Four Months into The Fuckery

The Fuckery is what I’ve named this unfolding that began last September.  It’s the most apt description and, at this point, I no longer refrain from using it with those who might be offended. Because that’s what this is. There is no way to pretty it up; not only is that like putting lipstick on a mud-covered pig but, in my view, there is no other way to adequately express the institutionalized system that exists solely to pad the pockets through selling sex with children and young people. From medicine men to the medical community, Mexican cartel and Indian gaming, tribal law enforcement and those who turn not a blind eye, but fully seeing eyes, so many people get a slice of the pie. So. Many.

January 14 marked the four-month anniversary of arriving in the Phoenix metro area. This past Monday was the four-month anniversary of finding where young people are held for sex trafficking in Phoenix and the beginning of much frustration–with law enforcement, competing bureaucracies and ideas of ‘proof’, and the intricate dance between past and present. It also happened to mark the two month anniversary of realizing that I was actively followed and targeted by those involved in the network. Safeguards were put into place once I realized the how close they were (enough to take photographs of me at night!) and how they found me (nothing is as secure electronically as you think it is!). I’m now more careful about how I poke the proverbial bear in the eye or otherwise stir the pot!

Almost one month ago, I had a vision. I mean, I have them all the time but this one was just of flowers or the same flower multiple times. I saw it, I wrote it down (and tried to draw it) gave it the eyebrow and thought nothing more until the next morning when I opened Airbnb to find another place to stay. I’d known for a few days that I was heading south but I made sure that my passport was handy because I didn’t know how far south I might be going. Turns out I wasn’t led to south of the border but merely a brief jaunt down a highway that’d shown up in another vision a few weeks prior. Because those freaking flowers?  A bedspread pattern. Uh huh.  A bedspread attached to an Airbnb homeowner who, when I walked in the door, said “So, how’d you find me?”  And, when I told her the truth, she didn’t flinch but gave her own eyebrow. And, the next morning, when I didn’t know where I’d go or how I’d get there, because getting to the vision-place left me three dollars, she said, “You just need to pull your car into the garage and not worry about that.”

I was led right to the heart of help! Just in the nick of time, too, because within a few days of arrival, the flu hit me like a freight train and knocked me out for just over a week!  Since then, we’ve struggled with balancing patience (right?!) and safety and the need to engage with things connected to The Fuckery. Because half a mile from from here is the specific truck that’s been seen in dreams of others since August.  Five miles away is a transfer point and fifteen…? Not only was I sent directly to help, I was brought to the outer edges of the network.

However, this past Monday was also the day I decided to pull the plug on my involvement in this unfolding. The toll on mind, body and spirit has been enormous, depression a close friend,  and there was a request from Helena, MT, to for a month-long dog sit.  While blessings do come, often in spectacular fashion like landing where and when I did a few weeks ago, there hasn’t been more than $100 income for weeks and a few hundred dollars seemed like a good idea. The phone has been off for nearly three weeks, Tater has been uninsured for two months, and thyroid medication ran out ten days ago. The shame and guilt associated with even thinking of abandoning those I’ve been sent for kept me tears moving during the day and brought sleepless nights. Visions of youngsters asking for help and their voices singing the refrain from Pink’s “What about Us?” gnawed at my heart and until two experiences yesterday, I’d swung back and forth from ‘leaving’ to ‘not leaving’.
Yesterday, I followed a ten day vision-string to another Indian reservation. In those three hours of driving through desolation, the tainted ground talked and a young girl trying to thrive in the shadow of human cruelty reminded me that to leave would violate my own oaths and go against every fiber of my being.  They didn’t actually say those things. The judgement never comes from outside my own heart. What they did was ask for help and help me understand (again) the why and what I am.
When I crawled into the vision-flower covered bed last night, I was too tired for more tears and too tired for immediate sleep. While I waited for the eyelids to facilitate sleep I had a visitation from not-quite-a-virgin Mother Mary. I’ve met her before. In fact, I met her while standing in the kitchen of the woman in Helena who asked me to come dog sit. However, last night’s appearance was more than an introduction. She didn’t drop in for a cuppa or conversation. She came to bless and to beseech me to not give up or give in. Who am I to deny the Mother or any mother?
So, I will carry on. But I need help. I need to be able to call 911 when necessary, I need an oil change and gasoline, as well as some acupuncture or other medical care to help the body manage the constant energetic overload. I would also like to give some to the woman who, by giving me her Airbnb room for a month (at $50/night), will struggle after making her mortgage payment.
I know not everyone can give financially and not everyone is going to hear Spirit say, “Give Ingrid ten percent of the windfall that is coming your way” (which did happen last October and came to fruition in December!) but if you would consider sharing this story with others who may be able to help sustain me if you cannot give, I would greatly appreciate it.
I do not know how much longer this will take but, I made a promise to the Old Ones in October 2015 and repeated it to The Mother last night:  “I will never deny you.”  To her, I added this: “I will bring them home.”
If you can help financially, please send via PayPal to
The photo above is of the most recent painting Jayme Hopkins did for me last night.When I can’t pick up what Ancestors and others are trying to say to me, they go to her to paint the messages or the beings who are trying to engage. In this one, The Mother and more appear.  I’ve overlaid one of my favorite poems.

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