But I was still feeling adrift without a rudder, heart-broken, and very lonely...and oh so tired.The quaint but often misguided adage -- "when Life hands you lemons, make lemonade" -- wasn't working. Not if I were totally honest. In the privacy of my empty apartment, I'd face myself and admit I was still not one of those "happy people, out there!" that I envied. I'd sampled everything on the Self Help buffet line, and nothing worked for me. After binging on self-pity, anger at God, and wine, I'd pick myself up and try again. I'll work harder, I'd vow, to think positive, connect, improve myself, "forgive," etc etc. (Oh my...there are so many lessons about the ego here we could go into, but, lucky you!, that's not why I'm writing today.)
For several months, I visited a psychic lady I met at a bookstore. I gave her money, and she spoon fed me hope. One day, our professional relationship took a step towards friendship. So hungry for attention -- and secretly hopeful that God had finally sent me an angel to deliver "the answer" I was searching for -- my heart quickened when she invited me to go with her to West Seattle to visit an Hispanic healer. He had a reputation and was making a "rare" appearance in the states, she claimed. I knew she mostly just needed a ride, and she knew enough about me to know I had time on my hands and a working car. But, like a hungry stray dog, I was happy to get a bone, so I agreed to pick her up later that afternoon.