Dialogue with the Money Monster
Money Monster is a term used /coined by the coach Morgana Rae in her excellent work around relationship to money and is the title of the new movie, “Money Monster” distributed by Sony Pictures. The money monster concept used here is a construct for my creative expression; not an affiliated product or service.
I am a person comprised of many voices. Some of them Truthful and others as not.
In the weeks leading into the retrogrades of Mars and Mercury I knew something was brewing beneath the surface of my psyche. How could I not?
There sitting in my inbox was yet another job application where I’d received the ubiquitous turn-down email generated from an HR machine. No matter how confident I could be that the Universe may be saving me from the completely wrong place to work, these missives tended to be slightly unnerving.
I am changing careers. Going after gold. My MBA has a mysterious yet palpable influence. At least when people who are not hiring are lauding me for having taken two years of my life to pursue it. “Congratulations! Now you’ll be able to go after the big bucks!”
Is this a real or imagined result? Does it happen for someone who didn’t go to Stanford or Harvard? Doubtful!
What do you bring to the table anyway?
There they were – the voices of the money monsters who were making their way up the walls of hell; scrabbling the dark volcanic obsidian in the fire-y depths. Jagged toenails digging in to the crevices. I could see their pinpoint eyes in the darkness when I looked down.
The quiet rumble, the stagnant breath on my neck gave way to the reality of my bank balances. So I missed one of my entries in Quicken and forgot about a check I’d written at the club. Now I was dangerously teetering.
As quickly as I cancelled appointments or moved them, I could not dispel the overwhelming fear that I was headed for doom no matter how many spreadsheets I had to monitor my spending.
Out of toilet paper – do I put it on my credit card and debt, thereby nullifying the progress I made in my financial program or use leaves or grass or steal some from the bar across the street? Loser. You can’t even find money for TP? So you thought you could succeed with those spreadsheets? (Maniacal laughter, more stagnant breath)
My mind is on over-drive as I make little steps that appear to be good ones – oh, I guess I had some cash I can use for TP in this other account. Phew. I question everything – was it my ego speaking when I muscle tested “yes” after I asked, “Will getting this massage make me money?” My body sore, my spirit deflated. Healing touch bringing resolve and resolution.
Reflecting on my feelings – sadness, despair, frustration. The consistent pattern of simply not being enough – ever. Can I accept that this pattern won’t change – no matter what I do? Accept it and dispel the increasing shame that after I decide to follow a program and get a therapist, I am once again fighting the downward spiral of my bank balance. No choice. You suck – heh, heh
I head to my therapist’s office with the voices clamoring for attention. There is the one that has me avoiding sending resumes at all: “You’ll never be more than a secretary. Stay where you are.”
The one that gets irritated because I must have not followed the directions on spreadsheets properly: “Seriously, you must have misread the instructions. The Debtors Anonymous program works. Just not for you. I mean seriously? Where did you go wrong?”
The one that sounds like my parents, but worse: “We’ve helped you out time in and time out and you STILL don’t have it down. How dare you spend money on a massage. You deserve to be homeless.”
There are all the articles on tough parenting on Facebook that I imagine my parents reading. The financial gurus saying the same thing about doing spreadsheets or using their app as though that will solve it (oh wait, I did that), and the well-meaning folks who judge others who can’t pay their bills. Every day I compete against a sea of other people’s thoughts.
The money monster’s eyes in the void are now clearer, I see the bloodshot mucus membranes. Paying for the therapy session took creative accounting – again.
My anxiety reached a fever pitch as I saw the writing on the wall for paying rent in a week. I still had a conference to attend – hotel costs, conference fee, food -- in order to further my goals of getting a job in the creative industry. When faced with the difference between not going (and maybe paying rent) and going and furthering my career – I knew I had to go regardless. Spirit was speaking.
The voices may be right – I had no choice. Stupid
On the way home from therapy, I listened to Jeff Brown speak about the voices that hit him when he was being authentic and writing from the heart. I paid for and took the writing course with him despite the cacophony of the voices. I couldn’t NOT do it – I had to get my voice to come back out from hiding. I needed to feel creative again. The MBA had drained me of time, energy and flow. It reformed me in the image of an executive leader who could read a financial statement.
In theory. You are still a low paid secretary. Why do we have to keep pointing that out?
I am more than that. Correcting the voices: I am an Executive Assistant. My boss loves me!
The MBA wasn’t a bad decision. It just came with a short-term cost. Giving up everything else to get it done. Making incremental progress. Outwitting the monsters.
I knew that what people would pay me for was my uncanny ability to write and be heard. The healer Dina Metzger elicited my medicine many years earlier by assisting me to coin my potency as “Sacred Words. Sacred Rose.”
My super power is the way I put words together; a weaver of energy, insight, empathy and archetypes that dig deep beneath the surface of causal reality and change things.
Maybe it was Mars retrograde which led me to want to simply tune out – go to the bar, enjoy a cocktail, not deal with this crap. The voices did get drowned when I drank a Cosmo. Is that why Hemingway always had a bottle close by the typewriter?
I knew there was a message in all this – in the repeated patterns surrounding Mercury Retrograde in which my bank balances mysteriously dissipated like a draining sink. I hadn’t reached the bottom of the tank. The money monsters were sure to make sure I understood.
You’ll never be free. Jeff Brown just wants your money. Now you’ll be homeless. The hobos down by river will enjoy a piece of you, finally. As for you getting paid at value? Didn’t Abraham-Hicks say you are getting what you vibrate at? (Maniacal cackling). No doubt you are vibrating like a broken lawn mower. So dumb. Why bother writing on a wall or anywhere. People think you are quirky. Funny even. They tolerate you. But really they’d rather you disappeared and they laugh at you. Hope we’re clear. You’ll NEVER BE PAID FOR THIS.
My therapist said I most likely had very strong neural pathways created with shame, and consistent reinforcement by teachers, parents, bosses and the like. No kidding. They created the “voices” or as we say in coaching, saboteurs. I believed them. You are simply not strong enough (the sound of rocks falling into the abyss). Why is the spiritual creative life so fucking difficult?
I scream in my head. I rage. Here I am at the gateway and it didn’t matter what I did. The results are the same. I rebel and go out for an expensive meal because what difference does it make anyway.
I am locked into a fate-destiny pattern and have no idea how to release myself from it.
I want to break things.
I yell at this pattern, “What do you want from me!?”
Minutes later I am finding a small amount of cash to pay for a session with an EFT practitioner who deals with money issues. We know it won’t just be the spreadsheets or the MBA that solves the problem. My parent’s money isn’t the answer. It’s in my energy-field. In my DNA maybe as ancestral trauma. Deep down in that crevice with the hell-freak money monsters – lies the seed.
Somehow they got me. I must descend. I must feel their breath and hear their lamenting cries. Stay where you are! There is nothing for you here! Listen to your Mom. She has all the answers. They at least own a house. You will be evicted!!
I meet with my acupuncturist who assists me to heal my womb, my creative center. Frivolous journey. Hippie stupidity. She lovingly reminds me that every step I take I am a step closer to a healthy reality. She has seen a huge difference in my emotional state since we started working together in December. My periods are becoming healthy and the fibroids are smaller, or not at least affecting me as much.
We laugh about the weather. We discuss the patterns she sees with her female clients – all wanting to heal something they know is deeper than just themselves. She feels we are coming into balance, all of us. I feel free to BE here in her space. I feel like a real woman with thoughts and feeling that have meaning. My journey is not in vain. My suffering is not just a personal flaw.
Despite all the questioning, I am driving to the conference. It is already 10PM. I have several hours to go. I know in my heart that this will mean the difference somehow in my career. I can’t explain it. I have to trust something here in this journey. Believe in a picture bigger than my bank balance.
How do I close the door to my parents as the source and create using my voice? My skills, my heart, and my soul. I don’t know the answer. I think about the people I love as I drive. The connections I have made, even online. I also know you can’t force creativity to meet your financial needs. It is a gift, a unique timing, a pattern all of its own.
My fears are quieter. My money monster still breathes in the back seat. Waiting. I know we’re not done with each other yet. I still haven’t paid rent. Or brought up my situation with my parents. Or found a solution. I exist in the place between fulfillment/self-mastery and the past. The past still haunts me. For now, though, I am headed to my destiny and somewhere there I will find my Truth. At least the glowing eyes are visible only in my rear-view mirror.