trinity and the Catholic Church by Mark A. McNeil is the book my aunt Teresa bought for her three brothers to read and discuss with her. The author is a former United Pentecostal believer. We were all taught not to read what does not align with UPC beliefs; not all of us who did anyway abandoned religion, some changed teams; and some of us developed CPTSD with religion our kryptonite. Inside is tucked a blue feather I “found” on the Chehalis Western trail on the same day I read the story of the blue feather in the book Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach. My aunt could appreciate what <f/>other can not.
A bundle of white sage to absorb harmful energy, paired with a white quartz for cleansing negative energies and promoting spiritual growth.
Underberg for digestion to ease the pain.
A rhino patch to remind of strength in sensitivities; one of the few remaining gifts from my ex-husband.
A full matchbox from Anna’s in New Orleans where unconditional love sparked.
A collaged rock to ground me in creativity.
A hexagon Orgonite to generate safety and compassion, achieve balance, and relieve homesickness.
A potpourri coffin scented with peace and gratitude.
These are items only I can apply meaning to and transfer power to control my beliefs. With these items in symbolic ritual, I strike a match and true love wins; the hell fire that threatens eternal damnation combusts the body to ash.
i /\m: present
I’m Not Wearing Any Pants: Undressing a Diagnosis is the only book I ever wanted to write before I die.
Some in my family believe that personal journals must be burned before death or left in the will to someone who will burn them with immediacy post-death; privately penned thoughts of the dead, meant to stay hid, off limits to the living. As a memoirist, I am diametrically opposed; thoughts released in a stream of consciousness can be a great teacher, identifying lessons outstanding and revelations. As a Gurley descendant, I will publish what I can before I die.
The debt is paid, this life is forgiven—the devil, released—to be lived. The soul will rapture when the body completes the cycle of living. May the publication of I’m not Wearing Any Pants: Undressing a Diagnosis end the spiritual torment and may death hold no secrets under lock and key.
i create the conditions to lessen the power of the triggers
these flashbacks of memories to be forgotten.
