DIVALIA’S IMAGO
Flutter to Higher Ground and Success
Carol’Ann Tappaz
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Published by:
Divalia, Inc. at Smashwords
Copyright (c) 2011 by Carol’Ann Tappaz
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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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DEDICATION
For my husband, with Love
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
PREFACE
CHAPTER 1: Rolling Stone
CHAPTER 2: Patience
CHAPTER 3: Rooted
CHAPTER 4: Naïve
CHAPTER 5: The Fifth Element
CHAPTER 6: Dream Baby
CHAPTER 7: Rainy LA Sunday
CHAPTER 8: Love is Ageless
CHAPTER 9 Grounded
CHAPTER 10: Imago
EPILOGUE
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Photo and Cover design by Pitof
Art Work by Chloe Trujillo
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PREFACE
IMAGO is the phase when a caterpillar becomes a butterfly.
It is the essence of maturity and that is what this book means to me.
The process of transformation can be painful, but it is often helpful to listen to other’s experiences with an objective outlook.
I wish that you can relate to my story to get a better understanding of your own path.
DIVALIA is my stage name.
I am a spiritual healer/ singer/songwriter/producer.
You can describe me as a free spirit and intense person who lives an exciting journey.
I travel the world, meeting people, listening, learning, experiencing. Then I share my emotions, feelings and lessons through my songs, using Music as a channel.
I call it: “Soulful, Healing Music.”
Each chapter of this book is the title of one of my songs and starts with the lyrics.
I was born in the French Alps with a natural psychic gift but something dramatic happened on the 24th of April 1992 that changed my entire life. Since that episode, I developed over the years, my own healing method.
As a singer, I had a manager who told me that I was afraid of success. Unconsciously, I sabotaged every opportunity that I had to become famous.
He was right. There were too many things that I wanted to hide about who I am.
But the idea of writing this book came from people’s comments about how lucky I am.
Some of them told me that I am the happiest person they know. Others have said that I have everything one needs to be happy, so my life must be easy.
I ask: what is “everything?” What is an “easy life”?
There are a few things missing in my life to make my happiness totally complete, but it is my choice to not focus on what I don’t have, and to feel grateful instead for everything that I do have.
I was not born and raised happy. I worked hard on it. In fact, I keep working on it every day.
Happiness is a life-long quest.
Day after day, I create the life that I enjoy living. It is a matter of choice that is directly connected to the law of cause and effect.
That is something we have in common: we all have choices.
We always have the choice to stay in bed and waste our opportunities. We can complain and choose to be a victim; we can always find excuses to not be happy.
We can also decide to stand tall and face whatever challenges come our way.
As you will read in the following pages, I have been through a lot. Those who have known me from childhood think it is incredible that I am still alive.
Those challenges made me who I am today.
Challenges help us to grow but we all have our own pace, guided by our free will.
We can embrace the trials, or try to run from, but we cannot escape them.
The only escape we have is our imagination.
We can ruin our present by getting lost in our past, with regrets and dwelling in nostalgia. We can be scared about an unknown future, but it is all an illusion. The only reality is the present.
When “living in the now” seems to be a nightmare, we can escape through our imagination; images from the past or visualize the ideal future we want to create, then take action steps to manifest it.
Illusion can be our best friend or our worst enemy; an escape or a trap.
That is what life is about: perpetual movement and relativity.
Through my story, I intend to inspire you, perhaps assist you, to move up to even higher levels in your spiritual growth.
Divalia’s Imago is an amazing true story full of emotions and loads of adventure.
Now, all I have to say is: Enjoy the ride!
CHAPTER 1
Rolling Stone
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Rolling Stone
(2008)
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My life is always moving
Everything is changing
People, places
Everything is moving
I feel like a rolling stone
I keep on rolling
Rolling
--
I feel like a rolling stone
I keep on Rolling, rolling
I keep on growing
Glowing
There is no ending
Always a beginning of something
There is no ending
Always expanding
Expanding
--
I Feel Like a Rolling Stone, I Keep on Rolling, Rolling…
I fell off a cliff with no wings, no sail, no broom and I almost died.
I walked for an hour and a half, alone to the summit of this mountain that I had been looking at from down the hill.
I was born in the French Alps and since I was a kid, I always liked to look up and imagine I could just run to the top of the mountain and touch the sky.
I also remember that my mother grabbed me many times while I was about to jump from the balcony, or the window in my bedroom. I was very much interested and seriously curious to see if I was able to fly!
I was a special child, born with psychic abilities. I had fun exploring or figuring out the limits of this incredible gift. At the age of seven, I enjoyed moving objects with my mind, like glasses or pencils. I lost that ability when I realized that it was not something normal to do. Actually, I lost it when I noticed that the other kids at school freaked out when watching me.
My mother always told me to not talk to anyone about my “gift,” otherwise they would think I was crazy but she would use my particular magical touch to release her frequent migraines.
*
That day, the day I decided to drive forty five minutes away from my parent’s house and walked up the mountain, was Friday, April 24 1992, two months from my twenty third birthday.
I was feeling so high after a good hike; in harmony with nature.
I wanted to be free. I wanted to be light. I wanted to be a butterfly.
My feet were heavy on the border of the cliff.
I was getting dizzy because of the altitude. I was looking below and felt attracted by the precipice. I heard a voice in my head: You want to see if you can fly? Now is the time.
Responding to my inner voice, I jumped!
Wow... I can’t fly. But I can roll!
And I did roll with all sorts of stones and rocks directly in my path.
I was very alive and intensely aware of each movement of my body. Everything was happening very fast. I could see my entire life, like a movie in a fast rewind mode.
I kept on rolling, rolling, and at a certain point, I stopped. I was still alive but lost consciousness at that moment which was for the best because then, I could not feel the pain any longer.
After the feeling of being trapped in a black tornado, where I could see pictures of my life, I was suddenly in a very light and bright garden.
It was so illuminated, beautiful and warm, I felt it must have been Heaven. I seemed so safe and calm after such a tumultuous fall.
But I heard a voice asking me, quite upset: What did you do with your life? It is not the right time for you, you have to go back!
Then another voice, more friendly, told me: If you don’t go back, you will kill our mother, you cannot do that to her.
I remember that I wanted to stay there. I was feeling so good in this Light; so safe and serene.
Did I have a real choice? Could I just stay there because I wanted to? It appeared clearly that NO, I couldn’t just give back my life. Life is not like a dress you buy and can return if you don’t like it. Or just give away when you are tired of wearing it.
Life is much more than that. Even when you feel you don’t fit in it, you have to adjust yourself.
Then it seemed that I had a paranormal experience because I could see my body as if I was watching it from above.
*
What am I doing here? How did I get here? Why are my pants pulled and torn off? Why am I sitting on a branch? It’s dark and I’m freezing. My white sweater is covered in red blood and I have lost the amethyst on my ring. What happened? Is this a nightmare? Why am I not waking up? Why all this blood in my mouth? Wait a minute... I’m missing some teeth!
When I did wake up, I felt so lost it took me a few minutes to realize what was happening.
I had been watching myself from afar…now suddenly, I was reconnected with my body. The pain became almost unbearable.
I was awake and this was all too real; it had been 5:00PM when I looked at my watch before I fell. Now it was very dark.
I remember hearing strange noises coming from wild animals. Scary.
I knew that nobody would find me there, it was not a popular path and by the time someone would have seen me by chance, I would likely be dead.
I was in a semi-conscious state. My whole body was on fire; sometimes the pain was so intense that I couldn’t even identify it.
All I wanted was my bed. I wanted something soft, something warm… my duvet.
All I could think of was my duvet. I wanted to be back home, resting in my bed. But I was freezing, I was dying, and I didn’t know how to stop the pain.
Why was I still alive? What was I supposed to do now?
I tried to scream but no sound came out of my mouth.
Try again!
There is no way someone will hear me with such a tiny voice.
I intended to move but realized that I was in real bad shape. I needed to go to the hospital first.
My mind and my thoughts were struggling between those two options:
Where should I go first: Home or hospital?
Eventually, I had to get out of the crevice where I was. That seemed to be a good start, but how? I couldn’t move. I had obviously broken some bones.
I tried to pull my thoughts and strength together.
Three possibilities occurred to me:
First, I could stay there, without moving and just wait until someone would come along to rescue me. But hey! Nobody, even in my family knew where I was! I didn’t tell anyone when I decided to go for a hike. So, this could take a while before someone would begin searching for me. In the meantime, I could end up dying from hypothermia.
Second was to keep falling and try to die faster; but how could I be sure to succeed if I was still alive after such a traumatic long fall?
I didn’t want to experience that again, tumbling fast over rocks was like being in a blender. No, this option was too violent.
The third one was to try to climb back, be able to go to the parking lot where I left my car, then get in and drive to the hospital.
It was totally crazy but guess what I did?
Frankly, I was totally obsessed with my duvet. I wanted to be in my bed, no matter what it would take.
I started to push on a stone but realized that I was not able to use my legs.
My arms however were miraculously still functioning—though barely.
I had an athletic body and felt that would help me a lot. So, I grabbed onto, and pulled hard… a bunch of stones came down over my head, pushing me back again.
That hurt!
One might think that at this moment, I was so discouraged that I would have turned to God and prayed, but the truth is, that didn’t occur to me.
I believed in God. I was raised as a Catholic, but praying was never part of my routine. I had been baptized because it was the standard thing to do for a newborn baby in our community.
Anyway, I believed in a Catholic version of God because I didn’t know of anything else; but I was not deeply invested in religion, in general.
At that time, I didn’t know much about Buddhism or Taoism.
All the same, a miracle happened: I saw a white light. I felt surrounded by something warm and I started to climb again, guided by that light. It was like a ray of the moon.
I have no recollection of any sensation of pain; all I know is that I, somehow climbed back about 1300 feet to the top of the precipice—the paramedics gave me this information later—I had dislocated my shoulders, tore various ligaments in the process, but I did it. I got to the top, on the path from where I fell.
I couldn’t walk. I just sat on the ground. There were patches of snow in the middle of the path, so I pushed myself using my fingernails, sliding down until I saw my car.
I remembered that I hid the car key under my left tire. I dragged myself to the car, got the key, opened the door and finally sat inside.
I felt somewhat safe but then, I saw my face in the mirror. A terrifying vision!
I believed that I had lost my right eye. It looked like a red hole. My long blond hair was glued by the dried blood. My right cheekbone was showing and my mouth was also like a red hole on fire with broken teeth. It was horrible.
I thought: If I go to the hospital like this, I will scare people.
What should I do?
At this point, the same questions kept coming up. It was the middle of the night; nobody knew where I was. I couldn’t just sit and wait.
No, I must do something, I am too young to die, there are so many things I still want to do.
My desire to live got stronger as I was scared to die like this.
It was hard to insert the key because my fingers were badly bleeding. Then, as I couldn’t turn the key using my fingers to start the engine, I used my chin, the only thing on my body that didn’t seem to be affected.
I couldn’t stand on my legs but found enough inner strength to start driving. Unbelievable!
I could barely see as I had only one good eye, but I was actually driving!
After a mile or so, I became afraid that I would not be able to make it home.
I was driving very slowly. The mountain road was dangerous, with many sharp turns. And then, I was blinded by some lights reflecting in my rear view mirror and realized that a car was driving very close behind me.
I thought: Is he crazy or what? Why is this car driving so close to me?
I stopped and the other car did the same. A man got out of his car, walked over me and opened my door.
I don’t think I will ever forget his face.
He said with a strange voice: “Miss Tappaz?”
I was surprised to see a police officer.
“How do you know my name? How do you know me?”
He turned to the second officer, a few steps behind him: “Call her parents. Tell them she is alive.”
“My parents?” I exclaimed, my head swirling. “What’s going on? What time is it?”
“3:00AM, Miss Tappaz.”
Later, my parents told me their side of the story: they went to bed, that night as usual but couldn’t find peace and sleep. At the time, I was visiting them for two days. At lunch, I had a bad argument with my father.
I had left the house very upset, but they knew that I would never leave for good without telling them; at least without saying goodbye to Mother. They also noticed that my suitcase was still in my room.
They were a little bit worried.
Around midnight, my father told my mother: “I know where she is!”
Mother didn’t really understand what was happening, but since her husband was getting dressed, she didn’t waste time questioning him.
A few minutes later, they were driving to the mountainous area where my father thought they would find me.
What is totally amazing is that he didn’t even know that I knew of this place; we’d never talked about it, never went there together. It was not a popular spot either.
But he must have gotten a strong intuition, a message; call it a psychic connection. The important point is that he was right.
After driving close to an hour, they saw my car in the parking area; it was the only car there. My mother freaked out, she looked at her watch.
It was 1:00AM, dark and freezing. She knew at that moment that something dramatic had happened to me. She would have much preferred to know that I didn’t come home because I was hanging out with friends…
Here was the proof that her “baby” was alone on this mountain, probably dead by now, or seriously injured.
With all her heart she prayed to keep me alive.
My mother firmly believed in God. Faith had helped her through many challenges. She had lost her first baby a few hours after she was born; little Christelle, fragile like crystal. She only had time to give birth and to give her a name. Christelle was born too early. My mother was also too young, at 21, to make sense of the death of her first child.
She had prayed and eventually came to accept that God had chosen Christelle to be an angel. Mother always believed she had an angel in the sky to watch after her family. So, now was the time to gather all the angels.
The time for God and his Saints to save her second “baby.”
He couldn’t take them both!
Three years after she lost Christelle, she was pregnant again. But after a month, she started bleeding and spent the rest of her pregnancy in bed; under the close surveillance and intensive care of her obstetrician—years later, he liked to call me his “masterpiece” which I found very embarrassing—.
A few times during my childhood, I was seriously sick, even close to death.
My mother used to tell me in retrospect—perhaps not the right thing to tell a child—that she should have never acted against nature.
I was born because of the medicine and her own will, not because of God’s will. She was always afraid HE would take me back.
She believed so much in God that for a time she wanted to become a nun. Until she met my father, who was the total opposite of a saint while she was very pure and completely dedicated to God, she had to make a choice.
She chose to marry my father.
When she lost Christelle, at first she believed that God was punishing her.
What kind of God was that? One who punished? Was God a jealous spirit who couldn’t stand the loss of one of his promised nuns; feeling betrayed because she chose Human Love instead of Divine Love?
I couldn’t agree with that story, it didn’t make sense to me but I respected my mother’s beliefs. If that could help her to find peace and to accept the death of her child, then why not?
At the same time, she had a strange conviction about me.
According to Mom, I was already an angel before I was incarnated as her baby; perhaps Christelle’s soul reincarnated.
My mother seemed to think that God had sent me back to Earth because of my bad behavior with the other angels.
It was as if God had gotten tired of me and kicked me out of Heaven:
Go back to where you came from and return when you are ready to behave!
Mother had a strong fear of God and his punishments. I suppose it was part of her Catholic education. Anyway, she prayed as hard as she could, begging God to not let me die and allow us to spend some more time together.
According to her, I was not ready to leave Earth. I was still too stubborn!
Personally, I was amused by the story she made up; thinking of being kicked out of Heaven by an irritated God. That could make sense and could explain why most of the time, I felt different from others; disconnected or feeling like I didn’t fit in this world.
But I never believed that I was Christelle’s soul reincarnated.
Principally because ever since my mother told me her story, I had always talked to my sister. We had lengthy conversations, and people would think I had an imaginary friend. But we were actually having a real dialogue. For me, it was just natural to talk with my sister Christelle.
Meanwhile, my father, who never believed in God—he was the little boy who used to pee in the holy water at Church—started hiking on the path toward the precipice where I fell, whistling as loud as he could, rather than shouting my name.
Later, a doctor explained to us that my subconscious probably heard the frequency of his high sound that reached my own frequency, and that is what brought me back to life. Or, maybe it was my mother’s prayers. Maybe both.
We won’t ever know…
I often wondered if at that moment, my father did believe a little bit in the theory about God and his punishments.
I have wondered if at that moment, he apologized for his bad behavior when he was a silly kid.
I wondered what he was thinking. Was he even thinking… or was he feeling guided?
We never talked about that.
Finally, my mother told him that it was ridiculous to keep walking like this.
The area was too vast. It would be smarter to go back to the house and call for help. At the time, we didn’t have cellphones.
Reluctantly, He agreed and they drove back home to call the police.
*
“I believe in Spinoza’s God who reveals himself in the orderly harmony of what exists, not in a God who concerns himself with the fates and actions of human beings.” Albert Einstein
CHAPTER 2
Patience
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Patience
(1998)
(Translated from the French)
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It is useless to lose Hope
It is useless to think dark
Life is like this
Up and down
The wheel will turn
Sometimes, you want to give up
But someone is watching over you
Life is like this
Up and down
--
Patience, whisper the angel
Patience Patience
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Look deep down of yourself
Feel the Energy God is sending to you
You will perceive it
You will be enchanted and charmed
Listen to deep down within yourself
A little voice will guide you
And you will understand
Who plants Faith
Will harvest Joy
Patience, whispers the angel
Patience, patience
An angel is there, listening to you
Let him love you and protect you
Believe in magic
Illuminate your life
Start to vibrate
Here you are, ready to believe
But a reason tells you to not to
You want to see
You are afraid of illusory
But you create illusion...
--
The two police officers realized my condition when they helped me to get in their car. They decided then to drive to the first house on sight, while they called the paramedics for medical help. I would have not been able to make a trip to the hospital in their car, it would have been too dangerous; they couldn’t take that responsibility. They agreed that it would be safer for me to wait in a more comfortable environment.
They knocked at the door and a man appeared. Obviously he was surprised to be awakened in the middle of the night by police officers and a “monster figure.” He looked at me and immediately understood how serious the situation was.
He directed me to sit on the couch, but I was worried about staining it with my blood. I could barely move but the men helped me to find a comfortable sitting position. The host offered me something to drink and I remember looking at the glass he brought and set on the table. I stared at it. Sure, I wanted some water but I couldn’t reach for the glass. Nothing in my body was able to respond to my intentions.
They all were scared and powerless. They didn’t know what had happened to me or what to do. Sadly, I couldn’t explain. I just couldn’t talk. We all waited in silence.
Finally, after thirty minutes that seemed to be hours, the paramedics arrived and everything started happening in fast forward. They were speaking loudly, with panic in their voices.
They secured me on a gurney, loaded me into the ambulance, and drove fast to the closest hospital with the siren on.
The trip seemed as if it was endless and I couldn’t endure the pain any longer.
There is a state, after such a traumatic accident, when the body gets to a point where it can almost ignore the information of pain. But once everybody around starts freaking out, the projection of their own fear and the agitation bring the awareness back to the brain. Then, no matter what the injury is, the pain becomes stronger and stronger.
My family was already there, waiting for us when we arrived, a few minutes after 4:00AM I heard my mother screaming.
All the medical personnel started to run around me (years later, when I watched an episode of ER, I had that feeling of “deja vu”). So much panic, I lost consciousness again.
I woke up later just for a few seconds, hearing the sound of the hair clippers as a nurse shaved the top of my head. They cut off my ring, my underwear, and took off all of my clothes.
I fell into a black hole again.
This felt like a safe escape; I would have much preferred to not feel or see what was happening.
A terrible pain brought me back to reality. A surgeon was sewing my eyelid without anesthetic.
I could feel everything, each movement of the needle, going back and forth. With all my strength, I begged him to stop: “Please, finish that tomorrow, now leave me alone!”
He was exasperated and I shut up, vexed. He fixed my entire face in silence. Later, he congratulated me for my courage.
My spleen was about to explode. A doctor told my parents it would be a miracle if I would make it through the night. For that reason, they didn’t want to put me under anesthetic; they were afraid my body would not handle it.
It appeared that my right eye was not lost, only hidden by the pendant eyelid. It was seriously damaged, but too early to determine how bad it was.
I remained very quiet during the whole process of the examinations.
I went through X rays: Breathe! Now stop breathing!
They manipulated me very carefully, like a precious gem or like a bomb…
At this point, I was no longer afraid of dying. I was relieved to be taken care of. I accomplished the impossible. Now it was the doctors turn to do their part.
When I woke up the next morning, my mother was there, smiling at me with guarded relief. My condition was still uncertain, I couldn’t move; my whole body was like a ball of fire.
Through people’s reactions, such as my cousin, who didn’t recognize me, I assumed it was shocking to see my face totally disfigured and covered by gauze. They would open the door and say: “Oh... I’m sorry!”
They were totally confused; leaving me powerless and sad.
I stayed in the intensive care unit for a while. It required four nurses to help me with the basic clean up; two to hold my body while two others were refreshing me up.
To not be able to move but still have the awareness of my condition was so humiliating; it just made it worse.
It was the hardest time of my life.
The doctor explained to my parents that I might not be able to walk again. He couldn’t be certain at this point, it was too soon, but it was a possibility that I could be paralyzed for life. My spine and neck were seriously damaged.
I heard my father talking about the changes he would need to make in the house for a wheelchair. It was more than I could handle. This conversation happened on the third day I was at the hospital.
I was not out of danger but I was making it through nights and days so far.
With my tiny voice, I asked the doctor to not let me live like this, without the ability to use my arms and legs but with my brain intact to be aware of it. I wasn’t interested in living the rest of my life in a wheelchair.
No, I refused that idea.
I asked him to inject some product into my body to help me to die faster. But he rejected my request, saying he couldn’t do that.
I assume that I gave up the fight then. I started urinating blood and got a high fever.
My mother was next to me, I could see her caressing my hand, in tears, but I couldn’t feel anything.
I was very peaceful. I believed that I was dying and closed my eyes after saying “goodbye” to her.
The nurses were running around to get a doctor, trying to reanimate me; I could see them, I could hear them. My mom was screaming and crying.
Why? How come? Am I not dead yet?
I made another trip to the bright Light.
In some way, my spirit asked: “Is it the right time now? Can I stay? I did my best to live but if it’s to be handicapped and disfigured, it’s not worth it. I will waste my mother’s life even worse than if I die now.”
A sweet and gentle voice replied to me: “You are right about Mom, but this is not the time for you. You have to go back, you have a lot to do, you won’t be handicapped, or disfigured… but you have to suffer to understand what suffering is.”
This probably happened in a few seconds. Even so, I wasn’t aware of time.
I came back to life, again.
Almost everything returned to normal.
I started to move my toes, then my fingers—like after Shavasana, the relaxing posture at the end of a Yoga session—and a few weeks later, I was standing up with the aid of the parallel bars, on my feet, learning how to walk again, one foot after the other.
My determination became really strong. I now felt that nothing could stop me.
As an inspiration, I thought of “The Bionic Woman”, the lady with super powers I watched and admired on the American TV show when I was a kid.
But super power or not, I had to start with the basics, all over again, like a baby. Nothing about it was easy.
After achieving movement of my fingers, I had to go to ergotherapy to relearn how to use my hands. Day after day, I trained my legs and muscles to walk.
Because of the damage to my neck and a broken jaw, we had to wait a few months to fix my teeth. From April to September, I could only eat with a straw or be fed by someone with a spoon. My mother did her best to be there at dinner time every evening to feed me. Even my younger sister, Sophie, did that as much as she was able to visit.
Indeed, I did learn what suffering is. For months and even years, I kept hearing those words, trying to figure out the meaning: “You have to suffer to understand what suffering is.”
Ok, I got it but why? What is the purpose of this?
Some days I was discouraged and all I could do was cry and wonder: Why am I not dead? Why didn’t they want to keep me up there?
I felt rejected.
I couldn’t fit into this world. I wasn’t accepted in the other world.
Where am I supposed to be? What am I supposed to do?
My father used to tell me that I was a mistake on Earth because of the messages that I kept receiving when I was a child, and the obvious irrational phenomena that happened to, or around me.
That was part of the argument we had that Friday at lunch time. I assumed that he was probably right so I should repair the mistake then and there.
But if I was a “mistake”, I shouldn’t have survived such a terrible fall. Moreover, everybody called me “the miraculous girl” after the accident. I was the human proof that some totally irrational and divine power existed. How could I be here otherwise? The fact that I was alive was the evidence that my life was worth it. My father could never say again that I was a mistake on Earth. Never ever would he have that kind of destructive power over me. He could never deny how he knew where I was. Was it irrational, or the real proof that he also had some ability to receive psychic messages?
I believe that Christelle’s spirit talked to him. Later, I told my mom that I met Christelle.
“How could I be so sure it was her?” Mom wondered. “I heard clearly when she said: ‘OUR Mother’ and called you ‘MOM.’”
It would be a lie to say I saw her with a feminine form, or anything similar to a human figure. There are no exact words to describe what I experienced.
I only know that it is true because it is too much synchronicity for being only “coincidences.”
Years later, I smiled when a photographer noticed the scars on my shoulders (two irregular long marks from surgeries on each shoulder) and said: “You look like an angel who lost her wings!”
I thought it was a nice way to look at it, and that helped me to feel more comfortable with my scars.
And it made me smile, thinking of my mother’s theory. Maybe I was a “rebel angel” in a previous life.
After all, it was not that crazy. Why not?
Einstein said: “Imagination is better than knowledge.”
When I was finally able to leave the ICU, I was taken to another part of the hospital where I stayed until I was able to go to a rehabilitation center. For a while, I was carried around, lying in bed, from one exam room to another for various controls. As my spine and neck were too fragile for a sitting position, I couldn’t use a wheelchair.
I had a mirror constantly above my head, supposedly to help me communicate with others.
As I couldn’t move, they would have to adjust the mirror’s position to make it easier for us to see each other’s faces. But nobody ever used it and I had to stand the horrible vision of my new face.
The nurses were curious to see how I looked before the accident so my mother brought some photos to show them. There was nothing left in my appearance of how I looked before. I was completely different, outside, but also inside.
I was completely broken.
I had to learn to take one day at a time and, “patience” had not been my best virtue so far.
After a month or so, I started to walk slowly. Some days, I was able to stay up for five minutes; other days a little bit more.
Most of the time, if I stayed longer than my body was able to handle, I had to go back to bed in tears from the pain.
It was hard to accept my situation.
Nature has some rules that cannot be controlled, even with the strongest will in the world; with all determination and faith. It takes time to heal, period.
But there are some tricks to accelerate the process.
I was already very concerned and alert about organic products and holistic remedies. Daily, as regularly as she could, my mother brought me fresh carrots and beet juices. They were rich in vitamins A and calcium to help to rejuvenate my skin and broken bones faster.
She also brought along some herbal teas and supplements. I had a flower remedy to put on my skin in the evening, a natural oil that smelled really good.
Every morning, I was anxious to see my face getting better and better. It was an exciting process.
I began to experience every day as a new challenge and a new victory.
I made a deal with God.
I begged Him to allow me at least fifteen minutes, just enough time every day to go to the bathroom on my own. In exchange, I promised to honor and serve Him for the rest of my life.
I said: “I’ll do anything for You but please, let me keep my dignity!”
I found it very hard to be so vulnerable.
Sometimes, I would press the alarm when I needed to pee, but it would take several minutes before someone would appear.
At this time, it required at least two people; one to lift me up and the other to put the toilet basin under me.
By the time someone would come, then get extra help and leave me with some privacy, then I had to call and wait again; eventually, they would come back to deliver me—the whole process could take an hour—. It took even longer on Sundays.
It was embarrassing, especially if I had visitors. This is such an intimate part of oneself.
One day, I commented to my mother: “I wonder if, on purpose, the nurses are making me wait longer?” It seemed that they had some sort of odd satisfaction about leaving me in an uncomfortable position.
I was both glad and grateful that my mother paid attention to what I said because she found out that I was right, not paranoid.
I don’t remember exactly how and when she found out what I was saying was true—I am not even sure she told me what really happened—but what I do remember is that she ordered my immediate transfer to a different hospital. It happened to be very complicated and she had to fight against the usual procedure.
She was really pissed off; that, I remember. She finally obtained access to my file and it was written with a red pencil that I was “a beauty queen, spoiled by her mother, who, by the way, looks like a top model, getting special treatments, cosmetics and all kinds of gifts”... blah, blah, blah…
What sort of nurses were they to judge us like this? They used their authority to humiliate me under the name of jealousy? Who could be jealous of my condition?
I had suffered so much jealousy since I was a kid. I thought I would not have to deal with that anymore. Not now, being disfigured and handicapped.
It was a nightmare to get me out of this hospital.
The surgeon who was in charge of my case wanted to insert a prosthesis for each of my kneecaps. It was going to involve a lot of money. I do believe that he assumed that the money would not be an issue for my parents, and an opportunity for him to make profit.
I didn’t want that surgery. I only wanted to get out of there and never see or hear him again. Ever.
I was transferred to a private clinic with the best surgeons. If my parents were not able to afford it, that would have affected the rest of my recovery. And for sure, the rest of my life. I must admit that even in a situation like this, having money makes a difference and I am grateful for my blessings.
But of course, I didn’t get better overnight.
My body rejected the medical screws. I went through hell, going back and forth in between surgeries, wheelchairs and rehabilitation centers. I didn’t need prostheses, but I had to have five surgeries on each knee. Then, it required another specific surgeon for a delicate operation on my shoulders.
He removed a part of a bone from each of my hips to implant in the shoulders.
That was the most painful experience. It took me exactly six years to recover, with various interventions for my shoulders and knees. But I do consider myself very lucky because all the other traumas had been resolved as well.
It did indeed give me time to learn what suffering was all about.
It gave me opportunities to meet different people that I would have probably never met otherwise. I had time to observe several reactions when people have to face a disease or a handicap.
I became wiser, more grounded, and it has been an incredible experience regarding my gift. It happened to be as interesting as studying for years in a university. I learned so much during this dramatic period of my life.
Who said that pain is our best teacher?
“It is the search for relief that brings people to the Spiritual path. Pain is our teacher.” Swami Sivananda
CHAPTER 3
Rooted
--
Rooted
(2005)
(Translated from the French “Enracinée”
--)
I have been through physical pain.
I experienced what is suffering.
As life didn’t save me from suffering
Today I am stronger than ever
Grounded
The leaves of my tree of life are the trace from the past
The flowers are promised to bloom
But now I enjoy to be grounded
Nothing happens that I cannot handle
I don’t want to be contaminated by anger or resentment
Let the tears win
Nothing can put me down
The limit is still fragile
My demon is taunting me
Sometimes I hear the other part of me
This other voice
The male side of me
Who wants to prove he is real
Enraged, I want to explode
Tired of meditating and being wise
Tired to forgive so many jerks
Or listening to the reason
When my heart beats rage
I am tired of being an image
I smile to distract the enemy
I smile to be friendly
My mouth can pretend better than my eyes
In this world where everything needs to be perfect
Everyone judges my act and attitude
I can feel it in their eyes
When they stare at me
Full of envy
Full of jealousy
Stay out of my life!
--
I smile to distract the enemy
I smile to be friendly
My mouth can pretend better than my eyes
--
I wanted to be a man
But I am a woman
I will balance my duality
Me and Me in the same voice
to LOVE you
--
When I was in my bed, or in the wheelchair at the hospital, the only escape I had was my imagination.
But I never ever tried to imagine what my life could be if I had to stay handicapped for good. I never accepted this possibility. On the contrary, I spent hours visualizing myself dancing, singing, climbing mountains again, and traveling.
There were so many places I wanted to explore, things I wanted to do.
Since I was a kid, I had wanted to be an artist. I always loved to sing, to dance, to perform.
I started to play music when I was eight. My grandmother found the very first song that I wrote; a Christmas chant.
I signed it and added my age. I was six and a half! As far back as I could remember I was convinced that one day I would be famous.
I was born different and I will be a Star.
I didn’t care about having psychic skills; it was more annoying than anything else. I couldn’t understand why these weird things were happening to me. It was hard to pretend that I was normal.
Just because I didn’t want to scare people, didn’t want to be rejected by them, or be pointed out.
My family was not open to talk about it, and the more I was becoming conscious of it, the more scared I became.
*
When I was a teenager, I was more aware of my differences. It wasn’t a happy period of my life.
It is a difficult time for any teenager but I was over sensitive. All my senses were more open and receptive than other average teenagers.
I had problems with electricity and electrical items. I had too much energy and couldn’t control it. I would create interferences in the room where I was. For example, the lights would suddenly switch off if they were on.
My father had forbidden me to touch any remote controls.
My family used to joke about it but it was very annoying. I couldn’t use the stereo!
I also needed to always be in action. I was hyperactive. Not in an illness way, but I needed more activities than other kids at my age.
I needed to be stimulated intellectually, physically and creatively.
Fortunately, my parents were able to support me in my various activities.
My mother suffered a lot from migraines and she noticed that when I would touch her forehead, she would feel better. I would intuitively apply my hands on the painful point and she would describe a warm calming energy coming through.
She used to call it my magical touch.
I always had an amazing connection with my mother. Sometimes, I would feel more like her mother. I had felt as if I had to take care of her.
But for many years, I was mad at her because of my name.
Why and where did she get this idea to name me Carol’Ann? Even when she had to register it after I was born, the officer told her to change the spelling to make it sound more “French.”
It became Carole-Anne but in my family, everybody called me Carole. Up to now.
I didn’t like my name until I was seventeen, but I always wrote it the way she told me she wanted it: Carol’Ann.
At school, others would make fun of me because my name was different and it sounded “snobbish.”
Later, I heard it in a movie. It was Poltergeist, a fantastic movie by Steven Spielberg. The main character was a little girl, with long blonde hair, very similar to me. Her name was Carolann. She talked with spirits and at one point was absorbed by some of them through her television.
When my parents got their first color television, they put their old one, a black and white set, in my room.
After I watched this movie, I could not sleep. I stayed up for hours looking at the TV in my room; curious and scared, almost waiting to see if some poltergeists would come to take me.
Even though I had some serious sleeping problems since I was little, I didn’t need many hours of rest.
My mother believed I was an insomniac and somnambulant. Many times, she found me in the living room in the middle of the night, with my eyes wide open. But the truth is that every night, I heard weird sounds coming from their bedroom; that made me nervous. I was convinced that my father was hurting my mom and I couldn’t understand why she let him do it.
I was afraid that my father would kill her one of these nights.
During the day, they were always very demonstrative about their love for each other. My father always made sexual comments in front of us, touching my mother’s butt every time she was close to his hands, as if she were doing it on purpose. It seemed that she was always in his way; especially around the table for our meals. I was disgusted.
Some of my friends were torn between their parents fighting and hating each other. I was suffering from too much love and demonstrative behavior from mine. My younger sister, Sophie, and I were traumatized. We had seen or heard too much, more than we were able to understand and handle.
One night, I couldn’t stand the noises anymore. My mother was screaming and I was certain she was in danger.
I got up and ran to their room. I wanted to save her from the “monster,” like a little heroine. I opened their door and my father was on top of her, both were naked. She didn’t look happy to see me. Neither did he!
I screamed at my father: “Stop!”
They stopped moving and just stared at me. So, I closed the door and went back to my room, satisfied.
I was barely in my bed when they started up again. At that precise moment, I felt very disappointed. Seriously!
I thought about my mom: Don’t come to complain, you are stupid to let him do that to you.
After this episode, I felt detached from them. All I wanted was to protect Sophie. She was only two years old when that happened.
From that time, until I was mature enough to understand that they were intensively making love, I considered my father to be a horrible monster and my mother a weak woman.
I didn’t fit in this family. I was different from those people. I couldn’t understand them and they couldn’t understand me either.
My father would make teasing comments about my difference; that didn’t help to make me feel secure.
But I did my best to pretend to be the perfect daughter.
* * *
Now that I was convinced that I was meant to be in this world, I decided that I had better enjoy it as much as possible. I was tired of pretending… pretending that it was an accident.
I had to explain and justify my fall to my family, friends, doctors, even psychologists, without telling the truth.
I was good at it though and had some experience at acting.
When I was seventeen, I entered the Dramatic Art Conservatory. Improvisation was where I was at my best.
But I never liked to lie, which is different.
I couldn’t just say I wanted to kill myself. I knew that my parents would never forgive me for doing such a thing. My unsuccessful attempt to die would have appeared as a projection of their own failure of being good parents. They would not forgive me. They were too preoccupied with pretending to be the perfect family.
For years, I was anxious to make my parents proud of me. It was almost like I had to prove to my mother that I was worth all the sacrifices she had made during her pregnancy.
But everything I did never seemed to be good enough for them.
I did well at school; never got into trouble; was the nice girl who won a beauty contest at nineteen; dated only one guy and stayed with him for years; didn’t drink; didn’t smoke; didn’t do any drugs.
I was the healthy kind of girl that people looked at, thinking: “She has everything to be happy about.”
All of that was part of pretending. To start with: pretending to be normal. But here I was, lying and fighting just to get back to some sort of a normal life.
A few years after the fall, I was so tired of this dangerous game that I was craving for Truth, the ultimate truth. I just couldn’t pretend anymore. I was different from before and I didn’t want to go back to the same pattern.
I was a deeper person. I wanted to be loved and accepted for who I was.
The day I finally told my parents what happened, I had to face one of the biggest shocks of my life. They told me they had always known.
Since the moment my father got the psychic vision about where I was, they knew. Until they saw my car, they didn’t talk to each other while they were driving.
They were embarrassed that their daughter had tried to commit suicide. The word my mother chose to express how they felt was ashamed. She looked at me with her dark blue eyes, so cold, and said: “If you want to kill yourself, at least do it properly.”
I was shocked and lost.
What were they more ashamed of? That their daughter wanted to kill herself? Or that she failed?
I didn’t get answers. I didn’t even ask the questions.
After that discussion, I decided that it was better for me to cut off all communication with my parents. It didn’t last for too long.
I was living in Paris and they were still in the French Alps. My mother kept calling and leaving messages on my answering machine, crying, begging.
I couldn’t stand to be cruel to her. But what kind of parents could treat their child like this? At the same time, I needed them as much as they needed me; maybe even more.
It took me years to forgive them.
Many times I have thought of killing myself. I have spent hours trying to figure a way out; something not painful, but 100% sure to succeed, to stop the pain, the physical and the mental pain.
If I was not so afraid of failing again; if I was not so afraid of being rejected by a higher power again and being punished with more suffering, I would have done it, with no hesitation.
But there is nothing worse than a failed suicide.
If you want to die, you need to organize how and when to do it. It takes time to prepare everything; it takes courage to really do it. It is not easy to really do it!
And then someone finds you, saves you and you have to explain, to justify why you did what you did. Then you need to face and accept your failure. And find out why you are still alive. That is a heavy process. I have done it once, but didn’t have the nerves to attempt it twice.
I met a few people that were in my situation at the clinic. I remember a guy; he was around my age, in his early twenties. He had also attempted a suicide and failed. His case was worse than mine. He pressed a gun to his head, killing some of his neurons but was still alive; paralyzed in a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t move, but was fully aware of his condition.
What is worse than that?
I started to really believe my mother’s biggest fear about God and his punishments.
I was terrified by this guy. We had lunch in the same room at the rehabilitation center and I couldn’t help but observe him. He looked so miserable. I prayed for him to be delivered; I wished he could be accepted in a peaceful world.
One day, I was watching him while he was trying to eat a piece of meat. He, obviously had trouble with it. He became blue, and then purple. People were agitated around him. The nurses were trying to help but he couldn’t swallow. The meat was stuck in his throat and all of a sudden, he died.
Just like that!
I was relieved for him and thought there was no risk that it would happen to me because I was vegetarian.
It was not the first time I saw someone die before my eyes, so it wasn’t such a big shock.
I sincerely believe that death is a relief.
For a while, I kept thinking of this guy and the way he died. I wondered if somehow, I provoked it. I was watching him when it happened, and I made a wish for him to be released from his suffering.
In my early years, I almost had the same situation with one of my neighbors. He was younger, not someone I could call a close friend. One day, I received a psychic message telling me he would die in a car accident. I don’t remember exactly if it happened a few hours or days later, but he was the victim of a hit and run.
*
At this time, I was really confused. I didn’t know the difference between psychic messages and my own thoughts. It was very disturbing because I wasn’t sure if I’d somehow created the accident and his death. Was it my fault or his Destiny?
Later, through experience, I have learned how to tell the difference. I’ve become aware that my thoughts come from one side of my brain, and the messages come from the other side. Sometimes, it is still confusing; especially if someone is talking to me at the same time. Some of my friends can tell when I am in channeling mode.