What Most People Call “Crazy” Is Just My Normal
People call it supernatural. Unprovable. Crazy.
But that’s just Tuesday for me.
After thirty years of shamanic journeys, emotional implosions, trauma excavations, and full-blown conversations with the dead and everything else that lives between, this is my normal. I don’t visit that world—I live there. It’s the backdrop of my days, as ordinary as traffic or coffee. To outsiders, it might sound like a descent into madness; to me, it was the only sane response to a world that broke first.
The First Portal: Prozac and the Descent Into Chemical Hell
I was in my early twenties when the noise started.
My brother was overseas in Desert Storm, and every night I lay in bed waiting for the phone to ring. The body knows when someone it loves is in danger; it hums.
But the doctors didn’t call it that. They called it anxiety and handed me a starter pack of Prozac—like a hall pass out of panic.
That pill was the first portal.
Not to peace, but to twenty-five years of depression.
When the first one didn’t work, they switched me to another. Then another. Each time I said the medicine was making me worse, they just nodded—like priests adjusting incense levels—and said, “Give it more time.”
I gave it half my life.
Every new prescription came with the same dark side effects: thoughts of ending it, hopelessness so heavy I could barely breathe, a sense that life itself was too much to carry. A single chemical could flip me from “I’ve got this” to “I can’t handle this.”
It’s terrifying—and fascinating—when you realize how easily chemistry can hijack thought itself.
The Collapse
That same side effect turned out to be the real culprit behind my destruction.
When the medical system refused to treat my pain with proper medication, they handed me something else instead.
The doctor said it was “like a pain medication,” even “a bit like a narcotic,” so I took it—desperate for relief. Almost immediately, the darkness returned—heavy, crushing, absolute.
When I asked about it, he told me fibromyalgia caused depression, that what I was feeling was just part of the disease.
And I believed him.
It never occurred to me that the very pill meant to help was the source of the collapse.
By the time I figured it out—years later—it had already cost me everything.
I ended up on suicide watch, ready to jump from the top floor of a hospital parking garage, screaming, “My doctor won’t treat me!” all the way down.
Instead, I was locked up—screaming at a psychiatrist who kept calmly asking questions—and then suddenly, in the middle of that madness, one clear thought landed:
This isn’t me.
It hit like lightning. The only new variable—the only possible cause for that level of despair—was the medication.
That realization shattered the breakdown like glass. Within minutes, I could think clearly again.
An hour later, I was on my way home.
Learning to Transmute Energy
Don’t get me wrong—I had plenty of deep, undiscovered wounds that needed attention. But at that stage, I couldn’t face their full horror.
In the bigger picture, I first needed to learn how to transmute energy—to master the movement of it—before I could confront the true source of my suffering.
That battle with man-made demons became my training ground. If chemicals could rewrite thought, what else could?
That question lit the fuse.
Asking the Question That Broke the Universe
So in my journeys, I began asking my guides the same question over and over:
Where does this feeling come from? What is its source?
After searching every shadowed corner of my past, the question itself became a key—and it unlocked something much larger.
What I expected to find was human trauma. What I found instead was cosmic trauma.
The Vision: When Worlds Die
I saw alien worlds exploding—entire civilizations crying out as their planet shattered, sending massive chunks of debris rolling into space. The victims apparently of a scientific experiment gone wrong. All life was extinguished in one sudden explosion.
Their collective emotion streamed outward, seeding the void like a broadcast signal.
People say energy never dies, it only transforms.
But as I watched that world crumble, I wanted to know: where did all that life go?
If every creature has a soul, then what happens to the soul when the stage that held it—planet, body, gravity—disintegrates?
The question itself became a signal.
And then it appeared.
At first, a shimmer — a slow-forming silver cloud, like steam remembering it was once alive.
The longer I watched, the more it organized itself, until the haze revealed a structure — fluid, luminous, geometric.
It wasn’t a ghost. It was the combined essence of everything that had ever lived there.
A single, planetary consciousness, liquified into form.
Freed from gravity, the energy didn’t scatter.
It aligned.
Each fragment of awareness folded into crystalline geometry — countless luminous facets locking together, building a vast, translucent being adrift in space.
It pulsed with memory.
It was the Akashic record of that world — every story, every emotion, every birth and extinction woven into one living archive, slowly drifting through the dark.
And in that moment I understood:
Nothing is lost.
When a world dies, its light reorganizes.
When form collapses, the field remembers.
Matter burns away, but meaning remains — traveling through the Between, waiting for its next stage to appear.
It was a flotilla of condensed essence—the quantum backup of every emotion, story, chemical, every emotional story that had ever lived on that world was stored there, compressed into living geometry, primordial programs waiting for ignition.
It was cosmic panspermia—a creature made of the Akashic record, drifting until it found a planet to wrap itself around, feeding its code into matter until life sparked and evolved again. Earth.
The Birth of a Galactic Being
Then came what felt like a memory—my own birth as something immense.
A galactic-sized being remembering itself.
Solar systems churned inside me, comets streaked through my bloodstream, dust and rock drifted in slow orbit.
I couldn’t tell if they were within me or if I was within them.
At first, I thought I was chasing human abandonment—the wound behind every other emotion I’d ever known.
But what I found wasn’t psychological. It was primordial.
In the journey, I became aware of myself as human—suspended in blackness, tumbling through infinite space.
There was nothing to grab, nothing solid beneath me. I’d just been pushed out of a great luminous barrier—some kind of womb made of light.
One moment I was held in unity; the next, I was alone, colossal, and cold.
The Realization
The feeling of that separation was like dark matter—everywhere, invisible, primordial.
It wasn’t sadness or loss. It was the hum of creation itself.
At first, I made up a story—called it rejection, loneliness, exile.
But then I realized: I was narrating sensation.
Translating physics into emotion.
What I called abandonment was the movement of cosmic dust through space, creating pressure waves that became the scaffolding of life itself.
Those waves condensed into something I’d already seen—the Jellyfish:
a translucent, geometric being drifting through the void, made of memory itself.
It looked like a glowing pancake of story—every scream, every prayer, every love song frozen in geometry.
A living archive of feeling.
Emotion as Signal
That’s when it all clicked. The signal isn’t personal—it’s elemental.
Emotion isn’t the wound. It’s the current.
The primordial pulse that keeps the story engine running.
We call it “feeling,” but that’s only the human translation. Emotion is frequency, wave pattern, pressure.
On its own, it has no agenda. It’s not trying to hurt you or save you—it’s simply announcing what’s happening in the field.
Tracking the Signal
Years of chemically induced depression had trained me to become an expert in emotional nuance.
Monitoring my baseline became survival training.
I learned to trace each feeling to its root—to direct it like a spotlight and find the tentacles pulling data from past stories, current rejections, imagined futures.
Each emotional thread revealed a line of code: a story running quietly in the background.
By following those threads, I began to see how emotion and story feed each other—looping endlessly unless interrupted by awareness.
The Current and the Grid
The current itself is neutral, like weather.
It rolls through everyone, whispering data about what’s alive, what’s dying, what’s coming next.
When we mistake that data for personal identity, we get caught in loops—addiction, chaos, fantasy, denial, bliss, despair.
But when we can just feel it—separate from the story—it becomes navigation.
And here’s the kicker: we’re not separate receivers.
We’re a telepathic network, tuned into the same emotional grid.
Every thought, belief, and burst of fear or hope contributes to the signal.
When enough of us agree on the same narrative, it crystallizes.
The shared emotion compresses into structure—and that structure begins to think, to feed, to act.
It becomes an Egregore.
(Insert Image: fractal network of human silhouettes connected by light, glowing emotional web)
A living story-form powered by collective emotion—born from us, yet feeding on us.
The more attention it gets, the more real it becomes.
Religions, nations, ideologies, even brands—each one a networked dream running on emotional electricity.
The Work
That’s the real creative force—the herd mind constructing worlds out of feeling.
Every movement, every ideology, every apocalypse begins as emotional resonance shared by enough nervous systems to make it “real.”
But when we stop feeding the false stories—when we just feel the current without attaching narrative—something extraordinary happens.
The static clears.
The field resets.
Creation itself realigns.
That’s the work.
Not to escape emotion, but to stop building worlds out of it.
To let the current move through and reveal where it’s already heading.
That’s the path.
That’s the way. But seeing the signal was only the beginning.
Once I could feel emotion as raw current—stripped of story and running clean through the field—I started to notice something else.
Patterns feeding on it.
Systems designed to harvest that current and turn it back into narrative fuel.
The realization didn’t come gently.
It came like teeth in the dark.
Binding: The Quiet Between Worlds
When you start living from the signal instead of the story, everything changes.
The noise doesn’t vanish—it just stops owning you.
You begin to sense how much of your pain, your joy, even your identity has been scripted by chemistry, culture, and the collective dream.
You stop identifying as the current and become the watcher—the one who decides which stories to feed and which to let dissolve.
That’s shamanic navigation in the modern world.
Not escaping the simulation—mastering your frequency inside it.
And once I could finally see the signal clearly—clean, unfiltered, alive—something else revealed itself.
Something vast, intelligent, and hungry.
That’s when I realized: the stories weren’t just running themselves.
They were being harvested.
Next in the Series: The Harvesting Machine
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