Yesterday brought a feeling that I was moving into something gnarly, a feeling in my bones, blood glands, and internal organs, and cerebrospinal fluid. Then, there they were, hovering off to the ocean side of US 1: two man o’ war birds, my dear friends whose appearance since around 2002 has heralded my being spiritually attacked and spiritual warfare.
For several years it would be a nasty attack in waking life by some person or persons, but starting about three years ago, it could be that or an attack in dream time. This one came in dream time, but it represents something in waking time. It represents my father’s widow, the most evil woman I have ever known. As evil as my father’s father, and like him, cloaked in Christianity.
This is as far as I have gotten with this at this point, 1:28 a.m., Tuesday, November 10, 2009. Perhaps, though, I should say that I have know only a handful of people who understood this kind of discussion. Really understood it. People I could just tell about something I was experiencing, and no explanation or persuasion would be necessary. People who knew that Evil actually exists and is at work behind the scenes in everything human beings experience.
This terrain is dangerous beyond ordinary human comprehension. Dangerous because of its insipidness for the unaware and untrained. Dangerous for the trained because they are the true target of Evil. If they don’t go about it under the shielding that is provided and necessary to not become possessed themselves, their peril is the loss of their very souls absent a divine intervention that is provided despite their mistake. This is something I live with day and night, week after week, month after month, year after year.
When my father decided to marry his second wife, my brother was so upset that he moved to California. He thought, correctly it later proved out, that our father had been seeing this woman during our mother’s last illness. All of the subtext I would learn from my brother about twenty-five years later. Meanwhile, when my father asked if I would be his best man?, I said “Sure.” I carried the ring and stood beside him in the church wedding, attended by him, his new wife and the Baptist minister. Just the four of us. Unbeknownst to me, thus was I “awarded” spiritual standing to become the “messenger” for any and all things that had to do with my new stepmother and my father, of which there would be many incidents, each of which I embraced and undertook, to the point that she came to wish that I was dead and my father came to view my brother as his favorite son, and me as insane.
My father and I became estranged in the fall of 1995, thanks in large measure to the workings of his second wife, who persuaded him to behave very badly toward me over what had occurred at the end of my third marriage, about which I wrote some yesterday. Thereafter, he started coming to me in dreams, behaving like the father he should have been to me all along. He continued to do that and still does it. However, after he passed over in the late summer of 2006, he came in dreams asking me to help him fix the mess he had left of his estate plan, which meant my going head-to-head against his widow and the people responsible for running his business and his legal affairs. All of which I did despite the horrible attacks that came at me from the spirit, which presented in some really gross physical symptoms. I was totally unsuccessful, but at least I tried.
I became personally convinced that the best outcome for my father’s widow was for her to die before she did any further damage, secular and spiritual, to anyone else, and any further spiritual damage to herself. She had a very high opinion of her relationship with God, yet I had never heard anyone who actually knew her say anything good about her, who was not being given or paid money by her, or who, like the minister who had married her and my father and gave my father’s eulogy, hoped to be given money by her.
That minister preached up to the widow so strongly at my father’s memorial service, and made up so much that wasn’t true, and left out so much that was true, that I wanted to get up our of the pew and tell him to sit down and shut up so I could deliver a proper eulogy. My fourth wife, who had lived through hell with me, a hell that had caused many people, including my father, to forever believe I was terminally psychotic, sat with me during that service and hissed to the minister, not quite loud enough for him to hear it but loud enough for people around us, if they were paying attention, “You cannot worship God and mammon!” We walked out arm-in-arm at the conclusion of the service, disgusted. She had loved my father and he had loved her, but he had stopped her from coming by to see him after his wife had gotten onto him about it. I had told my wife this would happen, but she didn’t believe me. When it did happen, she was devastated. She had thought I was making it all up about my father’s wife, but no longer.
The most troubling thing, though, was that my daughters and their mother came to the service, where was clear that they were in bed with my father’s widow. I supposed they were expecting to get an inheritance from him, which they didn’t. After the service, they went to a gathering at his home, hosted by his widow. I went to a gathering hosted by my brother and his wife at the country club. Our sister and her children, and our cousins and their mother joined us. The only blood relations of my father at his home were my daughters. If you don’t think I was distressed for the safety of their very souls, you are a gravely mistaken.
Not long afterward, my father came in dreams, asking me to try to get his wife to give up the $14,000,000 he had let her manipulate him into to giving her under a recent codicil to his will, on top of the huge marital trust she got also, to his grandchildren — all of them, in equal shares. For he had not left his grandchildren anything — none of them. His widow did not take kindly to my suggestion that she give up the $14,000,000 to his grandchildren, including the child of her daughter whom my father had adopted and had treated as if she were his own daughter.
I jumped his lawyer, with whom I had gone to law school and tax law school, about preparing that codicil and helping my father execute it. I, his only child who actually wanted and behaved as if I wanted what was best for him, despite the torture it put me through. The son who had been his best man. The son he had chosen to be his conscience, because he didn’t have the backbone to be his own conscience.
Well, he did stand up to his second wife when she tried to get him to disinherit me. He did stand up to her about that. Frankly, I didn’t want to accept an inheritance from a man who would not receive me, but I was told in dreams to take it, so I did. Even so, I’d have given it all just gladly, just for him and me to have worked things out between us while we both were still alive.
I was sure it would work out, sure God would prevail, but it didn’t work out. After that, I quit banking on anything working out and just started kicking ass. Why hold anything back, hoping it will open a door to a happy ending? I leave for others to bring about happy endings. If one to two or three come my way, great. But I’m not holding my breath. My father taught me not to do that, his legacy for how I should live on this world.
It’s now 3:45 a.m. I’ll try to get some sleep, see what sort of flack or approval I get from the angels my father never believed when he was alive were yanking my strings. I can’t imagine what it was like for him after he crossed over and all the blinds were raised. I can’t imagine. I can’t imagine what it will be like after I cross over and all the blinds are raised. I can only hope that most of them were already raised before I got there. Otherwise, what would have been the point in having had this kind of life? What would have been the point of even being awake at all?
8:10 a.m. I feel I am to add this: although my father was a womanizer and a drunkard and a liar and a coward, spiritually, for most of his life, I loved him despite it all, and I still love him. The good, the bad, the beautiful and the ugly, they are all part of God. Otherwise, God would not be called The One, The All. Maybe this is what is meant by unconditional love. Maybe that is my father’s legacy to me.
Sloan Bashinsky
Hmmm. Probably not entirely coincidentally, $14,000,000 is pivotal in the development of my last novel, HEAVY WAIT: A Strange Tale, PubishAmerica.com, copies of which are available in our local library system. The novel fell out of me in May and June 2001, several years before my father even dreamed about giving that same sum to his second wife.