April 2010

The pain is back. Searing through my abdomen, leaving burning streaks of isolated desolation inside my deepest, most protected region… the part of me that makes me Woman, creates my inner goddess, leaves me empty, burns my spirit. I’m slumped over the edge of my seat, my friend standing over me, his eyes full of anxiety, tension, loss. He knows only that I’m in pain, and that the pain is far from physical, alone.

Cast down, but not destroyed, I keep murmuring to myself. When I fall, I shall arise.

I thought I was winning. Each day more I invest my mind, body, spirit in 100% raw and living healing and life-force infused foods and mindsets, I believed I was growing by leaps, bounds… from the earliest days of the year 2010, I embraced abundance, excited about all that was waiting for me as time danced forward. I am healed, I am whole, became my daily mantra – and my favorite Facebook status. This thing, the grip of Endometriosis and all the other weakening forces of dis-ease and illness in my life, was faltering… so I mightily believed.

Then came the “setback”. An event that they tell me is traumatic, the kind of thing they say is so horrible, you’re allowed to reel, fall a little, fall a lot, when it happens to you.

And it had happened to me… again…

March 2010

“So, I’m going to Los Angeles,” began my operatic tenor friend, F.D., as we chatted over the phone about our Spring Break plans. I hadn’t made any trip goals, yet. The budget was low and bleeding out steadily as I invested in the remaining details of my home remodel, and I was so swamped with music to learn, textbooks to study and roles to prep that I felt like leaving Tucson for even a day would be counterproductive to my success.

But the more my friend chattered on about southern California, and the more I thought about the feeling of a toasty sun on my face and all those wonderful raw food restaurants to be found in the LA metro area, the less resolved I felt about staying in Tucson hitting the books.

“Let’s take my car,” I blurted to F.D., and he looked at me, surprised, then grinned. Carpooling! Sharing gas costs! It’s a starving artists’ dream vacation!

We hit the road late on a Sunday afternoon, planning to spend a few days in LA area visiting separate clusters of friends. As we pulled into China Town late that night, F.D. swept off to a bar with old cronies and I crashed on a motel bed, snuggling my head into a too-large pillow and breathing in the carpet-fiber-filled motel air… ah, vacation! It was bliss already.

The next few days passed in a flurry of fun. I managed to get lost repeatedly around the LA area, especially while searching for raw treasure troves like the raw gourmet spot, Cru. I met the tiny but mighty Revvell Revati in person, sharing a tantalizing lunch and drooling over dessert together. I bounced around downtown LA in a floppy hat and heels, kicking up the smog with my sheer raw joy over Life. And I discovered a new passion… jazz, avec l’amour.

I ate more, drove more, laughed more and made love more than I had in many months previous.

For five days, life was beautiful beyond description.

On Saturday, I picked up F.D. from downtown. He was tired, stressed and intent on getting to Phoenix by sundown to meet with a friend. The energy of the trip shifted. I didn’t want to leave. The night before, curled up against my new lover’s strong chest, I had cried for an hour before my spirit submerged in a wasteland of dark dreams. Something felt wrong about the energy around me, inside me.

Leaving didn’t feel right, even though returning to my education and new raw life in Tucson seemed like the only answer. But my mind kept flickering back to a conversation I had had with Revvell. I had told her how my heart was more and more tending towards the Girls, the rescue work, less and less towards the once-prominent dream of becoming an Operatic starlette.

Revvell had told me to consider what I wanted from my education, and whether I were still really on the right path. She warned me about the Law of Diminished Returns, the concept that continuing to invest one’s resources into a direction one no longer finds profitable or productive, can actually cause more damage in the long run than simply stepping off that path and readjusting one’s energies elsewhere.

In other words, maybe getting my Opera degree – once an all-consuming passion – was actually not right for me anymore… I had long been suspecting that this was so, despite years of struggling and working impossibly hard, long hours in school and outside of school to make this dream a reality.

Revvell’s words stayed with me as I drove towards Phoenix, with F.D. alternating between keeping his impatient gaze glued to the screen of his I-phone and gossiping half-heartedly about performances and friends with me. Neither of us were feeling it. Our collective energy was low but for vastly different reasons. I was feeling apprehensive about returning to Tucson, F.D. was impatient to leave California.

Around 7pm, we pulled into the parking lot of a downtown Phoenix restaurant where F.D. planned to meet with his friend. I had called my own best friend, a man I’ve known for years and long trusted as one of my best confidantes. Years before, we’d briefly been lovers, then dismissed the sensual for a more intellectual friendship. He’d been married and divorced in the interim, and I had courted monogamous intentions of the beautiful Photographer steadily with only my recent glorious sunny Californian affair since.

Though my Phoenix friend had recently asked me to consider seeing him again as a potential romance, I’d declined and asked that we consider staying friends. If romance were to spark again between us, it ought to be a natural effusion, I insisted, not a calculated return.

He agreed. We would grab a quick dinner, see a movie or go dancing, nothing more. He had photos of his son to share, I had stories of my gallant new California lover to ask his advice on. In fact, I had fallen head over heels in love with California trees, shores, raw fare, and a man. I wanted to know what my friend, my confidante, thought of it all.

We took a drive, chatting, me nagging him about his most recent failed girlfriend experiencing, he teasing me about my new lover. We enjoyed the time, the energy was what it had always been between us – steady, reliable, comfortable, like old marrieds with too much time on their hands. I drifted into a state of ease, releasing the tension of the long drive that day.

Back at my friend’s house, he unpacked the cooler while I freshened up in his son’s bathroom. He had paperwork to finish up, he insisted, before we could head out for a night of fun on the town. I desperately needed the distraction – California’s charms were beckoning me back, and my mind was tortured with the dread of returning to the routine of School, though I missed my little home and friends.

On one hand, my path seemed clear: return to Tucson, plow through two years more of my education, graduate with my degree and start a career. On the other hand, the whisper of possibilities elsewhere was in my soul’s ear, and I was inclined to listen, if only a little.

I finished washing my face, feeling a little more comfortable with my appearance, and strapped on my favorite heels. I was ready, whenever my friend was ready, to go out and let loose a little. He appeared in the hallway, smiling at me, an old familiar smile.

It was good to see me again, did I know how good, he said. I looked great, thinner and healthier than ever, he said. Did I care for a tour of the house?

I laughed. The house was a mess! Between his bachelor, single-father ways and the recent hasty move out of his ex-girlfriend’s home, he hadn’t had much time to tidy up. Sure, why not, I said. Let’s tour this mess. He laughed back.

The tour ended in his room, and so did the laughter. Without warning, without a single scent of changed energy, without a signal of what lurked in his mind, my friend, my trusted friend, turned into my enemy. And what followed, what came out of him, turned me into a numb semblance of the fearless diva I had thought I had become.

It wasn’t the first time I’d been assaulted, sexually or otherwise.

The first time, I don’t remember, because I was a very young child. Because the memories have been quashed deep down inside of me and to this day, I have not drawn them up again. The last time, I do remember. I was 20 years old, living with friends in a 2-bedroom apartment with a moldy basement and collapsing roof. I was happy, carefree, naive and a virgin in mind and body. I had been shoved onto a “friend’s” couch and forced to kiss him while he groped me, pinned me down, covered my mouth with first his hand, then his lips. I had fought, but the whole while, the programming of my childhood replayed in my mind and I surrendered, because I was taught that I deserved whatever came my way, and that what men wanted, men got.

A month later, that “friend” watched while I was thrown on another “friend’s” bed as he forced his fat body on top of me, crushing me down into his blankets, laughing drunkenly in my face, cussing and swearing he’d make me “his girl” if it was the last thing he did. It wasn’t the last thing he did. The last thing he did as I heard it, before he was thrown in jail, was kidnap a sixteen year-old girl and take her across the border.

And here I was again, me, the Dauntless Diva, crushed under the weight of a trusted friend-turned-attacker, his hand thick about my throat, choking me as I gasped for breath and none came, his voice harsh in my ears. How could I do this to him? Choose some stranger for my lover over him, my faithful friend? My lungs burned, my throat on fire, my head aching from the rush of fear, the lack of oxygen.

Oh faithful friend, my mind screamed, what manner of love is this that you would lay your hands on me this way?

But I had no words for him, no tears, no pleas. Having been here before, my best defense was to surrender. It isn’t my recommendation.

At one point, after throwing me against a wall, he froze in front of me and cried out that my eyes were burning him. Perhaps they were. Innocence, a light Spirit, has a way of frightening the devil out of people in such self-inflicted pain…

It went on for quite awhile, though at the time I retreated within myself and separated my Spirit from my Body. I didn’t remember all the details until I was sitting in a chair facing an officer days later, ironing out the story chronologically for the police report, choked with tears that felt unfounded, guilt that felt revolting, and a dispossessed Spirit still wafting above me, waiting for me to invite myself back in.

I am five and a half feet tall but weigh just over a hundred pounds, and I am not physically strong despite the Yoga and Raw foods. It was easy for him to do what he did, looming over me at 6′ and 200 pounds, and easier still because for years… I had trusted him, trusted him with my life. Pepper spray, self-defense mechanisms… these aren’t things you prepare when you’re going to the house of an old friend to chat about life and love over tea and apples.

But what shocked me most, was the internal reaction of my Spirit that followed, the  behavior of my Mind – two vehicles of feeling and thought that I had believed were both strengthened over the past few months of intentional healing work – as I went through the standard stages of trauma.

My feelings were normal, said the kindly therapist. My reactions, mundane, advised the gentle psychiatrist. Therapy, a must, stated the patient doctor.

But what struck me deepest – deeper even than the anger and betrayal that flooded my mind every time I thought of my once-close friend and what he had done in his pitiable, jealous rage – was the sensation of determined resolution to take this experience for what it was: a break from the choke-hold Traumas of my Past, an outlet to light-infused Hope for my Future.

“There are layers of trauma you have buried for years,” said my psychiatrist as I sat in her office after telling her a fraction of my story, my head in my hands, about a week ago, listening to her pen scratch as she wrote down that I was in need of an official medical withdrawal from school.

I couldn’t focus and the stress of trying to release the trauma while hanging onto my grades, my goals, was eating me alive. It was certainly true – sitting in classes surrounded by friends all wondering why I was bursting into tears or snapping in their faces alternately, was an unpleasant experience at best, unnavigable at worst. I lasted only two days back in classes before snapping and running away for a week. When I returned, it was clear that School was not in the cards for awhile.

“It’s time for you to focus on healing, and to accept that to be well is your right,” she added, handing me the note, my ticket to temporary physical freedom. As her hand brushed mine, I felt a jolt of healing energy shoot off her fingertips. Here was a person whose sole focus in life was to help women like me, “damaged goods”, find our lives again and heal. She smiled into my eyes, and I felt myself smile back.

“Thank you… for what you do,” I whispered, and she nodded.

Today

In the past few months, as I’ve embraced a healing journey to cure myself of the incurable condition, Endometriosis, I have faced again and again opportunities to recognize that my spiritual house was also in need of a damn good cleaning. Cluttered to the point of being unaware of just how obscured it had become, I have in the last 24 years of living collected a mountain of traumatic experiences. Beginning with a childhood of being raised in a cult environment where child molestation was the sport of choice, to my early adulthood’s wobbly beginnings with physically and sexually abusive “friends”, I had early on set a pattern of attracting abuse and despite my recent healing attempts, maintained that pattern quite dandily.

Humans very often use trauma to change rather than recognizing their capacity to change before it comes to that, a holistic mental health professional had told me in a recent article I wrote for the Green Times.

But in March 2010, barely a few months into my self-declared Year of Abundance, having the old pattern resurface in an especially ugly, apparent way, was so daunting, so horrible that for weeks now I’ve teetered on the edge. Some mornings I wake up scratching at my wrists and screaming only to have my lover or a friend close in on me with hugs and loving words. Harming myself is impossible, helping myself heal, imperative… Other mornings I wake up numb from the nightmares, flashbacks to the past years ago, or the past weeks ago, though gratefully now the nightmares are so vague, it’s as if they’re beginning to lose their hold.

But many more mornings, I wake up smiling, laughing, remembering that the world holds many possibilities, as many chances for pleasure and purity, as for pain.

As I close in on six months 0f success with 100% raw vegan eating and healing, I now begin another phase of my healing journey… which it has taken me this long to realise is no longer limited to only one facet, but rather: Mind, Body, Spirit: the Trifecta of Total Health!

Body is gaining ground rapidly. Every month, the Endometriosis flares are weaker and weaker than ever before. Today, for instance, the pain from the flare only lasted a few minutes before fading almost entirely, and even as I type this account, the tears and the pain remain gently gliding within me, but not erupting out of me in a volcano of self-induced fervor. In other words, I am doing alright.

Spirit, is generally undaunted, and always discovering new depths of strength, and new levels of healing waiting to be embraced.

Mind… has only just begun to discover Her limitless potential for health, happiness, abundance… and liberation from the patterns of the weighted past.

Thus for me, trauma is becoming triumph, hurt becoming healing, tears becoming joy. Revvell’s words are not lost, either. My goals are transforming, though for now my focus is less on regathering my energies into work, and more on healing my own Life before I dive completely back into helping you (you? or someone you know?) heal yours.

I am infused with Hope as I write this account. It’s empowering to get my recent experiences onto paper, at last. It’s taken me a few weeks to get up the courage to write this. Honor my intentions only by reading, and by knowing that in sharing this story with you, I hope to bring YOU Hope, wherever you are, that n0 experience is ever too dark that a sliver of light can’t diminish its grip on your life… for you are as I am, a Spirit powerful, full of potential, and a diva undaunted. We are healed, we are whole. We are Life itself.

Blessings and bliss,

let the journey continue,

The Diva

On Saturday, I was up by 7am and immediately raking in $20′s and $5′s on my temporary new line of clothing, shoes, lop-sided bookshelves and ragged couches. By 2pm, I had nearly $300 cash stuffed into every available pocket of my jeans, and I still had a yard full of junk waiting to be turned into some other man’s “treasure”.

But not today. Today, I am scurrying from yard to door, door to yard, throwing things inside and rushing out again to grab still more, and cursing the rain and cursing the cold and cursing myself for waking up at 7am again, expecting to rake in another $300 and ignoring the sunken gray sky and thick bitter taste of city rain in the air.

Last thing thrown inside, last box toted, last purse tossed, last couch dragged. Nothing ruined – I hope.

And I’m standing on my front porch now, being angry with the world for forcing me to hold the yard sale a second day, and getting up early a second day, and dragging couches until my back went out a second day, when all I made was two dollars and fifty cents in change… and then got rained out!

THUD!

And suddenly my eyes are riveted on the road, where the noise came from.

Everything rushes by in a blur and my brain is rewinding and fast-forwarding in hyper-speed, trying to piece together what just happened.

Rain. Grey truck. Rain. Speeding truck. Feathers. More feathers. And rain.

“Why feathers?”

The sound of flapping jolts me alive again, flapping wings, flapping… now fluttering… now silent.

A bird. The bastard hit a bird.

The bird has landed, almost at my feet, after flying in a crazy arch across the road, leaving a heap of its soft feather drifting around on the road, drifting down to the pavement, soaked in rain.

I stoop over, still in shock. Horrified at the spectre of pain now twisted at my feet, the pile of feathers with wings splayed, head cocked sideways at an impossible angle, beak cracked open slightly, eyes rolled back in its head… it’s alive – barely – and breathing ragged spurts out through its beak. It’s whole body shudders, hiccoughs, with every breath.

I stand, still in shock. And as I stand, the shock drains from my skull and pulses like hot blood through my body and floods out of my hands, my kneecaps, my pores.

“Oh, God!” I exclaim, but it’s not a prayer.

A spit of rain slaps my face from an insolent cloud. I run to the heap of crappy clothes I had just a few minutes earlier been selling for 25 cents, and I grab a red shirt, my fiance’s shirt, and run back to the bird.

It gazes at me, heaving more now, breathing less now, hurting more now… and I hold the red shirt over it, stooping down to protect it from the rain, and crying.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” I keep saying to it, holding its yellow-eyed, frantic gaze and watching it die.

I wonder if it has always been a bird, if souls are limited, if this bird is not a human trapped in feathers, if I’m doing it any service by stooping over it, whispering “It’s okay… it’s okay…. I’m so sorry” over and over helplessly.

And then I realise. We are none of us immortal. We are all of us locked in a desperate downward grip with the fates, and we are all of us doomed – to die.

I begin to cry inside, tears welling up in my soul. But my eyes are dry.

Oh God, please…. it’s in pain…. just let it go.

That is all I pray. And just as quickly, the bird’s head lolls slowly to the side, it’s wing slowly relaxes, it’s beak slowly closes, it’s eyelid slowly flutters down and it dies.

I don’t cry. My soul is empty of tears. The heap of feathers is empty of life.

I gently wrap it in the red shirt. My goodbye is said. The bird I had only just met, is gone for good.

We are none of us immortal.

So

live now and live well,

lest you die

while still awake

and the years you hold as limitless,

end

while your back is turned.

Story Copyright Dauntless Diva 2008

You see, on the outside, I’ve always looked perfectly healthy. I’m a slim young woman, and even at my heaviest weight still lie on the “Average” barometer for American females. My skin was never terrible, for though I had periods of my life where acne was a plague, it was usually never for more than a few days or weeks at a time. I’ve always been high energy, and had my birthmum not schooled me at Home, I likely would’ve been just another victim of Ritalin before I hit middle school. Simply put, I didn’t go Raw for any of the more obvious reasons so many choose this path.

(I did suffer from frequent Migraines and suspected Fibromyalgia — their story is told here.)

I had other, more powerful personal impetus to go Raw and stay Raw: to change my Life, and take control of my internal Health.

I would like now to share with you one as yet “untold story”, and my #1 reason for going Raw.

WARNING: This story does not have a Happy Ending… yet.

Since I was a young teenager I have suffered from a painful, debilitating condition called Endometriosis. Do a Google search and you’ll find the Mayo Clinic’s site, labeling Endometriosis as incurable, but potentially treatable. Pain medications, hormone therapy, ovarian-production and aromatase-inhibitors are a handful of the potential treatments. As with my birthmum, desperate pain-plagued women often resort to surgery to “cure” themselves.

In my teens, I didn’t realize that the excruciating pain that would cripple me for days on end was the Endo… I just thought I was having “painful cycles”. At 19, I didn’t understand why I bled for 4 months without respite, and why my extremely weakened-body began to shut down from the stress and pain. I slipped into a depression, lost my Job, dropped out of School, and spent weeks lying in bed, too weak to move, at my birthmum’s home.

In my early twenties, I didn’t think the miscarriage(s) I experienced had anything to do with my Body – I believed it was related to my then-boyfriend’s past fertility issues. And I blamed myself for being, according to myself, “too weak to support a healthy fetus.”

And in October 2008, as I rose from the breakfast table and suddenly found my legs collapsing beneath me in a flood of agony, I didn’t know why I was again, for the hundredth time, experiencing this strange, horrifying pain. As my terrified partner rushed me to the Emergency Room, nothing but survival filled my mind. I wanted to be Free of this pain, but then and there, I truly just wanted to have my Life back.

So there I was, hunched over in a wheelchair in the middle of a crowded ER, too weak to stand, clutching my shrieking, pain-seared abdomen in both hands, my instantly-bloodshot eyes causing the Nurses to go into a flurry of panic. And all the while, I had just one thought: “I never want to be here again.”

Ten hours later, my Body overwhelmed with pain from the endless barrage of tests, examinations, and internal probes the latest Doctor on duty had prescribed, I found myself face-to-face with a petite female Doctor.

She introduced herself as the chief of Staff and smiled at me wanly. She’d just come on duty – the tenth Doctor I’d faced that day – but someone had already filled her in on the mystery woman in Room 111. I knew I had frustrated the other Doctors: the level of pain I’d been experiencing was unnatural for any of the usual suspects. But this Doctor was in no way puzzled. I could tell she knew what was wrong, and I could tell I didn’t want to hear it.

“We’ve checked you for everything we know of… you don’t have ovarian cysts, you’re not bleeding internally…” she said, proceeding to list off all the possible female defects and diseases.

Finally, she finished the list, looked up at me and said, “That’s why we’re 99% sure you have advanced Endometriosis. I’m sorry.”

The way she looked, you would’ve thought she was delivering a death sentence.

I thanked her. My partner took me home. The pain eventually resided, and I went back to my normal life routine and for awhile, forgot the whole incident had ever occurred.

Three months later, I was back in the ER.

For the next 18 months, this became the only pattern in my otherwise unpredictable life. Every few months, something would trigger the Endometriosis to flare up like a raging demon inside my abdomen and take over my life for several days. Over the counter drugs did little to nothing to reduce the pain, and I could neither afford medical insurance nor qualify for the coverage I would have needed to get treatments (pre-existing conditions, anyone?).

Plus, I was simply confused: The symptoms were never the same one episode to the next. I would be seized with incredible pain in one or another part of my reproductive organs and abdominal region, sometimes out of the blue, sometimes in relation to my monthly cycle. Once, my partner was convinced my appendix had ruptured, another time I could barely breathe from the restriction in my chest.

Most of the time, I would keep silent: I didn’t want my Classmates thinking I was a freak, so I would hide out in the ladies room on Campus crying in the stalls rather than telling anyone what I was experiencing. Other times, it was too much to hide. I would black out, or my legs would simply cave under me. Fortunately for my careful facade, this never happened in Public. My secret was safe.

If I ever brought up the Endo in conversation, it was usually to blow it off with a laugh. “Yeah, puts me in the hospital sometime, but I don’t really care, you know — that’s Life!”

Denial was my ally, my best friend. If I pretended like it didn’t exist, maybe it would go away. I had not yet learned that denial is NOT the same thing as practicing the law of attraction for healing… one – Healing – requires acceptance prior to release, the other – Denial – is merely dishonesty to yourself.

In August 2009, I realized a life-long dream of earning admittance into a legitimate Voice Major Program. I was on-route to becoming a true, professional Opera singer. I was ecstatic, thrilled to be seeing my dreams finally take shape after years of undecided fluctuation and surrender to the naysayers.

I was also hospitalized twice. Each time, the mounting medical bills would increase my stress burden and shave off a layer of my external happiness. I had not yet realized that my healing lay within me (literally) and that my happiness, too, could be found inside my damaged, pain-wracked self.

Then, in September 2009, I sat down with my Voice Coach after a depressing opening to the new semester. It was my first term in the Opera Programme and I had never felt so physically discouraged. Every time I became stressed out or upset over something in life, the Endometriosis would flare up. And every time the Endometriosis flared up, I would lose ten days of singing productivity to the relentless pain. In addition, my vocal chords would become inflamed and swollen – I couldn’t sing properly even if I wanted to, then.

I was becoming deeply depressed again, and my prevailing thought was that if I did not find a way to cure my Life of this painful plague, I would never have the Life I had worked so hard to create for so many years…

Then came the final blow. My voice coach, a healthy, handsome young Baritone with a broad and beautiful horizon of successful singing awaiting him, called me aside during a lesson one day. He smiled down at me with the trademark Virgo calm – the kind of calm that hides a storm. Then, through that forced placidity, he told me plainly that with all my health problems, it would be difficult…maybe even impossible… for me to have a real career as a Professional Singer.

Damn that Virgo smile, was all I could think at the time. His message didn’t sink in until later that night. When it hit me, I cried for hours.

A month later, I was back in the ER… mysterious symptoms had prompted my loving Partner to drag me there against my will at 2am. As he carried me out to the car an hour later, I gnawed on my fist to stem the tears. “I’m done,” I whispered into his ears, and he flashed me a questioning glance.

“I’m done with this PAIN, I’m done with DOCTORS, I am DONE!” I repeated, louder, as if shouting would firm up my resolve.

My Partner’s face relaxed. Relief.

“Good,” he whispered back, dumping me gently into the passenger seat of the Rover.

That night, I lay awake, ignoring the pain and thinking intently to myself. I wanted my Life back. No, that wasn’t right, either. I didn’t want the old Life back because it had been pretty miserable much of the time. I wanted a NEW Life, an Endometriosis-free Life. My resolution grew with each empowering determination. I would CREATE a New Life for myself. I would find a way to cure myself of the incurable. Forget man-made medications, puzzled Doctors scratching their heads and the bleak outlook of surgery (which would mean I could never have children). I would find a natural way to heal my Life.

For years, I had inflicted mental limitations on myself, believing that while there were many things a woman could change, the internal workings of her damaged reproductive system was not one of those things. Even when I discovered Raw foods in 2006, I allowed the limited mindsets of others to become my own mindset and repeatedly failed to stay on an all-raw and living foods diet long enough to find out if I could heal all my health issues.

But the thunderclap ending of 2009 was my wake-up call. I was done with Hospitals, done with Hopelessness, done with the standard American way of dealing with Health issues.

I would take my Life in my hands, and I would take responsibility for my future. I could heal my Life, I could heal my Body, and I could cleanse my Soul. I was ready.

On October 10, 2009, I began a 90-day 100% Raw and Living Foods challenge. In keeping with the general medical and holistic healing opinion that a primarily-vegan diet rich in whole, fresh foods was the healthiest way to “manage Endometriosis” I also recognized finally the message my own Body had been sending for years.

“You can heal yourself – but you need the tools to do it. Raw is a tool. Use it.”

It’s January, 2010. A new decade has begun. For me, this decade is (and is destined to be) a ten-year span of healing, hope, and extraordinary growth in every area of my Life. It’s also the decade in which I will prove every Medical Expert in the woman’s health industry who believes that Endometriosis is incurable flat out wrong.

My daily thoughts are focused, my daily choices are in-tune: I am curing the incurable. I am Healed, I am Whole.

It’s Day #100. Join me on my journey. Only those things which work for the Good, wait  on the path ahead.

Article Contents © Dauntless Diva 2010 Permission required for reproduction of the contents of this article in part or whole. Contact the Diva at dauntlessdiva@gmail.com for permission to reprint.

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