Life Gave Me Lemons, and I Made Champagne!

By Aisha Z. Shael

What was behind the door

"I kept seeing the image of a barn door, behind which I suspected there was incredible painand staggering truth. By March 1992, I could no longer deny what was behind the door: I had survived satanic ritual abuse."

You hold in your hands an unabashed and courageous account of a survivor's journey from trauma to transformation.

Suffering from physical pain and increasing emotional anguish, Aisha was determined to reach the crux of both and heal her life. As she relentlessly delved into her own mind for answers, the pursuit of truth brought her face to face with:

multifarious memories,
multiple personalities and
mystical experiences

With candor, she has willingly revealed the sequence of events that resulted in a collapse of life as she had known it. Like a phoenix rising from its own ashes, she made a miraculous comeback.

Join her and walk through this amazing, life-altering journey. Notice how she transmuted incredibly painful experiences and discovered that there is always hidden wisdom within them.

Find your own courage! Be inspired to transform your own life!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: May 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9781452563008

Aisha Z. Shael

Aisha lives in Columbus, Ohio, where she has been studying metaphysics for more than twenty years. She is certified as a holistic coach, facilitates channeled coaching and energetic alignment sessions with Metatron, and is available as a speaker. Please feel welcome to visit www.AishaShael.com for more information.

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© 2016 Aisha Z. Shael.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author of this book does not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4525-6299-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-6301-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-6300-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016906353

Balboa Press rev. date: 06/15/2016

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgments

Part One An expansive reflection

Chapter One The beginning

Chapter Two A breakthrough

Chapter Three Validation and authenticity

Chapter Four Undeniable realities

Chapter Five Another corridor

Chapter Six The infrastructure

Part Two A multidimensional overview

Chapter Seven Perceptions

Chapter Eight Life is so magnificent

Chapter Nine Archetype: The wounded healer

Chapter Ten The key

About the Author

To Laura:

the gift of your presence in my life

became the stimulus for my transformation.

Thank you.

"I am not what happened to me.

I am what I choose to become."

—Carl Jung

Preface

M y name is Aisha. I have a Ph.D. in Life, conferred upon me by The School of Hard Knocks. I graduated Summa Cum Laude.

I have survived spiritual, mental, emotional, physical, sexual, and satanic ritual abuse….and I have transformed the pain of all of that! I have, in fact, transcended it.

Life gave me lemons—and I made champagne!!

The abuse? That, of course, would be the lemons. The transcendence? That would be the champagne. I am candidly sharing my journey from numbness to pain to joy. I have gone from surviving to thriving. I faced the severity of my woundedness head-on and moved not only into active reclamation of my life, but also into healthy, joyful living.

Like others before me, I am a trail blazer. Like others before me, I am living proof that the human spirit cannot be held captive by anyone or anything. It’s a matter of personal choice to live an unlimited life or a life of limitation. And it is our own mindset that empowers or hinders us. May my story inspire you to live a magnificent life!

Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t—you’re right. —Henry Ford

Acknowledgments

I t would be impossible to extend my gratitude to everyone who has contributed to my transcendence; however, I’d like to offer recognition to the following individuals in particular for their especially valuable enrichment to my journey, to my life, and to our world.

Additionally, I would like to express my appreciation to all Balboa Press Associates for their patience, skill, wisdom, and assistance in making this book a reality.

Part One

An expansive reflection

Chapter One

The beginning

I was born and raised in a small, rural community. I thought my life was normal; and yet somehow I felt isolated and different from others, so I pretended that everything was fine. My childhood was confined to the circle of my family of origin and extended family. Being very introverted made it impossible for me to reach out to form friendships or keep them, so I had few friends. My younger brother was my best friend and my ally. He was the one who could make me laugh, and it was during the time I spent with him that life was bearable.

Memories from my childhood are sparse: a tricycle, seeing my baby brother for the first time, a pair of little blue slippers trimmed with red and white beads, going to church every Sunday morning, the sound of freight trains as they rolled down the tracks behind our house, playing Monopoly with our neighbor, spending much of my time in the playhouse I created in the loft of the barn behind our house, and my surprise at age 10 when my mother announced to my brother and me that we would in due time have a new brother or sister.

Along with those memories are a few isolated incidents from the early years of my life that have always remained in my mind, each of them connected to fear.

• I was afraid of the nurse who visited our school periodically. Hearing that she had arrived caused me to feel mounting anxiety. Usually, a few hours would pass before my class was summoned to go to her office, hours which gave me more time to imagine what she would do to me when I came face to face with her. I vividly remember her visit to administer tuberculin tests to us. By the time we left our classroom, my anxiety was so heightened that my stomach suddenly erupted before I even saw her. I don’t recall anything after that.

• I was afraid of my second grade teacher. One day she spanked a classmate, and I was terrified that a worse fate was in store for me if I misbehaved. Never knowing exactly what might be considered misbehavior put my young mind in a continual state of turmoil.

• I was frightened that my mother would abandon me at the hospital during my brief stay after a tonsillectomy when I was eight years old. Several hours after surgery, my throat bled excessively and soaked my hospital gown. A well-meaning doctor and nurse stripped it off; but as they searched for a clean gown, I sat naked and terrified of what was going to happen next.

Academically I was a relatively good student—loved reading, didn’t like math which my grades reflected. I was too shy to take part in extracurricular activities, because to do so meant extending myself into the unknown, being visible in a setting beyond the classroom. Because I felt inadequate to handle anything new, and always felt that everyone was watching me, I stayed within the comfort of the known where it seemed safer.

As a child, I was a sleepwalker. I would get awake during the night, find myself out of bed in my own room or another part of the house, and never know how I had gotten there or why I was there. One night my mother found me pulling clothes out of my dresser drawer. She asked me what I was doing, but I couldn’t find my voice to answer her—and if I had, I wouldn’t have been able to explain something I didn’t understand myself.

My physical growth stopped early when my menstrual cycles began at age 11. I endured such severe discomfort each month it was painful to stand up straight. Numerous times, I asked my mother if a doctor could prescribe something to help with the pain; and then each time she went to the phone to make an appointment, I begged her not to call, insisting that the pain wasn’t really that bad. She would comply with my insistence, and my fear of being with a doctor would subside.

During my teenage years, my legs often hurt for no perceptible reason. A few times, I mentioned it to my mother, but she assured me it was just growing pains; thus, I assumed that the throbbing headaches in the back of my head must also be just growing pains. In addition to the physical distress, my sleep was interrupted by nightmares. I would scream in my sleep, and often erratically bolt out of bed, and run to my parents’ bedroom before I was fully awake, with my heart beating wildly, my breath coming in ragged gasps, my legs so weak I could barely stand. Oddly, I could never remember what had been so terribly frightening, and my parents didn’t ask what was troubling me nor did they offer any comfort. I was left to struggle my way out of confusion and go back to my room.

At an early age, I wanted to be an administrative assistant and as a high school senior, I received honors as the most outstanding student in the business class. Two weeks after graduation I accepted employment at a local company and worked there for four years, while my hometown childhood sweetheart completed college.

In June 1969, I married him and we left our community and families due to his employment location. After we settled into our apartment and our jobs, life was more serene for me. Interestingly, I noticed that I stopped having nightmares, though I never wondered why.

In February 1970, my husband enlisted in the military, so I moved back into my parents’ home and returned to work temporarily for the same company I had left not all that long ago. After his training and schooling were completed, we moved to his assigned base, settled in, and within a few months he was reassigned to an overseas base. To my dismay, I could not go with him right away—I would have to wait several months until off-base housing became available. And so, in January 1971, once again I moved back into my parents’ home and returned to work temporarily for the same company I had recently left.

Mother’s health was deteriorating and in April my world was shaken to the core when she passed over—I didn’t know how I could live without her presence in my life. A constant refrain kept playing in my head: my life will never be the same. Within a week of her funeral, I boarded a plane for the military base where I would spend 18 months with my husband. Wrenching as it was to leave my dad and youngest brother behind to cope with grief and loss on their own, the separation from family and everything else that was familiar and comfortable was curative. Subsequent months eased me into a new life where Mother’s passing no longer hurt; I felt freer, as if I had been cut loose from an invisible restraint. Indeed, her transition out of physical life had evoked a subtle transition within me. I couldn’t define what was taking place, but it felt positive, and I liked it.

My father faithfully wrote letters to us and in less than a year, he announced that my aunt had introduced him to a very nice lady with whom he was spending time. It wasn’t long before he mailed a picture of the two of them; they looked happy together so I was pleased when they decided to marry. It never occurred to me the relationship wouldn’t last. She seemed more suited to him as a partner than my mother had been, and I enjoyed having a stepmother who appeared to like and appreciate me. Life without my own mother was much less devastating than I had expected it to be….I was feeling more and more liberated.

After my husband finished his four years of military service, we relocated to a city about an hour’s drive from our hometown, so we could be fairly close to all family members. Since we were expecting a child, I decided to postpone a job search until six weeks after our baby arrived. By the time she was six weeks old, however, my feelings had changed: I did not want to place her with a babysitter while I worked full-time. I was concerned about her physical well-being, and there were certain values I wanted to teach her. Doubting that anyone else would care for her (and about her) in the same way I would, I settled into the role of mother.

Despite my aspiration to be a good mother, I felt very inept. I had heard and read about innate mothering instincts but mostly I felt anxiety and stress, and I missed working as an administrative assistant, a role in which I was comfortable and competent. I made a few attempts to find a part-time office position and received no offers, so I gave up my search. Even a part-time job would still require that I leave my child under someone else’s supervision, and it seemed easier to submerge my desire to work and remain at home with her.

Our daughter was a lovely little girl, and she did bring joy and laughter into my life. In ways that I didn’t detect, taking care of her became increasingly difficult for me mentally and emotionally, because memories of my own childhood were being stirred in my subconscious mind. By the time she was two years old, I had begun experiencing periods of depression. It wasn’t a mood I let myself slide into; instead, it was a drastic emotional plunge that came as quickly as a flash of lightening, enveloping me in a vast, dense, black cloud and draining my will to live. I thought that it wouldn’t matter if I died; I was certain that my husband’s family would step forward to help with our daughter, and I would not be missed. After a day or so, the depression would disappear as fast as it had appeared, and I would feel normal again. Even with the anxiety, stress, and depression that plagued me, I sensed that it was important for my daughter to hear the words ‘I love you’, and I made it a point to say them to her and to use her name as I did so. Little did I realize that her presence in my life and the care I was giving her were serving as a catalyst for my transformation.

When she entered kindergarten in September 1979, I decided to earnestly seek a part-time position that would allow me to work in the afternoon while she was in school. Her best friend’s mother said she would be happy to watch my daughter after school, which was ideal because I knew she would be safe and happy there. In April 1980, I was hired for a part-time receptionist position. Very soon the job turned into a full-time position as office manager, and I added that role to my juggling act of wife, mother, and homemaker. Although I loved the position and my family, I was tired much of the time and pushed myself constantly to keep pace with my responsibilities.

Fine on the surface

While my life appeared to