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In the stillness of a night that promised nothing but turmoil, I found myself teetering on the edge of existence and oblivion.

It was a moment not marked by the clarity of enlightenment but by the chaos of awakening—a shamanic journey that began not with a call but with a fall.

I woke up in the hospital, a realm suspended between life and the shadow of death. Reality blurred at the edges, and the only certainty was the turmoil within my mind.

A doctor, who seemed to don the mantle of God, wielded a machine, dissecting not just my skull but the very essence of my being. I was plunged into a legacy of souls, bearing the weight of ancestral debts and sins, a crucible that transformed me into an unwilling messiah.

I teetered on the brink of self-destruction. A rental car and a cliff beckoned, voices in my head urging me toward a final, fatal leap. Yet, it was the impossibility of a final embrace, a last kiss for my children, that anchored me to life. Denied the touch of love, I found solace in proximity, lying beside my son with a careful, desperate longing for connection.

This experience was not just a crisis but a pilgrimage through the depths of my psyche. Each step was a battle, a negotiation between the voices within and the realities without. My mind became a battlefield, torn between the divine and the demonic, a vessel for a cosmic struggle that left me doubting the very fabric of my existence.

Betrayal became a theme, not just by the universe but by my own senses. Led astray by false guides, I danced on the edge of the abyss, touching the divine and the diabolical in equal measure. Sedona called to me, a place of power and pain, where I confronted my captor and reclaimed my soul. It was here, amid the red rocks and under the gaze of the setting sun, that I pieced together the fragments of my shattered self.

Yet, this reclamation was not an end but a beginning. The path back to wholeness was fraught with doubt and despair, a struggle to integrate the mystical with the mundane. My journey through the spiritual crisis was a testament to the power of the human spirit to endure, to find meaning in the madness, and to emerge, if not unscathed, then at least whole.

In reflecting on this journey, I understand now that my awakening was not about finding answers but about learning to live with the questions. It taught me that trust, especially in oneself, is not a given but a gift forged in the crucible of doubt. My spiritual crisis stripped me of illusions, revealing not just the fragility of my own psyche but the strength of my soul.

I do not believe in One God; I experienced the presence of many, a spectrum of divinity that encompasses both darkness and light. This journey taught me that the divine is not to be found in the certainty of dogma but in the mystery of existence, in the spaces between, where the universe whispers its secrets to those brave enough to listen.

As I stand now, on the other side of this spiritual tempest, I am not the person I once was. The pieces of me that were scattered across the desert of Sedona have been gathered, but they do not fit together as they once did. I am a mosaic of experiences, a testament to the power of breaking and the beauty of becoming.

This is not just my story; it is a call to those who have walked similar paths, a beacon for those navigating the turbulent waters of their own awakenings.

We are the broken crayons, and this—our story, our pain, our triumph—is how we color the world.

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