Atlantis Online
March 28, 2024, 09:04:18 am
Welcome, Guest. Please login or register.

Login with username, password and session length
News: 'Europe's oldest city' found in Cadiz
http://mathaba.net/rss/?x=566660
 
  Home Help Arcade Gallery Links Staff List Calendar Login Register  

personal experience with reincarnation...............bizarre? Yes!!!!

Pages: [1]   Go Down
  Print  
Author Topic: personal experience with reincarnation...............bizarre? Yes!!!!  (Read 242 times)
0 Members and 37 Guests are viewing this topic.
TWGilbert
Full Member
***
Posts: 47


« on: March 23, 2014, 03:44:51 pm »

Introduction to: "But You’ve Been told It’s Not Really Raining": (A book of poetry that I will share, if you really want to read it. Just contact me through email and I'll forward it to you)

(This is all autobiographical, and true as far as my memory is still good)


My name is Thomas Wistar Gilbert. I was born on June 19th, 1950, 5:31 and a half PM in Northampton, Massachusetts. I was the third of 5 biological children born to John Ellis Gilbert and Barbara Brooks Gilbert. We lived in the small town of Easthampton, Massachusetts, just west of Holyoke, which is north of Springfield.

When I was almost exactly one year old, in June of 1951, my older brother, Gordon Brooks Gilbert, aged 6, drowned in a pond, less than a quarter mile from our home in Easthampton.

Events like this seem either to bring a family closer together, through a growing, healing process, or to destroy it. It destroyed mine. My parents, both MDs, did not seek help in their desolation, because MDs help other people with their problems. They are, as MDs, basically, unprepared and ill-equipped to seek out help from anyone. This was also the early 1950s. There were no agencies, or programs, or self-help counselors who dealt in the grief process, for healing or recovery.

I spent my early years, in dreams at night, searching for my older brother. I never found him.

If you ever happen to get a chance to see the movie, “Ordinary People”, starring Mary Tyler Moore, Donald Sutherland, and Timothy Hutton, and directed by Robert Redford (and if you are interested), it is an almost exact replica of the family dynamic in which I grew up.

My older sister Meredith and I were, essentially, emotionally abandoned after Gordon’s death, as our parents remained in an exasperatedly lost and eventfully unforgiving state of incapacity due to the loss of Gordon.

Our parents became severe alcoholics. The family, due to its economic status, appeared on the outside to acquaintances and strangers as being a terrific family, with abundant resources, position, prestige, affluence, and magnanimous congeniality. My mother, especially, became a “rescuer” of lost souls, trying to undo the event of Gordon’s death, by saving anyone and everyone needing rescuing from any-and-all disastrous fates, perhaps to make up for her not being able to save Gordon. Her rescuing became a permanent state of incentive, like a broken record, because each attempt, although successful in its own right, never “un-did” the event of Gordon’s death.

Gordon, regardless of how he actually was as a child, became viewed as a more-and-more perfect child, over the years, and a standard for all perfect children in the eyes of my mother. As a result of his status of perfection, Meredith and I became less and less perfect daily.

Although our parents also had two more children, Jeffrey and Harriet, after the drowning event, they were not able to appreciate their new children as individuals needing love, attention, and nurturing, and the two new children flowed into the current of the dysfunctional family dynamic without knowing how or why they fit into this unnatural state of confusion.

Causes of rescue became incredibly important to our mother. My father went along with the events, but became very emotionally withdrawn and distant, while remaining somewhat affable, humorous, and congenial.

But Meredith and I became lost children within our own family. We technically disappeared right underneath our parents’ noses. Any ailments, problems, diseases, and/or difficulties we ever experienced were summarily dismissed as non-problematic, non-existent, “the result, surely, of our imagination”, or vain attempts on our parts at getting unnecessary attention. Meredith was labeled as a hypochondriac, and I was labeled as a lazy, klutzy, absentminded, reckless child who would never amount to anything (such a pity, really).

I was started in nursery school at the age of three, as I was so impossible to deal with at home.

I was also sent to summer camps every summer starting at the age of seven, because I was so difficult to deal with.

My behaviors at home were so difficult that I was “timed out” in my bedroom a great deal (the statement, “Go to your room,” was an inevitable daily occurrence and a natural consequence of my simply “being”). I actually do remember standing at the single window in my bedroom staring out of the window on many occasions wishing I were outside, rather than being “timed out” in my bedroom; and while staring out of the window, I actually remember eating all of the white paint off of the windowsill of my bedroom window (I don’t know why). The house, by the way, was an old New England house, built in 1840 (You do the math.).

My behaviors became subsequently more and more difficult and impossible to explain (remember that my parents were both MDs, my father being a pathologist, which means diagnostician, and my mother, being a pediatrician, working with children: how ironic).

Lead poisoning often produces pica behavior (which I developed), ADHD, severe lack of short-term memory development, and cognitive processing problems, as well as uncontrolled aggression, hyperactivity, and anti-social behavior.

In the fourth grade, I took my first IQ test on which, it was reported, that I scored an 80, putting me in the developmentally delayed region of mental aptitude and academic skills. I was given special tutoring at school to try to deal with my deficits.

I remember my mother coming home one evening after a parent teacher conference in the sixth grade and severely berating me (it went on for hours); she had been unmercifully humiliated by my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Kenny. Mrs. Kenny had told her that, because I was so slow, deficient, and incapable academically, I would never be admitted to the private school my parents wished me to attend, and that I would never amount to anything in life that was worthwhile.

In the lecture that my mother gave me at home, following my mother’s humiliation, I was told that my lazy behavior would have to end, and that I would be expected to come home directly from school every day and study every night until I had changed my ways. This house-arrest was enforced strictly, for at least a year and a half.

During some time in the seventh grade, I was taken to Deerfield Academy on a Saturday, all day, to take the regional prep school entrance examinations to see whether or not I qualified for entrance into prep school. I did so horribly on those exams that I was directed to attend summer school before I could even be considered for entrance into prep school, and only if I passed all of the summer school courses in English and Mathematics.

By the way, my parents were very close friends with the headmaster of the prep school I was being “prepared for”, so that my entrance into the school was a “given”, as long as I could do well enough on the necessary entrance exams, and/or do well enough in summer school before hand.

Oddly enough, I stayed home with my dad that summer (1963), who had to work, and the rest of my family went off to live at our summer cottage in New Hampshire. On the first day of summer school, I made the mistake of going to my first math class 2 hours earlier than I should have, and ended up in the 8th grade remedial class rather than the 7th grade remedial class. The teacher, John Cody (the same teacher for both sections), for some reason, asked me if I wanted to also take that class, just for the heck of it, to see how I could do. I said, “Sure, I didn’t care.” I had nothing better to do.

For some reason, I passed both math classes, which put me into advanced placement math at the prep school when I entered it in the fall of my eighth grade year, 1963.

After five years of prep school life, I graduated in the bottom 12th of my class (a grade of sixty was passing at the school. My final accumulative grade was about a sixty-one or two.)

(It was during this time at prep school that my parents, with the help of my older sister Meredith, adopted a sixteen-year-old friend of Meredith’s, Patricia. She was at the same prep school for girls that Meredith attended, and she then became a permanent member of our family [another person to be rescued, thus fulfilling the family dynamic my mother was following].)

However, due to my attending advanced placement math classes for all five years, I scored over 700 on my math college-board exams (I don’t know why).

In my junior year at prep school, I was asked by my parents to submit applications for admission to various New England and East Coast colleges – Haverford, Amherst, Williams, Dartmouth, etc. (I would never have gotten into any of them, with my grades being so poor, and I knew it.)

I was so completely fed up with school life at this point (the constant humiliation of being publicly dubbed stupid, due to my grades) that I never wanted to go to school again. It didn’t matter how hard I tried, or what efforts I put into school work, I never did well on papers, studying, home work, exams, etc. Also, all of the grades and the academic standings were publicly displayed at each term’s end, so that all and sundry could see competitively how one did and how everyone else did.

I never sent in my college applications in my junior year, and lied about doing so.

When everyone else in senior year had gotten into college, and I had not received anything in the mail (it was also after any deadlines for being able to submit applications), I admitted to my parents that I had not sent in any applications and that I had decided I wasn’t going to college. I had decided on my own to do 2 years of alternative service for the draft as an orderly in a local hospital. This took place during the Vietnam War. I had been raised as a Quaker, and this was my pacifist response to the current war situation; and I did not want to go to 4 more years of college when I had been such a failure at school in 5 years of prep school and hadn’t gotten it right, yet.

My parents did not want this for me, and, instead of allowing me to follow my dreams, or plans, determined that I should go to Europe instead and attend a post-graduate year at a Quaker prep school in England. In the meantime, I was forced to apply to colleges while away at the English school. My parents hurriedly had me look at schools far away from New England (I demanded this), and so we looked quickly at schools in Ohio, one of them being the College of Wooster, where the headmaster of the prep school I had attended was good friends with the then president of the College of Wooster.

I probably was accepted into the College of Wooster only because of the friendship my prep school headmaster had with that current College President, and perhaps due to my high scores on the math college boards, perhaps indicating that I was an underachiever.

In my brief summer vacation (August 1969) after returning from England, just prior-to my entrance into the College of Wooster, I attended and volunteered at a summer camp in upper state New York where my older sister Meredith was a counselor. It was a camp for mentally retarded, developmentally disabled children. I instantly gravitated towards working with these individuals and spontaneously discovered my future field of work. It seemed very natural for me to be involved in working with individuals who clearly had many, many more difficulties with coping with life than I had.

I dropped out of the College of Wooster after a year (actually flunked out), as I had not discovered the true nature of my own disabilities, and was unable to accomplish studying seriously in order to accomplish my school work.

I began the next fall to work at Wooster Community Hospital as an orderly doing my alternative service for the draft, and while working at the hospital, got slowly back into the College of Wooster, provisionally.

I got married at the college of Wooster in 1972: began work as an aide at a group home for mentally retarded individuals; and then got divorced in 1974. I also failed, in1974, to finish the last requirement for graduation at the College of Wooster, and so dropped out of the college a second time.

I then got remarried, proceeded to have 3 children, Jason, John, and Melissa, with my second wife, and got full time into the field of working with handicapped individuals, as an aide, by getting a job as a direct care worker and part time supervisor at Apple Creek State Institute. After ten years of marriage, moving over ten times in ten years, changing jobs, and living paycheck to paycheck, I ended up getting a second divorce and moving to a basement single room boarding house in Wooster.

I then met my 3rd wife, who was guest lecturing at the College of Wooster on March 28th, 1984, and, then set about, with her help, to get my life in order (for the first time). I got back into the College of Wooster, and finished my Bachelor’s degree in Sociology/Social Welfare.

I moved to Cleveland in June of 1986, directly after graduation, and started working again in the field of MR/DD. I entered the Master’s program in Special Education Multi-handicapped at CSU in the fall of 1987.

During my getting together with my third wife Deborah, she asked me about my entire life history, fascinated at how I had done the things I’d done, the good things and the stupid things, the successes (rare) and the failures (plentiful).

In looking at all the details of my life, we uncovered the dynamics of my biological dysfunctional family. In discovering the dynamics, I began to change: emotionally, mentally, physically, and spiritually.

(When I was in Graduate school at CSU, I analyzed my own disabilities, comparing my own symptoms with individuals I had known, worked with, and studied [in the field of special Education]. I then proceeded to diagnose myself with ADHD, this being a result of lead poisoning. I subsequently worked on how to achieve better academic standards by adapting my study skills to my disabilities. I now have 2 Masters degrees in Education, both with perfect 4 point accumulative records.)

My wife Deborah, when we first met, was a published and award winning poet, and I gravitated to writing poetry, as I accompanied her to all the poetry groups with which she was involved. I began writing simple things, but slowly evolved into writing about my own emotional circumstances, my biological family, and my history, all of which took on a “Plathean”, male-rage, confessional style that became a necessary and extremely powerful personal therapy for me, though the written material was decidedly extremely negative, hostile, vituperative, and calculatingly spiteful and degenerative.

When I began these growth processes for change (these sessions of self analysis and self discovery), I was met with intense resistance from parents and siblings, as I was shedding a role I had had in the family dynamic for my whole life, and it appeared that the role I was shedding “broke the rules of the family dynamic game”. My decision to change was therefore “not allowed”, and the huge resistance from all the rest of the members of the family was a natural consequence of my desire to change and grow.

The resulting conflicts precipitated a huge and nasty split (apparently, at the time, permanent) with the entire family; the split lasted for the better part of 16 years.

After failed school opportunities, failed marriages, failed careers, and failed reconciliations, I had ceased speaking to my parents and siblings by June 1986. No obvious need and or reason for re-establishment of contact arose (though, at the time of the split, I did retain some contact with my one younger brother Jeff, who also was experiencing a split in his contact with siblings and parents, and some rare contact with Meredith, to discuss our similar pasts).

All of the poetry, you are about to read, But You’ve Been told It’s Not Really Raining, was written between 1987 and 1996.

(poetry omitted)

Postscript to:
 But You’ve Been told It’s Not Really Raining



In 1998, when I was 48 years old, an unexpected twist to this whole story began:

On September 21st, 1998, I was working at Alpha 2, Northeast Care Center, late in the evening, and received a call from my wife Deborah. She began with, “Are you sitting down?” I said, “yes.” She then said, “Then sit down.” Apparently, she had started speaking with our youngest, Gwydion Gilbert (age 3), about his up-coming birthday in October, when he was going to be 4, and she wanted to know what he wanted for his birthday. His nickname is ‘Boo”.

The following are quotes from my wife who took notes:

“At about 5:20 PM, on 9/21/98, Gwydion, aged 3, told me, Deb, not to call him ‘Boo’, that his name was Gordon, and he’s not a baby; he is 6.” Deb then told Gwydion that he would be four in 3 weeks time. Later at 7:10 PM, Gwydion said that he was so six, when he was Gordon and Grandma killed him [I’ll get back to this puzzler later]. At 7:14 PM he said, “I know a pond, but I don’t remember where it is. It was the last place I went when I was six.” Later he also stated he was Dylan’s uncle. Dylan is his current older brother.

When I got home, I asked Gwydion if he wanted to look at my early biological family’s pictures, which I’d never shown to anyone in the family, nor talked about ever. He said yes. When I got out the family album picture book, and he saw the book, he yelled and ran screaming from the room. It took over a month of gentle coaxing, but he eventually agreed to look at the pictures. When I opened the book to a page showing my biological family (my father, mother, sister Meredith, me, and my older brother Gordon), he pointed to my mom and dad and sister and brother and me, and said, “There’s my dad, and mom, and you, and me, and my sister”, in front of Deb, Hester, and Dylan (Deb’s two other children), without hesitation.

For quite a while, I was in and out of disbelief, shock, and perplexity.

However the clincher happened at Christmas time that year, when Gwydion was 4. Gwydion, one Sunday morning, asked for some orange juice. It was early. No-one else was up. I went to the refrigerator, and he yelled, “Make me some orange juice,” pointing to a newly purchased bag of oranges. I then searched through the pantry for a manual squeezer, and found an old one, cleaned it up, and started the process of squeezing 10 halved oranges to make a glass of orange juice. When I got it done, and handed him the glass, I demanded much thanks for the aggravation. He took the glass, stopped, and said, “Put in the red stuff.”

“What?” I stated.  He said, emphatically, “Put in the red stuff.”

“What are you talking about? I asked.

Again, he demanded, “Put in the red stuff.”

Then I remembered. My parents had used a Hamilton-Beech Electric orange squeezer to process orange juice all the time for us as kids, growing up, 40 plus years ago. When everyone had gotten their glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice in the mornings, my dad would go to the refrigerator and pull out a jar of Maraschino Cherries, and then add some of the red juice to each glass, turning the orange juice from an orange color to a bright red.

We had never had Maraschino Cherries in this, our current house, ever, and a simple inquiry, directed at all baby sitters Gwydion had had with us, produced no similar experiences with Maraschino Cherries in any environment that Gwydion had been in, this time around.

After Christmas that year, during the week between Christmas and New Years, I was sitting with Gwydion in our living room early Sunday morning staring at all the Christmas decorations we had put up and asked Gwydion what he thought about all the decorations. He said he didn’t like the tree. He told me that what we should have done was go out and get a real tree, a live one, and get one that goes all the way up to the ceiling. Then cut it down and bring it back to the house, and then you take a screw driver (much animation in his description of the process. What I later realized was that he had no knowledge of how to describe a drill bit, except by calling it a screw driver) and put holes in the bottom of the tree and then stick it in a thing and put water in it and then decorate it.

Gwydion had never been to a house with a real tree, as all his baby-sitters had had artificial ones, and we had never had a real tree in our house.

When I grew up in Massachusetts, my parents had always had a real tree and our living room ceiling was ten feet tall. Also, when my dad got the tree each year, he would take one of the kids to help him out on the back porch with the real tree. He would take a drill bit and drill holes in the base of the tree so that it could absorb water from the stand. The drilling would also allow the tree to be stood upright in the stand without falling over, because the old stand hooks could fit into the drilled-out base of the tree.

Gwydion was clearly remembering these former events with real trees that he had helped my dad with as Gordon. No other explanation, of his describing to me what we should have done correctly with our tree in Lakewood, Ohio, works.

One thing that I haven’t mentioned is what Gwydion had said on the night of September 21, 1998 when he had first announced his identity: he had stated to Deb, my wife, “I’ve loved Daddy, since Daddy was a baby.”

This is really the oddest thing mentioned by him on that first revealing session.

One possible explanation is this: for 43 years, Gwydion/Gordon had perhaps been my, and my family’s, “guardian angel”, watching over all of us from the other side, before returning. No other explanation seems to fit.

Some of the consequences of this revelation are that I have re-established contact with all my siblings and my parents. I have given my parents and my brother Jeff the notes that my wife took on Gwydion’s/Gordon’s revelations as to his identity, and the subsequent stories regarding his memories. Oddly enough, my parents don’t really believe my wife and me. I don’t think my parents shared the stories with Meredith, Harriet, and Patricia. I have yet to do so, as the opportunities for doing so have not arisen. I have also re-established contact with my children from my second marriage, and although there are still difficulties with relationships, things are slowly resolving.

What also has happened, over the years since the revelations from Gwydion, is that my anger, my uncomfortable feelings about and with life, my confusion with my placement in the world, the ranting and spitefulness, and my desire to play the revenge card for my upbringing and pain in my youth (all of it) has dissipated and vanished. I’m not sure why, really. I have no metaphysical explanations as to how my son Gwydion’s revelations (his being also my older brother Gordon) fit in with the “whys or “hows” or “whats” of my life (in terms of giving me answers to all the cosmic metaphysical questions I have regarding our connections), but none of that seems to matter at this point, really.

It is quite clear that a cosmic plan is here and everywhere, and is working, regardless of how much I understand, or don’t understand. I can speculate all I want, and whatever is revealed to me in the process of further self discovery will most likely make sense somehow.

This rare and bizarre glimpse into a reality beyond reality has been mind-boggling. But as Dennis Miller so aptly states when he finishes his monologues, “This is just my opinion, I could be wrong.”

By the way, when Gordon drowned, back in 1951, my mother, on that fateful morning, actually went out looking for him. When she crossed over a wooden bridge in the center of the pond, where he’d drowned, she stated (as upon numerous occasions) that she was met by her deceased mother, who had told her what had happened, and where they would find the body. This encounter with my mother’s mother on the bridge could be Gwydion’s reference in his statement on 9/21/98 that his grandmother had killed him, perhaps quite a mistaken remembrance. Gordon’ s deceased grandmother apparently was there at the time of his death to simply help him pass over, which, oddly enough, along with everything else he related, he’d actually remembered.

The facts of Gordon’s entire life history (along with everything else from my past) had, previously to his revelations, never been told to any of Deb’s and my children (Hester, Dylan, and Gwydion), as a result of the familial split in 1986. Only Deb knew, and she’d been really quiet about it, so that Gwydion’s revelations were definitely from his own memory, or from somewhere other than this earth plane. 

Although I have had, since early childhood, what I would consider an unusual quantity of bizarre metaphysical, mystical experiences that have been for me unrelated and unexplainable, I am very comfortable with all of them upon reflection at this point in my life. They do make sense now.

Although I now have little use for all of the poetry in But You’ve Been told It’s Not Really Raining, at this point in my life, I thought the collection of poems might somehow be a useful or perhaps beneficial  “been there, done that” guide for any and all people who have had difficult lives as survivors in dysfunctional families. This collection is also for those who are adult children of alcoholics, for children who have experienced abuse of any kind in early childhood, for those who have experienced repetition compulsions in relationships, and for those who have seen themselves as survivors in an unpredictably hostile world. The twists of fate, of life, and of fortune and misfortune, are somewhat (who’s kidding whom?) unpredictable when the turmoil of life is at its most prolonged worst.

Regardless of the circumstances of one’s life, there seem to be opportunities for discovery, resolution, forgiveness, understanding, and peace, amidst the chaos of life.

I hope that this book is able to convey a picture of that process of transformation such that others might find solace in their own lives and a connection to their own internal process of discovery for understanding the mysteries in which we find ourselves here on this earth plane.

The sequel (companion) to this book is Metaphysical Rhyme, which was written over the years 1979 to 2003, in response to an internal need to make optimistic sense out of the complete mess of my life.

For those who may have problems with the ideas behind reincarnation: Here are some verses which the political hacks under Constantine neglected to redact from the New Testament which they were creating for the state religion of the Roman Empire as an entirely political move at the Council of Nicea in 324-325 AD (Authorized King James Version):

Matthew, Chapter11, verses 13 & 14: “For all the prophets and the law prophesized until John. And if ye will receive it, this is E-li’-as, which was for to come.”

Matthew, Chapter 17, verses 12 & 13: “But I say unto you, That E-li’-as is come already, and they knew him not, but have done unto him whatsoever they listed. Likewise shall also the Son of man suffer of them. Then the disciples understood that he spake unto them of John the Baptist.”

As Jesus clearly states here that John the Baptist was E-li’-as, why would we question His authority on the subject?






Report Spam   Logged

Share on Facebook Share on Twitter

Dawn Moline
Administrator
Superhero Member
*****
Posts: 1943



« Reply #1 on: March 24, 2014, 12:52:03 am »

Fascinating read, TWGilbert, I am still in the middle of it but thanks for sharing this with us. Very courageous and insightful.
Report Spam   Logged

"The unexamined life is one not worth leading."
-Plato
TWGilbert
Full Member
***
Posts: 47


« Reply #2 on: March 25, 2014, 03:14:57 pm »

Dawn-- Thank you. It is still a very unusual experience that I am still trying to fully understand. There are way too many unanswered questions that have arisen due to the (what I believe to be) incontrovertible data and information, but the fabric of personalities, all concerned, who were devastated by the drowning and the loss and the pains, and then all of the infinite resulting pieces/parts, that evolved from it, produce a picture than provides a world view that is way too big to interpret. Any comments or further observations would be appreciated.
Report Spam   Logged
Dawn Moline
Administrator
Superhero Member
*****
Posts: 1943



« Reply #3 on: March 27, 2014, 11:54:27 pm »

You know, what I found most moving about you account was the distance with which your parents treated you after your brother's death. It goes to show that, even though your parents were well off, money does not buy happiness. Personally, I think that there is something about the human condition that won't allow us to be content.

Getting to the more metaphysical parts,w ell, my own mother died recently. Prior to her death, throughout the years of her life, she was able to see spirits, even saw the ghosts of my father, my brother and her own father, all of whom preceded her into death. Some people seem to be able to be a conveyor for those types of things, and that lets me know that death need not be the end, as many think.

Cheers,

Dawn
Report Spam   Logged

"The unexamined life is one not worth leading."
-Plato
TWGilbert
Full Member
***
Posts: 47


« Reply #4 on: March 28, 2014, 08:28:47 am »

Dawn-- After years of relentless study, I have come to the conclusion that this realm of materialization is more than likely a complete "state of illusion" and that "real life" is when we leave this temporary existence (playpen, playground, amusement park)and become free in our true spiritual forms. All of the mystical and metaphysical and scriptural books seem to indicate this as the truth, so rather than death of the body being an end, it is actually an unveiling and a beginning or a resumption of who we really are. Blessings and Namaste, TG

Oh....... my spirit guides (yes, they sometimes rarely talk to me; they don't listen to me; but, I better listen to them) just told me to send you this: http://cosmicharmony.com/Av/Milarepa/Milarepa.htm You may find it interesting. There is a picture way down on this web site of a river and some rock cliffs (Approaching Mt. Kailas). I have been there in my dreams and walked that pathway. I've never been there physically in this lifetime. Oh well. Thanks for the observations and comments and understandings.........

The distancing from my parents directed to both Meredith and me seems to be a direct result of the trauma and devastation related to the irreparable loss. It may be that there is an internal feeling afterwards that maybe if they loved their first born too much that is why he was taken away from them, so maybe they have to do something different and love the next ones less and that type of misfortune will then not happen again, like maybe the lack of love directed to Meredith and me would somehow be a natural protection for us and then similar disasters would not befall us if we were not loved or loved less...............like that fateful scene in the movie Sophie's Choice where the despicable guard tortured her with choosing which child would be saved and which one not, and then doing the opposite of what was pleaded for...................
Report Spam   Logged
Pages: [1]   Go Up
  Print  
 
Jump to:  

Powered by EzPortal
Bookmark this site! | Upgrade This Forum
SMF For Free - Create your own Forum
Powered by SMF | SMF © 2016, Simple Machines
Privacy Policy