There are parts of my experience I don’t speak about, not because they are dramatic, but because I already know how they will be received.

I learned fairly quickly that speaking about what I was experiencing didn’t bring understanding. It created distance. Family didn’t know what to do with it, and friends — well, that became something else entirely, a kind of playground for energy feeding that I had no interest in participating in.

The systems that were meant to help had a single answer.

Medication.

Psychotherapy was also suggested. At one point, an angry GP told me I had PTSD, that I needed therapy, and medication.

She never saw me again.

I’m not dismissing it. I can see where it has its place. But my inner knowing was louder than anything being offered, and it wasn’t negotiating. So I stopped looking outward, not as a decision, more because there was nowhere else to go that made any sense to me.

Tobias, Kuthumi and Adamus had all said over many years that this was the lifetime.

Let me say this clearly.

There was no fucking way I was coming back to do this all over again.

What followed wasn’t graceful.

There was emotional battling, physical pain, and a kind of mental seesawing that was relentless at times. There were days where it became so intense that my own mind — the same mind that creates and constructs and solves — would turn and begin quietly mapping ways not to be here at all. And then something else would rise, not loudly, not heroically, just enough, and the cycle would reset and I would still be here.

At the same time, my body was doing its own thing.

There were days where my skin itched and became inflamed, my scalp flaked, and I was dizzy enough that I had to steady myself, especially in a home with stairs. Sinus infections came and went, and there were moments of sharp, stabbing pain that arrived without warning and left just as suddenly. My lower back and joints became unreliable, and there was a period where I couldn’t stand up straight for a few weeks. Walking brought so much pain that I had to stop and breathe, because it was the only way I could remain in it, to get from one place to the next.

There were also what Adamus calls “bump and fill” moments. I did fall down and up the stairs a couple of times, and shoulder surgery followed. I also managed to trip over my vacuum cleaner, saw it coming, turned my body as best I could, and still cracked the back of my head on the paving bricks. I lay there for a while, checked for blood and damage, and laughed.

Fuck you, Adamus.

While I could have tried to fix or manage any of it, I didn’t. Not because I was certain of anything, but because something in me knew that interference wasn’t the answer.

So I stayed.

From the outside, it could easily have been mistaken for something else entirely, something that needed to be diagnosed, managed, or corrected. But what was unfolding wasn’t dysfunction, it was remembering, and the real tension came from the mind, which had been in charge for so long, rejecting what it could not direct.

That was the battle.

Not the unfolding itself, but the disquiet of the mind, and having to live in that quiet discomfort while holding a knowing that didn’t yet bring any relief, didn’t resolve anything, didn’t offer reassurance that it was leading anywhere at all.

There was no reward in it, no immediate clarity, no sense of progress in the way I had been taught to recognise it. Just this ongoing experience of staying when everything in me had been conditioned to reach outward for an answer, a solution, some kind of confirmation that I was on the right track.

Not leaving.

There wasn’t anything in that staying that felt strong or certain, and it didn’t come with any sense that I was doing the right thing. If anything, it felt the opposite, like I was staying in something that should have already resolved, something that made no sense to continue with, and yet there was no movement in me to walk away from it either.

It wasn’t peaceful.

There was no calm that settled over me, no clarity that arrived to confirm anything. Most of the time it felt like nothing was happening at all, and that was perhaps the most unsettling part of it, because I had been used to measuring everything — progress, insight, change — and there was nothing here that could be measured.

No feedback.

No sense that I was moving forward, or even standing still in any meaningful way. Just this ongoing experience of being in it without any indication of what “it” actually was.

The mind didn’t like that.

It kept circling, looking for something to hold onto, some explanation that would make staying make sense, some way to reassert itself in a situation where it no longer had control. When nothing came, it pushed harder, questioned more, turned the whole experience back on me as though I had made a mistake.

There were moments where leaving felt like the easier thing to do.

Not dramatic moments, not decisions made in crisis, just quiet, reasonable thoughts about stepping away from something that wasn’t offering anything in return. That was the strange part — there was no reward for staying, nothing that reinforced the choice, nothing that confirmed I was on the right path.

I didn’t leave.

It took me some time to recognise what that space actually was, because it didn’t present itself as anything meaningful at the time. It wasn’t resolution, it wasn’t clarity, it wasn’t even what I would have called progress. It was the point before any of that, a kind of threshold that didn’t feel like one while I was in it, because there was nothing to mark it, nothing to indicate that anything was about to change.

It has been described as “the void” in some of the Crimson Circle material, and that used to irritate me, properly, because from where I was standing it didn’t feel like some elegant, spacious, colourful, floaty “void” that I had seen on Star Trek. It felt uncomfortable, unresolved, and at times completely pointless.

There were moments where I remember thinking, how the fuck would you and your Ascended Master mates even know what this feels like, especially when by your own admission you had your own set of difficulties getting through it.

That didn’t bring me any comfort.

It didn’t make it easier.

Being told by a spacious non-entity from a void that they were waiting for me at the bar became a bit of a conundrum — especially when they admitted their current experiences involve popping back into form to taste real wine. That may have been the turning point for me.

It was just a word, and I was still in it.

“Find your passion,” they said. “You are not on a mission,” they said, and then Adamus said, “find your massion.” At the time, that didn’t offer much. Chocolate cake, New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc and movies seemed a more reliable option.

Over time — and I can’t say when this began, because it wasn’t marked by anything obvious — the urgency around it started to shift. Not disappear but lose some of its insistence. The need to resolve it, to understand it, to get somewhere with it wasn’t as sharp as it had been.

Nothing had changed.

But something in the way I was with it had changed.

I stayed longer than I used to.

— Saint Parousia

https://magazine.crimsoncircle.com/2604-staying-the-mindless-master