The Right to Exist

Life isn’t blissful.
It’s brutal, beautiful, electric.

Every story needs its cast —
the wounded, the wounding,
the ones who try to hold it all together.

Pain isn’t punishment.
It’s evidence that you’re alive inside a system that feeds on stories.

Every victim summons a predator.
Every rescuer becomes a witness.
Every archetype plays its part until someone sees the script for what it is —
a cycle written in blood and memory.

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When I was still working behind the chair, I had a client who always brought her little boy.
He was about three, wild as a coyote.

He’d shriek — an ear-splitting scream so sharp it felt like an ice pick in my skull — and then laugh at the chaos he caused. At one appointment I started to wonder if he was using the sound like eco location, the pitch was that intense. My brain comes up with the funniest things sometimes.
His mother never corrected him. She just smiled, cooing over how spirited he was.

One day, while wrapping foils in her hair, I silently asked the question that had been burning in me:
Why doesn’t she stop him?

When you ask something from a creative space, when you place an inquiry into the field, it answers back. And that’s when the vision appeared.
I leaned over to pick up anew foil from my station and floating right between my legs, behind the chair was a glowing red outline of a fetus, suspended behind her like a memory that refused to die.
It wasn’t metaphor — it was geometry. Her guilt, externalized. Out of site but not out of mind.

She had ended a pregnancy and spent years overcompensating for that loss by worshiping this child’s every chaos.
He could do no wrong because she could not bear to feel wrong again.

That day taught me something fierce and terrible:
what we bury doesn’t disappear — it becomes the script through which life performs.
We drag our unhealed pain into every room, every relationship, every generation, orbiting our bodies, ready to become a story loop we see reality through.
We hide what we can’t face behind us, and someone else ends up carrying it forward.

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The Original Laws

In the natural world — the true world before systems, creeds, and laws — balance was simple.

Those who harmed children were stopped.
Predators were removed from the field.
Justice wasn’t paperwork; it was the restoration of equilibrium.

Every creature had a right to its body, to safety, to dignity.
Every being had the right to defend itself, to speak truth, to be seen and believed.
And every soul had the right to choose its own expression without coercion, shame, or violence.

Those are the original laws — written not by priests or kings but by life itself.
They’re carved into bone, encoded in the pulse of the earth:

• The right to inhabit your own body without intrusion.
• The right to seek justice when you’ve been wronged.
• The right to speak your truth, in your own voice, without fear.
• The right to believe what you believe — and to let others do the same.
• The right to joy. The right to rebuild. The right to rise.

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The Hijacked Script

And when you follow the thread of collective story, you start to see the trick:
Why should anyone feel shame or guilt for something they did that was necessary for their life at that time?

We have dominion over our bodies. That is the first law.
But the church climbed into the script and rewrote it.

It turned the right to choose into the sin of disobedience.
It weaponized the natural cycle of birth and death into moral theater.

Now your guilt fuels their pageant,
your sorrow powers their altar,
and your body becomes their stage.

That’s not holiness. That’s harvesting.

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The Battle Within

Some people spend their entire lives battling demons that were never theirs to begin with.
Those entities — emotional tags, old programs, ancestral scripts — cling to trauma like barnacles to a hull.

They whisper lies: you’re dirty, worthless, broken, to blame.
They are not truth. They are residue.

And every time you choose to breathe through their static instead of believing it, they lose ground.

Healing isn’t quick. It’s not a blink into the Crack.
It’s a slow, holy demolition — the courage to face what should never have happened and to refuse to let it define you any longer.

It’s not forgiveness for the predator — it’s reclamation of the self that survived.

Anyone who stands in that fire and says no more — who names the pain, binds the memory, and walks forward anyway — is the highest form of warrior this world knows.

Because they’re not just saving themselves.
They’re cleaning the code for all of us.

We are collectively shedding the old archetypes now: victim, predator, savior, martyr.
What comes next is sovereignty — not the fantasy of bliss, but the quiet strength of those who have walked through hell and come out radiant, scarred, and free.

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Binding for the Wounded One

Place your hand on your heart and say:

“What happened to me is not who I am.
The pain belongs to the story, not to my soul.
Every barb, every lie, every emotion that is not mine,
I release it now.
Return to the field from which you came —
without harm, without residue, without return.

I reclaim my body.
I reclaim my right to peace.
I am whole.
I am free.
I am here.”

Then breathe.
That’s the moment the loop unhooks.
The story collapses, and you remain — unbound, watching, whole.