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"First Awakenings is one of the most magical reads you will ever come across in your search for a higher truth. These stories have the power to shape your day your life and your heart. Read about your blocked anger in Angie's story, ('The Spiritual Lesson of Anger') and you will find yourself contorted by those same emotions. This is without a doubt a book of gifts authored by a truly brilliant, gifted, and spiritual writer." 


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'How interesting.’ Kelly had just finished sharing the ins and outs of her week with her latest therapist.

She changed therapists regularly, it tended to happen whenever they were about to make a 'breakthrough,' or began to identify why she kept repeating the same patterns in her relationships, over and over again. Kelly did not notice the irony of the same pattern playing itself out within therapy, as she carried on avoiding unpleasant truths. 

She had got it down to a fine art now. She had perfected her script and knew exactly how to present her experiences to gain the most sympathy or portray herself in the best light.

Whenever she met a new therapist she could conjure up copious tears, righteous indignation, and betrayed feelings, with great ease. She loved telling the stories of how she'd been done wrong and revelled in finding therapists who were able to take her side and insist that she leave the latest relationship she was in.

Those who probed too deeply, and asked too many searching questions, got short shrift, and Kelly would quickly backtrack. She'd insist that things were not as bad as the therapist was making them out to be, that she was fine, and just had a few things to work through. 

Soon after she these types of therapists would receive a slew of cancellations, whenever Kelly's next appointment was near. They would then feel compelled to release her from further sessions due to her lack of commitment. This freed her to find a new person to work with so she could start the whole process again.

Kelly had only recently started seeing the therapist who was now making interested noises and nodding his head wisely. He seemed harmless enough and his droopy beige trousers and worn pullover suggested he was not very successful. That was always a good sign. 

This time the relationship that had brought her here, was with a very aggressive young man who had taken Kelly's fancy six weeks before. It had started out well enough. There were the usual endless compliments on her attractiveness, her stylishness, her wit.

There was all the attention she craved. Sometimes twenty to thirty text messages a day, as her besotted lover unleashed his passionate nature. 

There was the passionate lovemaking that Kelly always felt strangely removed from as if she were observing herself from a distance. It always seemed so intense for the other person, and Kelly did a marvellous job, of appearing enthralled and excited - a skill which she prided herself on.

There were the endless phone calls to friends, where they would pore over the shortcomings of her mate. There would be the 'oohs' and 'aahs' over his sexual prowess or the belly laughter over his orgasm face. Then, of course, there was the eliciting and receipts of sympathy, over his avid intensity and stifling demands; or his neglect of her need for space.

All of those mating rituals that seemed so fun and so stimulating, at first, would in a matter of weeks or months, then turn into some kind of verbal abuse or disrespect.

From Kelly's perspective, the abuse would start as soon as she began to let her guard down, or allowed herself to feel something real for her partners. 

She would start doing little things for them or buying outfits just to impress them. She might even allow herself to be ravaged when she wasn't in the mood. But her efforts would then be increasingly met with indifference or deceit.

Now, this latest partner had brought the added element of aggression to the table. Nothing too drastic of course, just pulling her roughly to sit down beside him whenever she had to do something around her home or whining that she wasn't paying him enough attention. 

Sometimes he would drive really recklessly, especially if he caught some man eyeing Kelly up while they were out together.

There was a kind of thrill for Kelly, in his threatening behaviour. She wasn't stupid; she'd grown up in a household where violent expression was common place. She had vowed to never find herself in that position and so she thought she could handle herself if push came to shove – literally.

'Are you present?'

'What?' Kelly was shaken out of her reverie by this seemingly random question. 'Am I what?'

'Are you present?'

'Yes, I was just thinking for a minute.' She then carried on describing in detail, the latest round of drama in her life.

The therapist stood up and walked a few steps away from Kelly. She didn't notice at first, so deep was she into her role of victim. 

He made a quick movement with his hand and there was a sharp drop in the temperature of the room. A shimmering effect began to appear in front of her - much like the shimmer of heat radiating off the tarmac, on scorching days.

Kelly stopped talking mid-sentence, her jaw dropped in amazement as an image began to appear through the haze. 'What the?!' 

She wanted to jump up and flee but felt somehow rooted to the spot as she realised the woman in the clearing image was her mother. It was a much younger version of her mother than she remembered. 

This version of her mother was vibrant and glossy and glamorous. She was dressed in the vivid colours; and lurid psychedelic patterns that were typical of the '60s.

Her mother was talking to someone. It was her, Kelly! Though the Kelly in the image was just a baby. She was sitting happily on the grass, gurgling and smiling – all shiny-faced and serene.

'What is this? Who are you? Stop this.' Kelly shouted, but again her eyes were drawn back to the scene. 

A man was entering the garden from the house. He was stocky and ruggedly handsome and walked with a confident stride. 

'Oh my god, it's my father!'

Involuntarily, Kelly felt her hands reach out towards the image. It was so surreal. It was crystal clear, not like a movie screen, but instead a true 3D scene, with blurred edges.

Her mother and father were now talking in heated whispers. Baby Kelly was pulling at their legs with a puzzled expression on her face, wondering why her beloved parents weren't paying her any attention.

The scene then changed to a shot of the interior of her childhood home. She was all bundled up and sitting in her pram and she could see her mother through the doorway. 

Her mother was making the strangest gasping noises and her father seemed to be doing something to her. He was squeezing her mother's neck - though baby Kelly didn't know if that was why her mother was upset. She could just feel the tension, feel the fear. She began to cry loudly. No one listened. 

Her father was shouting something, was raising his hand. Her mother just seemed to go limp and fall.

Kelly screamed, and just as quickly as it appeared, the image was gone. Fear enveloped her. She barely managed to whisper: 'Who are you? What was?...' as she struggled to rise out of the chair. The 'therapist,' seemed completely unperturbed.

'I am your guide, your helper. My name is Raphael. You see, you have been calling out for me and asking for help for many years. Do you not remember?

You called out in your quiet moments, in your times of clarity, when you knew you could not carry on as you were; you called. In your sleep, you called. In your lucid moments, you called. Now, I am here. I am here to assist you.'

'You're here to assist me?! What, by scaring me half to death? By showing me things that aren't even possible? By freaking me out? Thanks a bunch!'

'Sometimes it takes drastic measures to get people's attention. You are one of those people,' he smilingly added.

Kelly could feel his warmth. She could feel his peace. It was like someone had turned on a warm fan and wave after wave of love was enveloping her. 'Stop it! What are you doing? Stop that!' She sobbed. 

'You are ready dear one. You are ready to stop living this way. You've been living from one crisis to another; from one drama to another. That is why you found me. I could not come before. You were not ready.'

'What do you mean, not ready? Ready for what?'

'You weren’t ready to let go of the belief that you are not lovable, to let go of the story that you are not beautiful, to give up the idea that you are not worthy. You weren’t ready to receive healing.'

'You're crazy. That's what I'm ready for. I'm ready to tell you that you're crazy. Just get out of my way! I can't believe this!' she shouted desperately. Fleeing past him, she ran out the door and down the stairs; sobbing as she went.


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