It had been building up.
I just wanted to go on my treadmill, sweat, pound, and get the creative juices swirling. But humidity was at an all time high, and humidity is one of my epilepsy triggers.
I only made it a couple of minutes before I had to get off and sit down.
Hubby came out to see what was up.
“Leave me alone,” I snapped, gathering myself off the floor and heading for the bedroom. “And, yes, I’II do everything you say.” I shouted at him over my shoulder. He was already barking orders at me.
“I’II make sure my phone is next to the bed. I’II have you on speed dial. I’II take my meds. I’II keep still. I’II make sure I cool down. And yes, I know you think I’m pre-seizuring because I’m being so crabby. Stop talking to me!”
As I passed him, I gave him the stink eye, and went about turning on the fan, propping up my pillows, getting my medication, putting my phone next to me, then plonking myself down dramatically on the bed.
“Happy?” I said, being a total bitch.
“No, but you’ve done everything I’ve asked. Thank you.”
He turned to leave, then stopped and said, “By the way, that’s the first time I’ve actually spoken aloud to you in the past 15 minutes.”
I realised I’d been reading his mind.
Years ago, in a feedback form, people wrote that the main criticism they had about my workshop—I was teaching a group of medical professionals about intuition—was that I didn’t let people finish their sentences. I’d cut them off mid-sentence, or try to hurry them along to get to the point.
Both is true about me: I’m telepathic, and straight-forward.
(There are other parts to me, too. I’m psychic, an intuitive, empathetic, a medium, a ghost whisperer, and a truth-teller.)
But being telepathic and straight-forward can get me into loads of trouble.
Although I play the oh-really-I-didn’t-know-that-game, or I try my darndest to let people finish their sentences, or not tell them what they’re really trying to say (people’s energy fields always tell it straight), if I don’t comply with human etiquette, I often freak people out, offend them, or worse, I become the “psychic in the room,” who people want readings from.
That’s why I always try to mind my own bees wax. Try not to let my psychic side spill out.
But this can be really exhausting. And sometimes, truthfully, it’s also alienating, and can make me sad. Like I can never let my guard down and just be myself.
I don’t feel this way with my friends and family. Hubby isn’t much of a talker, so he loves it that he doesn’t need to open his mouth and use his vocal cords. (Couples therapy is his least favourite thing in the world.)
But in my perfect world, we’d all be communicating telepathically and looking to each other’s energy fields for communion, answers, and direction.
Wouldn’t it all be so much easier? Simpler, clearer, less convoluted and complicated?
Maybe this is where the world is headed?
Maybe this is the new world that’s being created?
with love,
Belinda
P.S. Don’t get me wrong—being extra extrasensory doesn’t mean I know everything about everyone all the time. I work very hard at not knowing so much!
