Empathy

I have been told recently by a reincarnation researcher (or that’s how he calls himself) that most past life memories coming in adulthood are, literally, rubbish. I had a pretty long conversation with him, as I had asked for help to get children’s cases for a project I’m working on. He first told me he’d gladly do, then he found out we disagree in certain points, and he decided I wasn’t worthy of his help. My three years of recalling past lives were nothing compared with his thirty years of research, a research that apparently led him to the conclusion that most adult memories are rubbish. And, of course, as he couldn’t assess mine because I wasn’t up to give him the details, along with all the verifications I claim to have, I guess he thought I was also one of those persons with shitty recollections, probably a crazy person that has nothing better to do than saying in a private message in Facebook that I’ve killed, been killed, executed, and also committed suicide in a few of my past lives. He also thinks that memories obtained by self-hypnosis are as unreliable as those obtained by hypnosis, just because both techniques include the work “hypnosis”. This is a curious claim, as I had to explain to him what self-regression or self-hypnosis is. On the contrary, he takes memories obtained through meditation as valid, as he considers those as spontaneous memories.

And this is one of the most serious researchers I’ve ever found, one of the few who is a paying a little attention to adult memories...

God save us all.

At least, he assured to me, he has an ability to empathize. He has a daughter who started to remember past lives at three years old, and he can understand people who remember because he’s talked to dozens of people (wow, I’m impressed) and interacted with a lot of them. But he has no memories of his own and he doesn’t know what self-hypnosis is.

Please God save us all.

I’m not sure if my feelings were hurt when he threw all my memories and experiences (and the memories and experiences of hundreds of people, some of them very dear to me) to the garbage just because he felt like it, or if I’m more disappointed than hurt. But I know who I am, and I am a better researcher than he. I don’t have preconceived ideas about certain techniques, and I don’t throw anything to the garbage without analyzing and studying it properly. I also try to experiment myself, as I’ve done with astral projection too, so that I can see with my own eyes if certain people’s claims can be true. As a real scientist, I have to take into account all data, I can’t ignore what I don’t like.

I was deeply disappointed as it seems he’s just reciting by heart what he has learnt in who-knows-what studies, instead of listening to people. I did feel scrutinized and dissected as a dead lab rat, being unfairly judged just because I think all people can remember if they try. I felt he was looking at me from his tall tribune, I almost could see his condescending smile as he was trying to educate me and lecture me about statistics and facts I’m so tired of hearing. This is another curious thing, as I have access to information that no researcher will ever find, especially if they keep being like that. Information I’m so glad is secret, as if I were the keeper of sacred knowledge too important to be contaminated by unworthy eyes (something I also did in the past). My desire to talk I had not long ago is slowly becoming into a desire to remain safe and silent, enjoying the insights and company of those who really know, those who really understand how it feels to kill, be killed, be executed or commit suicide in past lives.

I didn’t need empathy when I started to remember, I needed people who really knew what I was going through, because they had also experienced it. No cold researcher in the world can do that without memories of their own. But I, as a reincarnationist and a researcher, I can and must go further. I’ve already come a long way, but I’m sure better times are coming for reincarnation. We, the ones who remember, not that kind of researchers, are the ones opening the way. We are the vanguard. We have the wits, the strength, the wisdom, the experience, and science is on our side. We will win. One day our voice will be heard. And that day we will win.

Pride.

We often talk about bad memories associated to our past lives. Traumas are frequent, also feelings of nostalgia and all kind of unresolved issues we must deal with sooner or later. Does this mean there are no good memories? No, not really, but it seems it happens like in real life: for some reason human beings like to focus in the negative part of everything, and we easily forget the good moments we have lived with friends or relatives.

Lately a curious thing has occurred to me in two different occasions. The situation was almost identical. The emotion attached to the particular situation was more intense the second time. I wouldn’t say it is a real trigger, as I don’t get clear memories. If I wasn’t so aware of my past lives, I would probably let it go or just say I am especially dreamy that given day. In both occasions I was leaving my home to go somewhere else. Flocks of hair partially covered my eyes, and though I am a woman this time around, I had the feeling I was a young man with long, light brown hair. I take a handbag I recently bought, with a strap over the shoulder and of a greenish color. I don’t know why but every time I take it I feel like a soldier who goes to war, not a normal soldier, but one that has to embark in a wooden ship docked in the harbor. I am a sailor and I don’t know when I will return.

I leave. The weather is cloudy, as if it is about to rain. As I walk I see my feet striding fast, but in my mind I don’t see my usual shoes, but black boots. I like to adopt a martial rhythm, as if I am marching along. The ground is wet, and if I am stepping on a cobbled street, the flashback gets even clearer. It brings a feeling of pride and I can’t get enough of it. I am happy of being where I am, of being who I am. I am young and feel strong, and above all, I feel that what I am doing is honorable and worthy. I carry just what I need to survive in my bags, and I am fine with it. I also get a glimpse of a huge ship looming over me as I get closer to the decks, and I am so proud I am part of the crew and I know how to sail. Crossing the ocean doesn’t sound dangerous, and though I will miss my home I am not bothered to be abroad for so long, doing what I most love.

The memory is gone in a few seconds. Past and present seem to become one, but you only need a word or something catching your attention to be back in your current body, in your tedious current life. The emotion lingers a bit longer though. Tears were in my eyes as I typed the above lines, just evoking the scene and feeling it so close, as if it had happened yesterday. I started to remember my Royal Navy life because I felt as disappointed with my job as I felt in 18th century, but that doesn’t mean there is no other kind of feelings. Maybe I am recovering the same enthusiasm I had when I was young and eager to travel the world, and that’s fantastic.

Age and time become so weird when you remember past lives...  

Triggered (2).

So, this is how it goes:

On Sunday I watch a Spanish TV show about the ordeal Captain Zaida Cantera went through when she was sexually abused by her superior. My past lives were almost a distant memory until I sat down in front of the telly and listened to her, especially the things she didn’t say and were implied in her silence but you could read in her eyes. As in other occasions, I felt the shift of energy in my body, and from that moment on I may have looked like my 4-year-old brother hiding behind a cushion when he used to watch the videoclip “Thriller” by Michael Jackson. My heart sank. It does every time I think about it, so I try not to think. I was about to get up and tell my partner I didn’t bear to watch anymore, but I did, until the end.

Though her situation was very similar to mine during WWII, my emotions mainly came from my Black Widow life. Katrina’s life was short, and sexual abuse was only part of the problem. I think the wounds don’t go too deep. The Black Widow is different. It is a longer life, or death in life, where much was destroyed. I felt identified with a lot of things Zaida was saying. One, that you just can’t believe it is happening when it happens. Her case began when her lieutenant-colonel called her “secretary” and tried to caress her thigh, in front of a few witnesses. This brought me memories of Katrina, but the rest was from a wife who suddenly was slapped on the face by her husband for talking with common friends. I once mentioned how much I liked the word “soul-killing” one of my forum companions had used. Well, that single second, unimportant as it may seem (after all, how many slaps on the face we experience when we are kids and we don’t remember?), is soul-killing. And while you are living it, you know your soul is breaking, and that moment is being deeply ingrained in your memory. Another thing I felt very identified with, was the silence of her coworkers. Thankfully, some of them were brave enough to testify at the trial, but most witnesses, fearful of reprisals and their military careers being cut short, chose to turn their backs on her and remain silent. I had to live through it all, and that is what still infuriates me: the silence, the hiding, the isolation... the agony.  

Well, I went to bed and on Monday I was still quite angry so I did some exercise and tried to keep my mind occupied with my daily routines. Then on Tuesday night I meditated. I felt intense emotions and two or three flashes came, nothing important. Still half “in trance” I did some research, I found my first house in Google Street View, I read my last words on the newspaper clip, and while I was going through another piece of information which said I managed to escape a few days before my execution with someone’s help, I saw myself taking someone’s hand and going through a window. I felt that piece of information was right, though I still had no memories of that escape. Then another link did mention I escaped through a window... and I don’t remember to have read it before, so it might have been an instant verification.

I know I am blocking memories though. Sometimes I even doubt I did kill the man that brought me to my death. I would believe my own words if I didn’t know how twisted I had become, how much poison I carried myself in my heart and how dark my soul was at that point, unable to cope with the misery and suffering a man’s hand had inflicted upon me. Perhaps I am blocking those memories because I know it’s better to have someone to blame than acknowledge it was me who didn’t (or couldn’t) find the way out of the hole I had fallen into.

The injustice and impunity that prevail even today in Zaida’s case is the same that prevailed back then, and that is my main issue. However, this morning I was wondering if that only reflects my ongoing desires of vengeance, as I use to say to people who seek justice. Maybe I was sick with desires of vengeance back then? The answer was “No. That may be true or not, but we have to keep something in mind: we all know justice is human, BUT there must be justice while we are here”. While I was trying to sleep these words —pronounced by a male voice, as if I heard someone saying them— slipped into my mind: “She had it coming”. Well, if I had it coming, I wonder: What should these men have coming? What do they deserve? Do they have to go unpunished while innocent women keep living broken lives?

Not even my past reincarnation as a judge can answer these questions...