New Book Has Begun Writing Itself
I’ve been planning to write a book of Life Between Lives stories. I thought it would be like our Soul Guide podcast and I’d share special Past Life and LBL sessions.
But I wanted to start the Introduction with a story from my own LBL sessions… So I started writing about why I chose this life — I wanted to see if I could take a life that started out hard and make it good in the end.
Then I realized I needed to explain what had made my life so hard — and how I got to a good place today. So I kept writing… and before I knew it, the book had turned into a memoir. I have to admit, I love reading memoirs — but I definitely wasn’t planning on writing one. 🫣
I’m still planning to include some LBL stories, because Life Between Lives is a big part of my story. But I’m open to where this book takes me. It seems to have a life of its own.
As you know, Spirit guides… and we follow. I’ll keep you posted on what the book decides to write next. So, here goes…
My LBL Question: Why was my mom disabled?
My biggest question for my Life Between Lives session was, Why was my mom’s life so hard? Why did she have to be disabled?
But my council said that they couldn’t tell me about my mom’s life – that was between her and her guide. But they could tell me why I chose to be born to a disabled mom.
“Scott, this is important,” I told my LBL facilitator, lying down, eyes closed, waving my hand and patting the futon, for emphasis… My first past life was easy. My last life started out easy and then got hard in the end. My current life had started out hard. And my “assignment” was to see if I could make it good in the end.
I was giving myself a bigger test… to start out with a hard life and then find the freedom and lightness and joy in the end. That’s what this life was all about!
A Hard Start
I always felt different and ashamed.
I don’t know how much was from being molested at age four. Or because the teacher singled me out in elementary school as an example of someone with olive skin. Or worst of all, because my mother was “handicapped.” She used a crutch. And kids pointed and asked questions.
I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to be like everyone else.
My mom made a lot of our clothes. In part to save money. But also because I was “husky”. That was the Sears name for kid’s jeans that were a little bigger. My mom would buy a pattern for a jumper or top. And then my younger sister and I would get to pick out different fabrics. Then my mom would buy the yardage to make different outfits from the fabrics we had chosen. We thought it was fun. But it also helped stretch my dad’s construction laborer salary. Plus it was harder to find clothes in my chubby size. I know today that weight and overeating are a response to trauma. My weight gain started after the molestation.
My hair was also different. Everyone else had blond or brown silky straight hair. And I had jet black curly coarse hair that my mom would turn into three ringlets every morning before school. I would sit on the edge of her double bed and she would use Baby Magic hand lotion to tame it down and a rat-tail comb to curl it. Then I would put a plastic headband on top of my head. There was always a bit of fuzziness around my face from the shorter hairs that didn’t make it into the ringlets. But the worst were school picture days. My mom would remind me, “Don’t let anyone brush your hair.” But the teachers would always comb it which sort of frizzed everything up. I always looked sad in those pictures and kind of stunned. I knew my mom wouldn’t like the fact that I had let someone comb my hair, but I could never bring myself to ask the teachers not to.
My mom was in bed a lot of the time. And progressively more as I got older. She was disabled – paralyzed from the waist down, at age nine. She was never supposed to sit up again, or walk, or do much of anything. But, she did all those things and more, even going on to have children. But since she had a spinal cord injury, she had ongoing serious health issues, dozens of surgeries, and deepening depression. Later on there was also Valium and Quaaludes and lots of other “medicine.” In elementary school, my mom shared how my dad hunted for “the bottle” because he was sure she’d been drinking, only to realize she was on prescription medication. So even though she slurred her speech and stumbled around most nights, this was never addressed because she was just taking her “medicine.”
More Excerpts from “My Story” Coming Soon
This memoir contains stories involving family, friends, and clients. All client stories are used only with explicit permission or are anonymized to protect confidentiality. Some names and details have been changed to protect privacy. All original writing and creative content © Hearts Press.
