“Everyone is an abused child when you think about what governments do.” – Tim Roth

DreamBlogger – Ken Sheetz

Before I start, I want to warn those sensitive to family abuse stories that this is not a blog post for you.  I share this true and very personal family story for only one reason, to encourage people who wish to be part of DreamShield’s mission to heal our planet to know that you might be healed personally as a reward as I have.

I share so that you might understand just how powerful the healing of this work is to take the darkest thing that ever happened in my dark childhood and to heal me when I was not even looking for that. These miracles of DreamShield have a life of their own.

l love my father who passed just 6 weeks ago.  I love him for all the good he did despite a lot of the nasty stuff.  Because no matter how many times he faltered I always knew he loved me.  I am amazed to report to you that I speak with his spirit from the afterlife.  In fact I’d go so far as to say Dad and I have talked a lot more in the 6 weeks since he died than any similar stretch of time when he was alive.

But I ask, dear reader, that you realize my father was a blue-collar man born of the early 20th century, a man without a father growing up to teach him any better, a man whose Irish temper got the better of him when it came to drink, and that you not please judge but learn from his mistakes.  Mistakes for which he is telling me as  write that he is deeply sorry to all in our family.  I admire his wanting me to share this.  Very like Dad, a Korean War vet, who never lacked courage.

BACK PAINS

I was home at last in LA, back from the Nashville’s planetary meditation at Lee McCormick’s amazing Spirit Recovery Ranch where we did a DreamShield to free the earth from addiction by 2012.  I was beyond exhausted from dozens of DreamShield meditations, the travel and my father’s recent funeral back in my home state of Wisconsin.  So I slept like a log that cold February night, cold that is by LA standards.

As the early morning sun tugged at the blinds I lay on my stomach in bed in a half-slumber. My face was buried in my pillow and I felt happy to be back in the city of angels, home base on this world for the work of a gentle 2012.  Still tired even after a good night’s sleep, I started to wonder if I wanted to do another mediation again for a long time.  Maybe never.  My inner cynic rambled on in my head, “None of this vision stuff real.  You can’t monetize this crazy stuff.  What’s the point?  Wake up and smell the coffee, dreamer.”

I was about to get out of bed and start my day with a “Quick Workout” that client, pal, roomie, radio talk show host and fitness guru Bradley Quick had personally designed for me, when I felt icy fingers on my back!

“Lay still.” The voice of my recently passed father groused, “Let me do this.”

In my mind’s eye I clearly saw a glowing blue gel spread into deep wide crevices that laced my back.  Lash marks that shocked me they were so infected and wicked looking.  But wherever Dad spread the magical blue gel the wounds closed up and healed perfectly, giving off a light puff of vapor.

How’d my back get like this?

September 21, 1966

It all started when my baby brother Bruce, mommy’s favorite who she called “Dolly”, teased me about getting a savings bond for my 13th birthday instead of a space station toy I wanted.  I smacked Bruce, only 6 at the time, square in the jaw with a fist full of rage.

Dad, full of beer from the excuse to drink for my birthday dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant Di Marini’s, set to teach me a lesson in brotherly love with the back with his leather belt.  “Tell Bruce you’re sorry you hit him!” he shouted, whipping me ever harder when I refused.

To my horror, my mother, holding Bruce sobbing in her arms from his cut bloody lip, cheered my father on.  Snap, snap, snap, the thick brown leather belt cracked as it dug deep into my back and, worse, my soul.  Bruce jeered dad on too, “Hit him, Daddy!  Hit him!”

I turned from the beating and shot my mother and Bruce a look of pure hate that shut both of them up.  My brother Fred, who most of the time got it worse from Dad watched from the sidelines in paralyzed terror, not knowing if it was safe to even cry.

Blood began to soak through my paisley 60s style dress shirt.  Mom shoved Bruce out of the room and begged for Dad to stop.  But Dad was no longer in control.  He shoved her backward, knocking her onto the bed. “You want this belt?!  You want it, bicth?”

“Fuck you!” I heard myself say.  Dad spun from Mom.  I’d drawn the demon back to me to save her.  SNAP!  SNAP!  SNAP!  The belt came down on me releasing an explosion of pain that made me see stars.

Every demon in every bottle of booze Dad had ever drank took possession of this normally sweet man.  “Say your sorry for hurting you brother, you little shit, and this will stop.”‘

“Fuck you!” I shouted into the rug.  He tried to whip the belt at my face but I curled into a ball, face to the floor.

I refused to cry and he picked up the power and intensity of the beating.  I began to lose consciousness.

If I died under the lash it would be fine with me.  Anything to escape this crazy drunk who could beat me like this on my own birthday.  This kind of rocket sled ride from happiness to hell on earth was nothing new on any birthday or holiday in my nutty childhood.

Grandma gave up yelling at Dad to stop and dove on to my father’s back and pulled at his curly black hair.  Dad shook the old woman off him like he was a wild bucking bronco and the poor thing fell onto footstool breaking it.  It was Grandma’s sobbing in pain that snapped dad out of beating me.  When he stooped to take care of her mom whisked me off to my room and closed me in.

My back was on fire.  I could feel blood pouring all the way down the backs of my legs.  Sometime during the night when I was asleep, or maybe I just blacked out, I was bandaged up.  I don’t recall who did the job.  All is a blur here in my sad story.  To this day it’s hard for me to celebrate my birthday or any holiday.  You can’t know how crazy these happy dates became in my life.  It seemed at times like Dad was on a mission to rob my childhood of any joy.

Next morning, after what thankfully would be the last and worst beating of my life as I would soon grow tall and strong and not to ever be messed with, I was still in shock.  I remember standing, head poking out between the opening of the two swinging  garage doors to the alley, drooling like the village idiot to the shock of passing neighbors.  Dad got a call from one of the worried families, the “normal” families, and he yanked me from the garage and tossed me in my bedroom.  I must have I spent half my childhood locked in that bedroom.  I started to like it after while and became a loner in the relative safety of my room, living in comic books and my drawings.

Dad pulled off his belt and shouted he was ready to go beat some sense into my thick hide.  But seeing what a drooling mess he’d made of his handsome son his heart was not in it.  No, Dad was sober and he could see his rough handling had torn open the bandages on my back.  I was bleeding again.

He spun to leave my bedroom in disgust and I dove and grabbed hold of his leg, “I’m sorry, Dad. I had got what I deserved. Bruce is little I should never have hit him like that.  I’m sorry,” I whimpered like one of the many dogs my Dad had taken his rage out on in my childhood.  Dad softened with his sober shame and left me in my bedroom without another word.

Grandma snuck in a little later as it was getting dark with some balm for my re-opened back wounds.  “We need to get this boy to hospital!” she shouted, tears running down her chubby Irish cheeks.  No reply from Mom or Dad.

Grandlma hugged me to her ample bosom and cooed in her soft Irish accent, “You poor, poor thing.  Kenny, don’t you tell my idiot son he was right to beat you like some dog.  No!  Your Pa was wrong to beat you like that.  Wrong!”  My icy heart thawed and I wept in Grandma’s arms.  Wept for the first time since the beating had started.

My father had been listening at the door.  The birthday from hell ended with him evicting my grandmother for her kind words to me.  I looked down from my second floor window as he literally tossed her into the street.

By Monday for school I was mostly coherent but still deep in shock, barley able to speak.  In gym class the teacher noticed blood soaking through my white T-shirt.  I was sent to the Principal’s office.

“Take off your shirt, please,” the bald-headed gentleman, who did not fit into our blue-collar neighborhood, but who was nonetheless our principal asked.  I tried but the blood was stuck to the shirt and I could not get it off.  The school nurse came in and managed to soak the shirt with a sponge enough to get it off.

“Dear, God.” They both said in unison looking at my scabbed and oozing back covered in welts.

I quickly made up a story that bullies in gym class had toweled me.  “Bastards!  Who? Which students?” the Principal demanded. And I knew he’d bought it.  A great liar was born.  Heck, I almost believed the tale myself.  When asked for names of the students who did this to me I refused.  I was no rat.

It shows the power of the fear of the unknown.  I’d chosen at that moment the knowing of my crazy family life over being put in a foster home.

ANGELIC HEALING

All these memories of 40 some years ago shot through my mind as Dad’s spirit applied the magic healing gel to my back in LA some 45 years later here in 2011, the gateway to 2012.  The angelic blue balm I thought must have come from the blue ET angels I met in Italy as soaked deep into my psychic after-wounds.

Gaps in my energetic field began to close as my father kept working in the heavenly healing lotion.  I seldom saw my father cry in life except when he was drunk.  But I could tell even though my father was invisible to me for this work, from the tremble I felt through his coarse welder’s fingertips, that he was silently crying.  Crying out of shame for how deep the wounds he gave me were over all the pain he had caused for all of us with his drinking binges and rages.

My father’s spirit, now calm gentle and wise, here in my humble LA bedroom I rent with social media work, was personally healing these terrible old back wounds.  This is my greatest gift so far for the work of DreamShield.  And my father’s greatest gift for the bad karma he has undone for his next life or his ticket to be in heaven, reunited with Grandma.

DreamShield planetary meditation work is not easy, folks.  This spiritual work is new and uncertain for me and at times makes me feel like I am going insane.  It’s taken me from my filmmaking career and social media company BuzzBroz.  But I do it all gladly because I somehow know this is vital work for humankind and we will get it done with your help and millions upon millions more amazing people like you reading this painful blog post, the most painful I will ever write.

One by one we can heal and manifest a gentle 2012.  After this healing miracle of my back, this cynic is slowly becoming a believer.

Enjoying these amazing spiritual adventures?  We need your support.  Please make a PayPal donation today at DreamShield.org.