KAL Authoring UNDO

Aug. 3, 2017

One of my most recent chapters of my book, UNDO Bipolar, was rather innocently about remembering back thirty-one years; at the horror I felt noticing I had an internal thought going on telling me point blank, "you are a shit!"  It felt powerfully condemning and my efforts were directed at figuring out where it was coming from, so I could then judge what to do about it.  I don't think I gave much considering to countering it until seven or eight months later.

As a dear friend pointed out the last time she and I talked, I've always been almost exceptionally ready to take on whatever any person outside of me might suggest I do or think over that which might arise within me.  It seemed to me that this thought came from outside of me somehow.  It just didn't seem like what I was used to otherwise.

A large majority of the reading/thinking populace today knows that thoughts left unchallenged, or more blatantly stirred with emotions (mine were fear and trembling with regards to the suggestion, "you are a shit") multiply rampantly like cockroaches.  I was utterly cowed by the first one.  Imagine how it was for me with a mind filled with a pestilence of them.

There are tales rife with the pain caused by thoughts in a clinical depression;, and even if I deeply despised you, I would never wish upon you that you should be forced to feel that.  I finally reached a point following four months of non-stop suicidal thinking where I was literally "jonesing" to have my mind free.  Not having done drugs, I'm not positive I know what "jonesing" is but I was itching, twitching and in all human manners rapidly switching locations, mentally and physically to be anywhere but in my own mind -- or skin.

I can't say I hadn't remembered this before; I can say I hadn't the energy or motivation before.  What I'm referring to is remembering I had read a small self published book (paper pages bound with that black curly spiral) some years before.  The woman who wrote it lived in a town near the one I lived in.  She wrote it in Mesa, Arizona.  She was as transparent as anyone I've ever run across and I could tell her story was true -- and heart wrenching.

What I was remembering was that she had learned to cancel her thoughts.  She had found effectiveness in ten count increments.  Like this -- "cancel, cancel, cancel, cancel, cancel.  Cancel, cancel, cancel, cancel, cancel."  Easy enough, it seemed.  And, I was ready to give it a try.

The next day, I found myself spending literally, the entire day, ticking off each of my fingers, "cancel", etc. as my mind kicked up one thought after another from that burgeoning community, like so much sand.  It seemed they were endless.

To my delight, and relief, and freedom, the next day was a piece of cake in comparison, and I was finally, out of the woods.

Note from Karen:  I AM finally writing a book, two actually.  If you have any interest in reading as I go, I'm putting them on a reader and writer website where you can read a chapter(s) at a time for free.  The site is wattpad.com.  Simply then search Karen Lohof or ANIKIKO and you'll be taken to the book(s).

Apr. 5, 2017

Dear reader,

Who shall I write to?  I’m going full circle already this morning.  For the last while (months, at least), I’ve been wondering:  “who should I pray to?  Who shall I talk to?  Who CAN I talk to?


This -- from a woman whose memory speaks to praying her entire life.  Once, overcome by two babies in diapers, who commanded the day far more adroitly than ever any adult has, I prayed in desperation for help to manage praying every day at some point, no matter what.  Guided by the brilliant idea to commit to pray once I was “reminded”, -- “do it then, do it then”, -- my world righted once again.


I’m not interested in changing minds or your beliefs here.  It happens I experience severe repugnance towards exclusivity and cannot escape it anytime I attempt to research religion.  I found my mouth agape/jaw dropped only a few moments ago, reading in a newly published book that the religion I was raised in was “counterfeit” Christianity, according to the author.


There is a great amount of self-serving pomposity to come up with thoughts along those lines veering the reader into distraction and away from remembering they are seeking truth.  And, thus you’ve just witnessed it.


So … just to be clear:  I strive to be blatantly open about MY experiences that I write about and share with you via this blog.  And, they are MY experiences.  Were I to invite you to join me, the first prerequisite would be that you show up as yourself, name for sure, picture also preferably, and do some writing back to me.  Yes, I speak of commenting.  At this point (no comments), I’m running down the street naked, while you stand fully dressed behind draped windows in houses set back at least ten feet from the street.  And, yes, I’m feeling “steamed” (hot, hot, hot) emotions from the reading I reported on.


Whatever am I talking about today?  Well, I began with you, the reader.  I can only hope I’m writing to benefit someone.  Most likely, you are quite like me.  It’s what we have in common that creates enough interest for you to read far enough to see if I might be able to share something of value with you.


My opening query led my mind to another question I’ve been experiencing often, who I should pray to.  I seem hell (how quickly questions are raised) bent on continuing to grow; I think it likely that desire feeds itself, and as I learn more about who I AM, my ideas, senses and awareness’s of God grows.


I’ve sullied that over the last two and a half decades as I came to indulge in blaming God for many things I felt as miserable in my life.  It began, innocently (go ahead and judge otherwise, I often do) enough with tearful pleas to understand how I could have come to the state in life I saw myself at.


Just this morning, I learned thanks to Sam Horn that competition is both the root of happiness and the ruin of self esteem.  I compared “this” life to “that” life, I compared myself to others, I compared myself to a former sainted self, and the list goes on. 


And then, because God was He whom I spoke most often, most consistently and most daily with; I began with tears, then “why” (why is often anger) questions, then testy recriminations, then blame.


I hear Dr. Phil asking over my left shoulder, “How’s that working for you?”


My answer:  “as poorly as you might think”.


Why?  You may well ask, why on God’s green earth, would anyone write such personal stuff and put it out there to total strangers?


I believe I have experiences and insights that matter.  I believe they can benefit others, I hope so anyway, for all I really have to offer is me, myself and I.




Mar. 5, 2017

I know I’m not alone in feeling this way, but I just have to say it:  “I AM so excited to come into this life with these parents, siblings, friends I’ve had the privilege to choose to experience this life with and to come into this body that’s female and white and ready to take on all the experiences I’ve chosen to help me grow.  I know it is as possible to experience negativity as it is to experience positivity; that’s what the contrast and duality of the third dimension contributes and I will not ever be able to miss a beat in choosing which way my mind interprets the things that are happening.”


I’m just a bit hesitant.  Mainly that’s because I don’t particularly relish the idea of “forgetting” all I know right now.  Once I enter my body, it will serve as a veil between all I know now and a brand new clean slate.  Wow!  That’s an awesome thought!  I know me.  I’d best get on with it without taking too long pondering all the ramifications of that.


Interesting.  There’s a preponderance of feeling, thinking, smelling (ooh, gag), hearing, noticing stuff awfully close to me and infringing on me, seeing and I guess that weird sensation must be tasting.  Odd, but no one seems to think I might like to comment on any of it.  I’m also getting a sense that I may not know how to let anyone know what it is that I think.


Possibly, everyone is distracted.  That woman on the table, and, by the way, she’s the one I feel most connection with, doesn’t seem to be doing too well.  The faces of everyone else in here seem very concentrated on trying to come up with a way to help her. I would think they would be more welcoming of me, but, honestly, I seem to be just an afterthought.  I can entertain myself with my observations, but, man, I do seem to be lacking in knowing much of anything.


Whoa!  I seem to be losing consciousness.  Lights out, I guess.  I can’t seem to keep my eyes open.  I think they may have drugged me through the process of my arriving here, and yowzers, I’m tired.


I seem to have lost track of some of what’s been happening to me.  It seems to be one endless round of loud and startling noises, lots of bright lights, smells way bigger than my ability to take them in, strange poking and manhandling and stuff that I’m not sure I want.


The language of those around me seems unclear in some way I’m not sure I understand yet; but for the most part everyone seems eager to greet me and, at least attempt to make me feel special.  I find I quite like most everything about me.  It’s a little lonely feeling knowing I have no way of speaking my wants to the people I’ve seen thus far.  I feel kinda crummy that I sometimes resort to tears and wailing like a banshee in frustration, but, generally that’s been received with immense patience and obvious efforts to alleviate whatever must be bothering me.


I can’t help but wonder why I no longer see the woman that was on that table in that first scene I told you about.  I notice a feeling of longing, kind of an ache, whenever I think about her.  It’s a definite disadvantage having the language barrier, I’ve got to admit.  I would certainly ask some questions if ever I could figure out how.


Some people I come in contact with go ahead and talk to me, or, at least that’s what it seems like it is.  I feel sincere appreciation for that and continue to make my efforts to get what they’re saying.  I feel like I might know what two or three words are meant to convey and that spurs me on to keep trying.


I’m sorry to disappoint if you were hoping for more details in the birth process.  I seem to have forgotten all that thoroughly.  I AM curious, though.  Is that something you have a clear memory of?