The Trauma Victim Hamster Wheel

The so called Freedom Community or Truthers seem to alway lay victim to something. Which is why GNM is so popular. You will aways have a trauma to heal.

If you have spent any time at a freedom festival, like Music and Sky, Red Pill Expo, Truth Rallies or any other such event, you may have noticed some rather similar traits to those in attendance. I went to a couple until I realized what they were actually accomplishing-a time suck and a sea of endless rabbit holes, each with their own new and improved hamster wheel. The general air of the events is arrogant enlightened superiority over the sheep that took the vaccine or aren’t privy to the no virus terrain theory. Meanwhile they have no problem gulping down the “good” pharmaceuticals such as Ivermectin, Hydroxychloroquine, Vitamin D3, Vitamin C, Vitamin B, NAC, MMS, Turpentine, and so on.

In between launching insults at the unawakened masses, they cry of their childhood wounds, unresolved ancestral trauma, estranged family members who cut contact, the shocks they endured, the pain and suffering from being discriminated against and the list goes on and on. They speak with authority, they know what you need to do with your body. Either their brand of beloved pharma drugs, Ketamine, MDMA (aka hippy methamphetamine), psychedelics, German New Medicine, Akashic Records, tuning fork therapy, you get the picture. But the underlying theme is of a victim mentality that needs an external remedy. From this standpoint, if you suffered a shock you will manifest disease and illness inside your body until you have resolved it. The problem with this way of thinking is that you always have an unresolved trauma that needs an external remedy, another distraction creating abstract busyness that keeps you from actually doing anything of real value. We literally have millions of incidents we have been witness to that cause stress and strain. This is a healthy part of life that builds strength and resilience. Instead of a broken child always in need of help, you are the medicine, you have the power and the wisdom to ignite your own inner healer.

It is not the trauma, but the meaning you assigned to it that creates the problem. I know from experience. I am including a piece I wrote called “The Rifle” in which I had been living comfortably under the victim cloud for years, leading with my wounded healer archetype, never expecting much from myself because of what I had endured. Poor me. What I see now is I was using the excuse to stay in mediocrity. I was afraid to rise up and step into my true power, that actually takes effort and responsibility for every aspect of your life. I didn’t need the next magical remedy to heal my long list of traumas. I can do it right now. I simply change the meaning I gave to the event. And that is what I call Freedom.

The Rifle

Robin Stebbins

The sound of the rifle echoed metallically through the beautiful high desert sunrise. My dog Schweppse lay on the ground, blood pouring from his lifeless body, his muscles twitching as I held a beggars hope he may at some point get up and run to me. My father stood there, motionless at first, then turned toward me with fire and savage hate shining in his black eyes. Nothing and everything was said in those silent moments. Finally he spoke, my beloved dad, the man who I would have sold my soul just watch him wash his hands or be his constant shadow doing ranch work. He said four words that stole the air from my lungs and sunk my heart like a lead balloon into my stomach, “this is your fault”. I already knew it before he said a single word and agreed silently, feeling intense shame, knowing I didn’t deserve to live either.

I should have known better, to train my dog not to kill. Now, the smell of gun powder lingered as he stood in front of me, my eyes cleared and I looked at him with unconditional love. He noticed. He saw me, he saw what he had done, the reflection in my eyes was pure. Here I am, standing next to him, his adopted 6 year old girl, unflinching, no longer afraid, the power behind my eyes must have been unnerving. His black eyes now blank, anger dissolving away to absolute indifference. This was the point of no return. We were done. The moment he took his love and never returned it. 

This changed the fabric of my life. From that moment on and until his final breath, my father withdrew his love. At first I desperately tried to get him to love me again, or at least to see me. As the years wore on and I understood this would never happen, I made absolutely certain I would make him hate me with every cell in his body. This, at least, I accomplished.

Less than an hour earlier life was as it should be, my dad adored me, we were thick as thieves. I was his right hand ranch hand, always waking before 4:30 am to make certain I was up and outside doing chores before him, seeing the pride and love in his eyes was my greatest joy. I had begged him to get the dog someone had dumped on a road notorious for ranchers leaving cats and dogs they no longer had a use for. It was so well used the county finally put up a “No Dumping” sign with a cartoon image of a cat and dog. My dad finally agreed, no longer able to withstand my constant pleading. I could keep him, unlike the rest that were tied in a burlap sack and thrown into the ditch to drown. His one condition, which I agreed to without hesitation, was to train him. My version of training went a little something like this: naming him Schepsche, playing with him, running through the alfalfa fields and trying to get him to chase the dead sagebrush branches I would find on our 160 ranch. I loved my dog, the responsibility, the limitless future I saw we had together. 

When I woke that morning I already knew something was wrong. I felt ice running through my veins, something like terror. I ran outside to to see our entire flock of maybe 8 or 10 sheep laying dismembered in their bared wire pen, blood everywhere, hides torn off in disregard from their lifeless bodies. My beloved dog lay by the side of my favorite lamb licking blood and grizzle from her carcass. One sheep lay there, still barely breathing, blood bubbling from her nose. Without thought I put my hand over her muzzle and stopped the suffering. Somehow, in my 6 year old brain, I thought I could fix this.

I took the shame of what I had done and the mistake I had made and turned it into a fine tuned expression of self hatred. As a child it manifested simply enough. If I made a mistake and was yelled at or given a “this is for your own good” beating, I would break my favorite treasure, making sure I punished myself more. Every year for my birthday, my dad would give me a small porcelain doll with a January sash on it. I adored these, the dolls represented luxury, a finery from far away land, with perhaps mystical powers. The girls characterized in porcelain, were to my country girl eyes, beyond beautiful. Their hair coiffed elegantly, earrings!!, and delicate hands. Nothing that resembled my rough calloused ranch hands, full of scars and cuts from bucking alfalfa bales, repairing bared wire fences, rough housing with my wild brothers, or roaming the wilds of the Nevada desert. I have no idea what horrible mistakes caused such anger in my father and shame in me, but whatever it was was enough to take my favorite of the porcelain dolls and throw it against my wood paneled wall, smashing into a million pieces. In that moment the punishment fit the crime and I felt a brief reprieve from my atrocities. By this time, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that God had made mistake, that I wasn’t supposed to be here. A few years later at the age of 11, my mom told me I was adopted, it made immediate sense. Of course someone didn’t want me, who would? I spent the next 20 years trying to justify my existence. That went really well. 

With every traumatic event we experience in childhood we can’t reconcile or comprehend, we push it somewhere deep in our psyche until as adults we are safe enough to revisit and make some kind of sense of it. For me it wasn’t because I wanted to find forgiveness or be a better person. It was because the side effects of the event were taking a toll on my life and I couldn’t continue living the same way. I didn’t have a choice. 

It took a long time to realized the impact of that moment on my life. Without going through a laundry list of they ways I expressed my self hatred, the one that caused the most pain was in my relationships. I unconsciously expected love to be taken from me and would always take a preemptive strike and flee before they would leave. I had a long list of men I called future ex boyfriends by the time I was 26. The only relationships that would last longer than a few weeks were the ones with men that hated me. The indifference I would observe in their eyes was the crack for my pipe. I found them irresistible. Looking back, I see I was desperately trying to get them to see me, to love me. I couldn’t love myself so I became a hungry ghost, trying to heal my heart with external sources. The only medicine was self love, and that took another 30 years to at least acknowledge. I couldn’t help who I was attracted to, but I can see now they were all a higher version of myself trying to get me to look at what needed to be healed. Fast forward to the age of 46 and I the volcano, finally met my hurricane. That story is for another time. This story however ends with my dad’s final breath, and the words he spoke. 

He had been in the throws of dying for a long time. Months. He had battled Parkinson’s disease for over 15 years and the last few he became a shadow. His body continued to deteriorate and his speech became inaudible, until finally my mom could no longer care for him. He went to a nursing home to live his final days. In the last weeks, his body began to shut down and he started what we nurses and doctors sometimes call the death rattle. A rhythmic breathing that is an unmistakable sound of the impending end, usually 1 or 2 days at the most. My dad lasted almost 7 days, no water or nutrition during that time as not to impede his bodies natural closing. His last words were loud and clear. He hadn’t spoken a clear sentence in years, but despite this he sat up and said these words crystal clear “Why do the kid’s hate me? Is it because I shot their dog?” Moments later he took his final breath.

This is it, the lesson. Forgive yourself. Forgive others. Don’t hold onto your shame. You can let it go now, or wait 40 years like my dad, the moment he had to in order to cross over into the spirit world. And for me, allow the story to release me so I can become the storyteller, no longer the story. I changed the meaning I assigned to it, empowered and whole. Love yourself deeply and take responsibility for everything. There is no other way around but through.