About five months ago when I read my Tarot cards, they were all about “death”. Technically the cards were Hanging Man and Mourning, with the occasional raven-flanked Journey card (though delightful in life, to me, those birds got a dreary rep). I went to my Intuitive Reader for her take and the first card was a Black Lily, an ancient symbol of death.
Though my head had been swirling for days about what these cards meant – was someone going to die?, could I stop it?, who?, etc, etc. – in that room I suddenly felt a still knowing.
It was me.
“You have to let go of a part of yourself”, she said, “a part of you is dying, has died, and you must mourn this loss.”
She then went on to describe the coming of this gorgeous apartment I now sit in and the stability I’ve enjoyed the last few months and though I did say a little prayer for the old me, and I told the Tarot story to my knowing friends, I didn’t really sit with the thought.
I’ve been home with flu-like symptoms all week (again), and one fevered nap featured the cawing of ravens. Tarot cards followed, but this time just one ol’ raven surrounded by themes of rebirth.
(Crow. Not Raven. Ravens are said to be tricksters, not symbols of death. Both love cold french fries. Go Alaska. I still have a fever. Anyways…)
All day today I’ve been overwhelmed with sudden waves of tears, at first I laughed at myself and the woes of fevered malaise and my recent Depo shot, but then they kept coming. Then it was a whole flood of tears with no source. Over, and over, and over.
I’ve been trying to figure out what it was all day, essentially whining to myself about my various first world problems…and no. None of them break me down into tears. I pinned down the feeling during the last flood.
Then the cards came to mind, and my reader’s stern note that I must grieve this loss of self before I can move on. Loss of self. What does that even mean?
The image of a caterpillar wiggling out of its chrysalis immediately popped into my head when I asked myself that question. My proverbial caterpillar is gone, and I can never be her again.
(Cheesy, right? Tough. That’s what popped into my head, deal.)
So. Goodbye, me.
The me that tried her best to please everyone, to their faces, anyway. Who prioritized being accepted by others above all else. The me that knew she couldn’t be happy until she was a size 5. The me that knew she only deserved love that had a bit of a resentful bite to it.
The me who stifled the aching need to write things like this, because what would people think? The me who tried to drown the hurt of the stifling by boozing it up and superficially babbling. The me who believed every negative review she’d ever heard about herself, and good god there were a lot, because that’s what happens when you feel that way about you.
The me who thought the only way to learn was through struggle. That thought she wasn’t worthy of the many beautiful visions for her life she dreamed up. That was afraid of what would happen if they actually came true.
You were everything I knew, my sweet, nervous, ego-enshrouded self. Thank you for everything you taught me. It’s time to move on, and to let go.