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Category Archives: Theta healing

I had psychic surgery to remove my alien implant

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Oh no.

I always come to see Mark when I visit this most mystical outreach of Australia’s coastline. I’m a skeptic, sure, but Mark’s my healer. He’s my wild card; the aberration of science that I’ve described as being the real deal in the same way that racists will have their one black mate who’s “all right”. It makes no sense, but we’ll happily let it through to the keeper.

Mark was the knife-edge on which my skepticism swayed. I’ve told so many fellow naysayers: “but there’s this one guy…” I’ve accredited him with dispensing of my circular thoughts, a broken heart and my smoking habit. Or at least, I’ve thought of it as a dual effort between us – one with immediate results I couldn’t have achieved on my own. Accordingly, I’ve lisped away to people: I could feel energy pulsing down my body and streaming out of my feet.

I think. Couldn’t I? I remember telling Mark I could.

Mark is placid as a panda bear; as warm as a roaring hearth. As benevolent and wise as Yoda. He’s the sort of person you can make prolonged and meaningful eye contact with without wanting to stab out the jelly in your vitreous with pencils. Last time I saw him he diagnosed an energy block in my abdomen.

“That’s funny,” I piped up. “I’ve always had a huge phobia about being touched around there. I’ve had nightmares since I was a kid about being rigged up and prodded in my hips by disembodied fingers.”

Mark suddenly saw arrows. “I’m being shown arrows,” he said. “You were shot in a past life by a jealous lover.” He gave a warm chuckle as I pictured my punctured ovaries. One healing later, I left: a big ball of loved-up expanded consciousness, floating off down the street to the sea.

Now, past lives are about as high on my ‘Maybe Believe This’ list as DNA ThetaHealing ™, but in the name of consistency, I decided to return to this subject with Mark on my next visit. I.e., would he stick to the arrows story?

“Last time I came here you said we should investigate an energy block,” I said.

Mark gazed at my energy for a bit. “I often baulk at saying things like this, because most people don’t react well,” he said, at which point my hips tightened a few notches. “But it’s an implant.”

“An implant?”

“Yes. I’m seeing reptilian ETs – Zeta Reticulans. They used to rule the Earth and would quite frequently study humans by using implants, but these days we thankfully attract more benevolent beings of a higher frequency. The Zetas put an implant in you at birth to study your reproductive system. I can probably get it out.”

I rolled with this. Mark’s not alone in thinking reptilian aliens are all around us; it’s a theory David Icke made popular, and I love hearing David Icke’s theories. Love it.

“I’m not going to use the spirit guides in this operation, I’m going to use the friendly ETs,” Mark said, as I removed my shoes.

I climbed aboard the table for 40 minutes. I usually love this bit, but I wasn’t feeling it as much this time, due to the inconvenient truth of Mark talking about aliens. I was mourning the Mark gone by; the one who told me not to intellectualise spirituality, the one who said he had no interest in studying things like chakras and what have you.

I tried though. It could be true, was my mantra. You don’t know for sure; you only know your version of reality. And besides, it’s worth the $90 for a good blog post.

I saw my individual cells, golden, spinning, shimmering and spitting like Coke bubbles. I felt myself opened up flat as a pancake on the table – although Mark later told me the operation was multidimensional.

“I’ve never seen one as big as this before,” he said when he was done, talking down at me as I lay on the table with my arms behind my head. “It was like the Tardis. There was a whole universe inside.”

“Really?” I said, unable to not be impressed.

“But then there’s a whole universe inside every cell,” Mark pointed out.

“A universe in my pelvic bowl,” I marvel, and we chortle.

“The Zeta aliens actually came in at the beginning,” he said. “It got a bit nasty, but they were asked to leave. Could you feel it being removed from your brain? There were strands leading all the way up your spine, meshed into every cell, and up into your brain. It was a very tricky procedure – I only facilitated it.”

Mark didn’t seem too rattled after facilitating major surgery on the biggest alien implant he’d ever seen. He explained that I’d attracted bad sexual experiences to myself because of the implant. “Your critical mind will explain this away over the next few days,” he continued, “but you know it was special. There was a lot of love in the room. Don’t forget this experience you’ve had.”

“So,” I offered hopefully, as I swung my legs off the table. “Do you see this as a visualisation technique to hypnotise me into freeing myself from some emotional blockage?”

There came a pause.

“Or are you describing things in real terms?”

“In real terms,” he said. His eyes shone softly, as though he were just giving me a lovely recipe for parsnip soup.

Bugger.

As I walked out, something in me pouted. I love the thought of two shimmering entities walking down the high street with me; why can’t I just go with it? I greatly enjoyed, as a child, believing the spirit of God was channeled through me and that I could bless people just by doing an internal yawn; even if it constantly irritated the family. Where’s the harm?

But Mark had pushed me past my limit of making allowances and moving the goal posts. I hate it when men do that. And so, with reluctance, I write up my findings.

– But Mark will see this and he’s a lovely guy.

– He WON’T see this – he’s not psychic!

In conclusion, in conclusion… I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m quite good at lying on a table and turning it on. Getting the love flowing. Could it be I already found the greatest love of all, inside of me? Possibly. I’ll report back.

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Blubbing in a towelly nook

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‘Pranic healing and massage’ may sound as though it involves a forefinger and the perineum, but in actual fact it’s about removing energy blockages in the whole body and resolving deep-rooted emotional issues.

Regular readers will be aware of my pathological fear of New Age men, but Greg (name changed!) comes recommended by my two work chums, Sheridan and Gemima (real names!), who always come into the office next day looking flushed and fanning themselves. I can see why when Greg opens the door; he’s like Hollywood’s idea of a New Age man, if the New Age man was in Oceans 11.

We have a bit of a chat about what to expect. When a practitioner says: “You might find you cry, but that’s okay,” which they invariably do, I take it with a pinch of salt. It always reminds me of my first boyfriend waggling two fingers at me and announcing his unfailing ability to satisfy a woman thusly. If you don’t cry or orgasm gratefully, are you the failure?

I hop up onto a massage table in Greg’s house in just my undies and lie on my back under a towel. He walks me through some guided meditation that’s by the book, but still, I feel a bit like I’m being hypnotised. Thoughts start getting surreal and I keep morphing into Sheridan and then Gemima, who’ve both lain in this very spot. Maybe their psychic shadows are imprinting on me. It’s really off-putting. (“Maybe something awful happened on that table and you were disassociating,” James at the train station coffee cart says later.)

The pranic healing itself is done hands-off, other than occasional light touches on my head, but when Greg lubes up to segue into the massage, I freak out a bit. When a woman’s massaged my head or hands in a spa treatment I’ve enjoyed it, but having a man do something so intimate without getting me shitfaced first is incredibly confronting. And this goes on for three hours. Have you any idea how massaged you can become in three hours? There are 206 bones in the human body, and Greg swizzle-sticks them all, with no earlobe or toe left unturned. In fact, I can confidently say he now knows my body more intimately than any man I’ve ever slept with, with the exception of my sexual organs – although I’m sure he gave them a sly massage through some meridian point. Sometimes his hands tremble with the force of whatever’s coming out of them. I amuse myself by trying to zap him back with some piping hot lifeforce of my own.

My critical mind keeps piping up to mock my attempts at being pure consciousness. What if he’s rubbing himself right in front of your face? … Shut up, he can hear you, you know … He must be so bored, you should apologise and leave… This is rubbish; nothing’s happening … What’s that? Is that his leg?

Then, of course, something strange happens. It’s when Greg works from my lower back, up my arms and to my hands that I start crying, facedown in that towelly nook. I’ve barely got time for a We’re not really going to do this, are we? when I feel a bottomless well of grief and loneliness; not just the pinpricks of self-pity that can be willed out when one is laid horizontal and feeling a bit vulnerable, but grief bleeding out of my eyeballs and filling my mouth. Quietly. My fingers curl softly around his arm. He’s gentle, respectful and non-intrusive. I want him to stop touching me and not leave me at the same time.

Through the hole in the table I discover there’s a flower to look at, which my tears are plopping into. There’s some kind of card with writing on it as well, but my eyes are too blurry. Thankfully, when Greg moves onto my legs the feeling goes and I’m lulled into a vegetative state.

Afterwards, after I’ve got dressed, Greg pulls out a chart and shows me where the energy blockages were. He doesn’t need to tell me; I could feel which bits were stiff as a board and resisting arrest. But he tells me what that’s likely to mean, depending on which meridian lines and chakras are affected. He correctly identifies what memories came up for me, and reports on images he saw, which I was seeing, too.

The more time that goes by as I journey home and go about my business the next day, the more I’m able to rationalise the experience as coincidence, general knowledge and the law of probability… but it should be noted that at the time, I was buying it. Or if not entirely buying it, definitely putting it on lay-by. And as Greg says, “Our critical mind doesn’t want us freeing ourselves of the traps we’ve made.”

As a side note:
Greg gives an explanation of how we recreate our past experiences over and over as our lives spiral through time. Our DNA’s a spiral, he says, and so is the universe. The planets rotate around the sun, but beyond that the universe is spiraling, and so history keeps on repeating itself until we can gain some perspective by ascending up the six spheres of consciousness. It’s a theory favoured by David Icke.

Also, says Greg, our DNA carries the imprints of our parents, grandparents and ancestors, whose experiences become our own. It’s an idea I first heard from strange Theta-Healer and DNA restrander Maria. It’s not dissimilar to the idea that DNA replicates at a distance, which has been posited by Nobel Prize winner Luc Montagnier (argh! Nobel Prize science and pseudoscience collide. Now I feel even more wobbly), recently backed up by Professor Jeff Reimer at the University of Sydney. Psychic slayer James Randi disagrees with the idea of DNA teleportation, needless to say, drawing comparisons with homeopaths’ claims that water has memory.

The difference between reiki and theta healing (TM)

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Both involve combing the fingers through the air above the body, but theta healing (TM) is approximately $60 more expensive.

HAVING MY DNA RESTRANDED WITH THETAHEALING

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It started innocently enough

“Write about my story and you will become famous,” beams Maria. I meet this soft little babushka in a Byron Bay backstreet, where she beckons frantically when I threaten to walk past her fragrant shop front.

As she administers a vigorous back massage, Maria tells me the condensed story of her life: she grew up in Russia, became very sick with radiation poisoning after the Chernobyl disaster, but completely healed herself. “My blood – all clear.”

When she learns I want to stop smoking, she becomes gleeful. “Oh! Then we’ll use ThetaHealing™,” she enthuses. “More expensive but you have already paid now. Lucky. Turn over!”

“I’ve got a live one here,” I chuckle to myself, rolling onto my back. I mentally kiss goodbye to eighty bucks worth of relaxation and prep my mind to simultaneously take notes and be in the moment.

ThetaHealing™ cures cancer, etc

So far as smoking goes, it turns out I couldn’t be in better hands, because ThetaHealing™ purports to both rewire genetic behaviour and cure cancer. Head to the official website, set up by ThetaHealing™ inventor Vianna Stibal, and you’ll find explanations like:

We believe by changing your brain wave cycle to include the ‘Theta’ state, you can actually watch the Creator Of All That Is create instantaneous physical and emotional healing

and

ThetaHealing™ can be most easily described as an attainable miracle for your life. ThetaHealing™ is also best known for the 7 Planes of Existence; a concept to connect to the Highest Level of Love and Energy of All That Is

Under Vianna’s guidance, a newb practitioner can expect to work with guides and guardian angels, balance seratonin and noradrenaline levels, and pull heavy metals and radiation out of the cells.

That’s Vianna.

I don’t know any of this yet though, as I’ve just come in for a gloopy massage, which is now off the cards. But I like Maria, and I’m happy to see what she pulls out of the hat.

With warm hands, Maria cups my heels and tugs gently on them every few minutes. This is nice enough, and it’s raining, so I’ve got nothing better to do.

“Now I’m going to look at your DNA,” she says, or something. I’m confused – particularly as Maria has a lovely thick purr of an accent – but some Googling later totally clears things up. Maria is “activating the 12 strands of DNA. The chronos, or youth and vitality chromosome is activated, the telomeres are strengthened to reverse the aging process, and students experience an opening to the Unconditional Love of the Creator.”

Back to me on the table

Maria pulls up a stool so she can peer into my face. She explains that a person absorbs their parents’ fears and neuroses while still amoebic, and thus needs to be genetically separated from them.

While asking me questions about my family, she applies her fingers to acupressure points on my feet. At first it hurts, but after a series of stroking of the side of my hands and feet, and some inaudible incantations intended to fill me with unconditional love (ending in “it is done, it is done, it is done”), the discomfort wears off.

Maria questions what I most dislike about each parent; information I feel funny about giving up, lying here on my back with a stranger poised to perform a genetic separation manoeuvre. She tells me I mustn’t take responsibility for them, nor anybody else, nor judge them, nor believe their behaviour will determine mine. It’s fairly standard therapy speak; only therapists don’t stimulate your pineal gland at the same time.

“It is your life’s mission to be happy,” she says. “No, it’s not selfish – you need to give yourself unconditional love, or nobody else will be happy.”

I’m asked to make a ring shape with my forefinger and thumb. Then she loops her own finger and thumb through it, makes a statement, and tries to break my grip: “I am worthless” (you’ll always get this; it’s any therapist’s favourite), “I am special” “I am just like my father” “I cannot give up cigarettes” she intones, and asks me to repeat each one. If her fingers easily break through mine, I apparently believe this statement to be true. If I hold the circle, bully for me.

“It’s not hypnosis,” she corrects me as I offer my opinion, “it’s kinesiology.”

Oh bugger. The first and last time I had kinesiology, the therapist took to my childhood with a pickaxe while waving crystals and sloshing Bach Flower Remedies around, made me converse with my 10-year-old self, and plunged me into such lethargic depression that I went home and split up with my husband. But I digress.

Now, the funny business

You’ll scoff in disgust at this point, but it has to be said. Our session ends without fanfare, as Maria takes a call on her mobile and I wander out having a bit of a private titter. But as I walk away, towards the sea, I feel insanely, incredibly good. I feel like a mass of buzzing energy that’s greater than my physical form. If you’ve ever accidentally partaken in a snifter of ketamine, you’ll be familiar with that fuzzy sense of expansion. I’m smiling like a loon and there’s a tremendous sense of well-being. You can’t buy good feeling like that any more; not in Australia anyway.

It’s incredible, but short-lived. My phone beeps. Don’t look at your phone, don’t look at your phone, I think. But I do, and I immediately zero into its little world, to its mewling demand for attachment and its drip-feed of stimulation. The expansive feeling wears off, and with that, drug injustice™ sweeps in. (Drug injustice: the keening, self-pitying sense of being ripped off when something isn’t quite enough any more. Sounds like a silent, anguished howl.)

I don’t know how that shimmering loveliness happened, if it was me or Maria, or a form of meditation, or a sudden warm front blowing in. The conclusion I’m heading towards is: I don’t care, as long as it feels good. Which funnily enough has always been my philosophy in life anyway.

File under: I don’t know what you did, but just keep doing it.

Or: If this is the placebo effect, sign me up for more placebos forthwith.