I arrived at a large estate of perfectly groomed gardens, pools, houses and tennis courts where a perfect outer masked a troubled inner. A blond-hair, blue-eye, muscle-packed guy in extremely tight jeans and an orange tank-top and black-painted fingernails. If the jeans were any tighter is protruding genitals may have exploded.
In 2012 I was invited to upstate New York for a three-day seminar based on my book “Levels of Energy”, for a family, they said. I’d done this kind of thing many times and it always gone well.
He showed me a room where he had kindly prepared flip chart and markers and a sound-system for me. For the students there were purple lounge chairs, sofas and bean bags. He’d given my book to all family members but they were just starting with my work. As he gestured, I wondered about the black fingernails and what subculture they were part of. They didn’t sync with the suntanned muscle-boy image.
He left the room to gather his family. Sudden shouting and commotion from another room. There was a problem before I even started. I went into the hallway so that I could better hear the argument.
“I have nothing to learn from a white cis male! How dare you! How dare you!” called a woman’s voice. “We talked about this weeks ago!” my host shouted back.
A door slammed hard. I snuck back into the room. The “white cis male” was me.
“Cis” is a term that started arising around 2008 in America to refer to non-transgender people. It wasn’t the first or last time someone was upset about my skin-color, gender or sexual orientation. I’m wary of Americans modern obsession with race, sex and gender and never experienced such in other countries. It felt contrived, an attempt to divide and fragment people. Once consciousness degenerates to the purely physical, all you have left is race, sex, gender. As I’d soon learn, the only guy on the entire estate who was a “cis” heterosexual white male was the one who invited me. The rest were less enthusiastic about my presence there.
I was used to the situation where one person was a fan of my books and trying to get other, uninspired people to like them too. Bosses trying to get employees interested, parents trying to interest their children, etc. It’s no fun giving seminars to people who were pressured to be there. I quit doing so after this eventful “seminar”. Today I only work with people who paid out of their own pocket and what a blessing that is.
The Dad returned, visibly nervous and said “we”ll start soon, with a little delay. They are finishing some errands”. I acted like I hadn’t heard the fight to keep things professional. If I found his folks to be sincere in their desire to improve themselves, I’d work with them, no matter which of the 500 genders they are or how many spirits occupy their physical vessel at any given time.
Family members trickled into the room. There were fifteen of them – a large family! I didn’t know whether the shouting woman was part of the group. Some seemed guarded, others were friendly. All were gay, lesbian or transgender except for the Dad, oddly.
I started with some humor to smoothen the ice. Things were going fairly well, or so I thought. I gave them a writing task and excused myself for the restroom down the hallway. I was surprised to find the most luxurious bathroom I’ve ever seen, with a dozen chiselled green gargoyles as pissoirs, muted light coming from the tiles and sinks of elaborate artwork.
As I left the restroom, there was someone standing in the hallway who hadn’t been part of the seminar. A curly haired, slim guy in his early twenties, wearing “big smith” type workpants but seemingly naked under. It threw me off a little.
“Hi Fred” he said weakly. “I read your book. I really like it”
I shook his hand. “That’s great. Why didn’t you join the seminar?”
He started crying. Then sobbing. I put my arm on his shoulder, having no idea what was happening.
“Will God punish me because I’m gay? I need answers! Tell me the truth!” he pleaded.
Just to be clear, I had worked with homosexuals before and none of them acted like this crowd. There was more going on here, I sensed abuse victims. It’s just something I picked up on (intuition being the basis of my success).
“I’m not a priest. We’re not doing conversion-therapy”. I chuckled. I thought it a good joke to lighten him up but I failed. “Why don’t you join the seminar? It’s about personal goals. You’ll feel better” I offered. He chose not to join.
Returning to the room I was eager to get back into its good atmosphere, but in my absence, the mood had sunken. As so many times during the three days, they were discussing some made-up problem. You know how I say problems exist mostly in the mind? This was an extreme example. To avoid working on themselves or taking responsibility, they kept creating complaints.
“So, something came up” the Dad said. “I don’t perceive it that way, but my wife says there are issues with the language you use”.
Uh-oh.
The wife spoke up. “Your language is aggressive. You said anger is good and that it gets people out of apathy”. She was fuming and I could tell it was difficult for her to confront me in this way, so I silently flowed compassion in her direction. If you’re a therapist, life-coach or anything in between, flowing-compassion is your most powerful weapon-of-mass-instruction.
I am truly sorry that human beings can become this fragile. It’s heart-breaking. “Someone has put these people through the mill!” I thought privately. But I’d never dare voice that opinion lest they lynch me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that anger is good per se. You see, on the levels of energy scale, anger is low. Not good. What I meant is that it’s good relative to even lower states, such as apathy”. My blondie-host, stood their nodding at her with wide-eyes as if I had said something profound. She didn’t acknowledge a word I said and retorted: “My son didn’t feel safe coming here because of you. He likes your books, but you have an aggressive aura”.
This was only one sample of many similar conversations. My mere presence was framed as an act of violence. It felt like they expected an apology for me even existing. To their credit, I could tell that some in the group felt embarrassed for the woman who was reprimanding me.
Traumatized people are sensitive to aggression, having experienced plenty of it. They didn’t know I’m harmless as a tree. The only danger I pose is a danger to their suppressed trauma. Even so, I felt like one small misstep could jolt some of them into raging hysteria where I’d be burned at stake. It wasn’t the kind of “seminar” or scene I wanted to be.
“I saw him in the hallway. He’s in front of the door. I invited him to come in. I hope he joins us”.
Blondie intervened: “I think what my wife is saying is that it might be better to tone it down a little so we can all benefit from your teachings. Would that be possible?”
I looked at the wife: “I’m sorry. Thanks for bringing it to light. I’m not perfect and I’ll try to do better”.
At that, everyone breathed a sigh of relief and the seminar could go on (until the next perceived offense).
In retrospect, apologizing was a mistake, because I didn’t know what my offense was. Traumatized or not, a guide needs to stay firm and clear. If you are unaware of error, apologizing is like admitting it. I should have told the truth, which is: “I have never slapped, hit or pushed a human being my entire life. There’s not one violent bone in my body. I’m sorry if you have been treated violently in the past and my presence reminds you of that. I will do my best to help you release it”. Instead of affirming their projected grievances, I should have stayed rooted in reality. Years later the Universe handed me a similar scenario, a second chance to do it right and I did. Bad stuff repeats until you master it!
The wife did not return after the lunch break. This typically happens when you try to appease people’s delusions instead of telling the truth.
During lunch, the Dad took me aside and explained why his wife wasn’t joining. He said he invited me in the assumption that I was homosexual because my books had been endorsed by a homosexual on Facebook. After the contract was already signed, they learned that I was married to a woman. To add insult to injury, I even spoke of my wife during the seminar.
During the break I was alone in the room with my host. “Why does it matter if I’m not homosexual?” I demanded.
“Homosexuals are gentle people. At least that’s how they perceive it” he said, while chuckling in disbelief at what he said.
Before he even got the brochures, it suddenly hit me. I knew where I was. Most things in life just come by telepathy and you know before you’re told. He showed me a folder with brochures. He was running a facility for victims of abuse! Everything that morning, suddenly made sense. Tears welled up as I viewed the papers.
He was catering to a special kind of abuse – you know, the kind that the sneaky, creepy people in mainstream media or wikipedia say doesn’t exist: SRA (Satanic-Ritual-Abuse). Nevermind that there are thousands of books and documentaries on the subject. I always wondered how a society that doesn’t even acknowledge reality (and SRA is one of many unacknowledged realities) can even survive. We live in times of peak ignorance.
“So…these aren’t your family members? These are your patients?” I asked.
Then things turned weird real quick:
“No, they are my family. But they’re also patients.”
For the first time since arriving, I felt a hint of unease. What had I gotten myself into?
“Let’s just say I wasn’t a good guy in the past. A few years ago, I turned my life around. I was caught up in a motorbiking accident. Concussion. Hospitalized for weeks. It changed me”. Later he added:
“Now I’m part of the solution instead of part of the problem” as if that was enough to excuse what he had done.
Long story short (mercifully): I was in a large mansion doing a seminar full of people who had suffered rape, torture and satanic rituals at the hands of their muscle-bodied, suntanned father – who had changed his ways and was now trying to treat them!
In the afternoon I went down to the kitchen to make myself coffee. A young guy appeared and screamed at me at the top of his lungs. “Get out of my kitchen!!!!!! Geeeeet ouuuuut!!!! Get out!!!! Get out!!!!!!” followed by a number of expletives. I was stunned motionless at first. Then I ran for the door and disappeared back to the room. I was shaken but didn’t mention what had happened. Some golden advice for coaching: If you’re helping people through their issues, don’t bring up your own .
I ended the first day early because the people were at their mental limit. Some came and thanked me for the day saying they had made progress. It had been draining to me but at least some had been helped. They offered me a room in the house. I declined, needing to get far, far away for the evening. No matter how pretty the flowers and how clean the bed sheets, I couldn’t fathom sleeping in that secretly blood-soaked asylum-like-vibe.
I had mixed feelings. On the one hand there was compassion for the enormous suffering they had endured. At other times I thought “I don’t have to put up with the drama. I can walk away”. Both ideas were true. Some of these people were disrespectful to put it mildly, but they also needed help. Wanting to back out was my Ego speaking, so I returned for a second day.
The morning went well. Everyone was into it to the best of their ability, the mood was fun. Nobody else dropped out, even though they hadn’t chosen the event. That’s a good sign. Nobody was raped or murdered the night before – things were looking optimistic.
At lunch break the Dad asked if I could help another case. I didn’t want to, I’d rather focus my energy on the participants, I said. His domineering streak came through. “We’ll just be a few minutes. Let’s go”. I didn’t like it, but went along.
One of the small mistakes I used to make. If you let a domineering person overrule you one time, there will be another time and another. But our time being limited to three days, the mistake remained without consequence.
The “patient” sat motionless in a rocking chair on a terrace. A skinny woman in her late 20s. She was restrained with a rope that was tied around her body in a dozen loops. I felt the rare emotion of fear. Calling the police crossed my mind.
She was restrained because she had different “identities”, as he called them, some of them violent. The muscle-Dad, today wearing a cheerful, flowery Hawaii-shirt, told me he had performed exorcism on her, but without results. I suggested he get a psychiatrist – “let the pros deal with it”. He said they have no clue how anything works, which is why he had hired me.
It’s interesting to note that he was running an entire treatment facility without a medical license or any apparent education in medicine. The woman had multiple identities or was possessed by several demons, depending on your belief-system. Looking back my best guess is that she had undergone MKUltra to compartmentalize her into different personalities or entities. It’s shocking to see first hand what the tax-dollars you gift to the Government are being used for. No human or animal should ever be treated this way. From that point forward I always had my doubts when sending off my taxes.
I told him I wouldn’t deal with her.”I’m not equipped to”. Some of these people have embedded hypnotic commands to commit suicide if they try to get help. His domineering side reappeared, unsurprisingly.
“You will do what you can. I’m the one paying you. I’ll give you three thousand Dollars extra”.
Before I responded he quickly shuffled away. What a nice way to communicate, huh? I sat with a drugged and restrained woman on a terrace overlooking a beautiful pond in the distance, ducks and large oak trees. Her being drugged meant I couldn’t work with her anyway. My self-given job description is “success coach” for a reason. Not psychiatrist. Not exorcist. Had I known that the “family seminar” was to try to pick up the leftovers of horrific crimes, I wouldn’t have consented.
I wrote down a list of things for him to try. I handed him the list when he returned, saying he didn’t have to pay extra for this. He sensed I’d had enough of being domineered and so he wisely let it pass. The seminar resumed but I was distracted. Sitting with that woman for half an hour haunted me for the remainder of the seminar and for weeks after.
Why had I attracted this into my life? Because I kept calling “for a bigger challenge”. I needed to be more careful of what I wished for.
That afternoon there was another loud shouting match, this time in front of me.”All this is cuz of you you worthless piece of shit!” one student was shouting to her father. A shouting match ensued. The Dad got upset. Other family members acted as a barrier between them but soon became part of the shouting, by contagion.
I had been polite so far but finally raised my voice. “This is what the work is about! Stuff comes up! Everyone here is trying to better themselves! Let people better themselves! Give them the space to make mistakes. Give them the space to make amends! Now sit down!”
I’m not known to raise my voice, but it worked. The argument disappeared and the rest of the day went without incident. The students were happy at day’s end but in my private opinion they’d need more inner work than a short seminar could provide. It felt like trying to plant roses at a garbage dump.
I learned they had been locked in basements, locked into cages for days without food, some had been cut with knives for “disciplinary” purposes, some had been raped, some had been forced to watch others being hurt. My inclination was to call the police on this guy. But I didn’t because people like this are above the law and I didn’t have a shred of evidence, it was my word against theirs. I’d be a lucky man to leave their estate after all the stuff I now knew about them.
One student kept apologizing for everything. “I didn’t mean to point my finger at you, I apologize”. – “I didn’t mean to speak out of turn, I apologize”. – “I’m sorry if I said something inappropriate, I apologize”. I told her that I hadn’t noticed any of the things she is apologizing about until she brought them to attention. I said: “You don’t have to apologize for these things”. To which she responded: “Oh, I’m sorry. I apologize”. It’s sad what trauma can do to people. If there’s a profession we need more of, it’s trauma-experts. But not the kind churned out by our Universities who claim that abuse memories are “false memories”. We need real trauma therapists.
I left them in a better state than I found them in. They were satisfied. Afterwards I was unwell for a week. My mind could handle it, but my body had difficulty processing the heartbreaking stories. You’re lucky to read a condensed and sanitized version. I had been in real danger. I never heard from the guy or his family members again, nor do I wish to. The guy never paid the contractually agreed to seminar fee. This happens about 1% of the time. You’d think that people who read books on spiritual integrity would have a clue about the inner consequences of non-payment.
