The Cathedral Where I Died

I just watched an episode of The X-Files (The Field Where I Died, Season 4, episode 5) in which Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) met a woman he had known in a past life.  Under regression, he told of who he was back then, how he had known the woman and how he died (during the Civil War).

I too have undergone past life regression.  This February, in a bid to try to find out why I feel a certain way about a certain person, I underwent regression to try to understand if what I’m feeling now is related to a past life experience.  If the regression is to be believed, then yes, me and this person go waaaay back.  Back to Medieval times.

Under regression, I told of how we had been lovers in this previous life.  Of how we had fought against enemies, of how I had died.  I underwent a second regression a week later, to try to find out more.  I had suffered a miscarriage in my previous life.  Then we fast forward to a time when I have a son, with this same man, who is now my husband.  The two of us hide our son in a secret, safe place, then go our separate directions in order to protect the city from evil.  I perish in a fire at Lincoln Cathedral; after battle he returns to retrieve our son from his safe hiding place.

He is distraught; because he could not save me from the clutches of death.

I then see him as he is now and he tells me in this current life, we will not be together, that we cannot be together.

Fast forward once more, to a school classroom, in 1991.  I, the person I am now, is stood within the room, watching young me, watching the scene I have played over and over again in my mind.  I go over to the little girl in school uniform, crouch down, and tell her it’s ok, you don’t have to be scared to talk to him.  Then he comes over, sits down.  She doesn’t bolt from the chair and move to the other side of the desk, she stays put, and they begin to talk.  When the class is finished, I am stood outside the classroom, waiting.  They walk out together, and I tell him to look after her.  They walk off down the corridor, hand in hand.


I cannot tell you that what I experienced during my regression was in fact a true recount of a past life.  Some six weeks earlier, I had begun to see how I would write the story of us, of how we had lived some thousand years before.  I had done some research into medieval Lincoln, learnt of how a fire had occurred in the cathedral in around 1141.  In the story I finally saw that we would not be together at the end, either in this life, or our past life.

Perhaps the regression was just a way of taking what was already in my mind, and telling a story I wanted to be true.  Or perhaps there could be something real about it.

I guess I may never know.

Sifting through my mind, I have trouble knowing what is real and what is just in my head.  This week at work, I was paranoid that someone was laughing and pointing at me.  Later I confronted her.  Two days later, it was revealed to have been a misunderstanding, on my part.  I feel bad about having a go at someone who was innocent and in fact bullied herself at school, but I do not regret finally standing up for myself.   I am so damaged by how I was treated at school that even now I have much self-doubt and paranoia.

My school days were far from easy for me.  Over the last three years, I have done much soul-searching about those times, in a bid to try to make sense of where I am at now.  It is possible that my memories of those days are tainted by the fear I felt back then.  Or perhaps they were just the products of a virile imagination.

I want to believe in past lives.  I DO believe.  But I have to learn that not everything inside my head is real.  This is not a bad thing though, a writer of fiction needs to be able to see in his or her mind the amazing story just waiting to be told and then to be able to transfer this story to the page, either by pen or computer.

I have more than enough stories in my head waiting to be told, I just need to find a way to let them flow.

If you know of a child being bullied, please help them.  The effects can last longer than you could ever imagine.  Don’t let them take it with them to adulthood.  They may never escape it.