Chapter 15: June 22, 1987 Revisited: Beyond the Self: Healing Trauma and Finding the Divine Within
Life is rarely a linear narrative. More often, it resembles a fragmented reflection, a tapestry of joy, loneliness, and transformation. Our deepest wounds often coexist with our greatest revelations, and the path to healing is rarely a straight line. Instead, it is a journey of confronting our brokenness, questioning our conditioning, and ultimately, discovering a profound sense of connection that transcends our individual stories. This is an exploration of that journey—from the depths of addiction and mental turmoil to the liberating realization of the divine presence that permeates all of existence.
For many, the search for meaning begins in a state of disconnection. It can manifest as a quiet loneliness, an academic pursuit of answers, or a desperate escape into substances. My own early life was marked by a feeling of being out of sync, a sense of alienation that books, particularly science fiction, helped to soothe. Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land planted a seed with its concept, “Thou Art God,” a quiet whisper of hope that something sacred might exist even within a life that felt profoundly flawed. This idea became an anchor, though one I would drift far from before finding my way back.
Adolescence brought the storm of addiction, a deceptive salve for anxiety and self-doubt that only pulled me further from myself. The dream of escaping this world, whether as an astronaut or through some other form of transcendence, was a powerful force. Yet, even as life spiraled, the search for spiritual truth persisted. Traditional religious frameworks, with their doctrines of inherent sinfulness, often felt unsatisfying, leaving a spiritual malnourishment that no amount of searching could seem to fill. It was not until I reached a breaking point, a moment of complete surrender, that a new path began to reveal itself—one that did not point to a distant God but to the divine spark within life itself.
I travelled a path from profound personal trauma to a moment of spiritual awakening that reframed the very nature of my reality. It is a testament to the idea that healing is not about erasing the past but about integrating it into a larger story of connection, love, and the realization that we are all threads in an infinite tapestry. Mine was a journey toward understanding that the divine is not a concept to be studied, but a living presence to be experienced, moment to moment.
Before healing can begin, I had to confront the depths of my suffering. For nearly a year, I lived with a form of drug-induced mental illness, a persistent and unsettling internal monologue that narrated my life from a detached, third-person perspective. Even three months into sobriety, a milestone that should have brought clarity, this inner voice remained.
“He is driving his car.”
“He is listening to that man.”
Each phrase was a hammer blow to my sense of self, creating a profound alienation from my own experiences. It was as if I were a spectator in my own life, my thoughts and actions observed and announced by an invisible commentator. Psychiatrists might label this experience paranoid schizophrenia, but labels fail to capture the visceral reality of such an experience. This voice was not a command, but a constant, unnerving observation that created a feedback loop of disconnection. It interpreted the body language of others, fed my paranoia, and deepened my despair. I began to fear that this fractured consciousness was a permanent scar, an inescapable reminder of my past.
This internal torment was compounded by physical ailments. My body was wracked with tremors, similar to Parkinson’s disease, a constant physical manifestation of a nervous system ravaged by substance abuse. Sobriety had stopped the poisoning, but the damage felt irreparable. I was a ship adrift, my mind a storm-tossed sea and my body a creaking vessel on the verge of breaking apart. The hope for a life of peace and wholeness seemed like a distant, unattainable shore. It was in this state of desperation, on the edge of surrender, that I made a pilgrimage to a place that would forever alter the course of my life.
A Mountain, a Voice, and a Glimpse of the Infinite
On June 22, 1987, I drove to Larch Mountain, a sacred peak overlooking the Columbia River valley. With panoramic views of the great mountains—Rainier, Adams, St. Helens, Hood, and Jefferson—it felt like a natural observatory, a place to witness creation on a grand scale. I was seeking solace, a moment of peace from the relentless inner chatter and physical tremors that defined my existence.
Bypassing the guardrail at the summit, I found a secluded spot, hidden from the world, where I could be alone with my turmoil. I began with a simple act: observing. I let the immense beauty of the landscape fill my awareness, from the winding river below to the snow-capped peaks on the horizon. Then, I turned inward, attempting the difficult work of prayer and meditation. My mind, as always, resisted stillness. The third-person narrator continued its commentary, its hold on me seeming as strong as ever.
But something shifted in that sanctuary of nature. As I sat in quiet contemplation, the rigid boundaries of my “self” began to soften. The feeling of separation that had defined my entire life—from others, from nature, from God—started to dissolve. In its place, an overwhelming sense of unity began to emerge. Suddenly, there was no distinction between me, the mountains, the river, and the sky. It was all one continuous, unbroken field of existence. A profound warmth, an ineffable presence, flowed through me, quieting the mental noise and filling the silence with an unmistakable clarity.
Then, a voice emerged from the depths of my consciousness. It was not the detached, clinical narrator I had come to despise. It was steady, calm, and resonant with an undeniable truth.
“He is having an experience with God.”
These were the final words spoken from that third-person perspective. In that instant, the veil was lifted. The tremors in my body ceased. The relentless chatter in my mind went silent. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, I was enveloped in a profound and total peace. The “he” no longer existed because the separation it implied had vanished. There was only “I am,” intimately and inextricably woven into the fabric of life itself.
This was not an intellectual understanding; it was a deep, experiential knowing. Love, which had always felt conditional and transactional, now radiated from me freely and without reservation. It extended to all of humanity, to the plants and animals, and even to those who had caused me pain. In that moment, I touched the infinite. Healing was no longer about abstaining from substances or managing symptoms; it was about awakening to the fundamental truth of our interconnectedness. It was about learning to live without the hard boundaries that our minds construct, the very boundaries that create our suffering.
Descending from that peak, I was a changed man. I carried not just a memory, but a living transformation. The journey was far from over, but its direction was now clear. It was no longer about escaping the world, but about fully, and lovingly, participating in it.
The experience on Larch Mountain was not an end, but a new beginning. Carrying the imprint of that profound unity, I began the slow and deliberate work of re-engaging with the world. The question that echoed in my mind was no longer one of despair, but of purpose: “Where are my people?”
My first steps were acts of amends and reconciliation. I returned to the US Postal Service, my former employer, not to reclaim my job, but to apologize for the years I had worked in a state of unhappiness and dysfunction. The encounters were surreal. Colleagues who had known the old me were stunned by the transformation. One former supervisor, upon hearing my story, expressed a deep wish that his own son, who was struggling with addiction, could find what I had found.
I sought out my old psychiatrist, Dr. Dan Beavers, whom I found in the metaphysical section of a bookstore. He barely recognized me. When I told him I had found a way to live without medication or substances, he simply replied, “That is the desired outcome for all of my patients.” These moments were not just about closing old chapters; they were about weaving the threads of my past into a new story, one defined by responsibility, gratitude, and connection.
This journey led me to new communities, like the International New Thought Alliance (INTA). There, I found myself in the presence of others who were also on a path of spiritual discovery. I witnessed a gathering of over a thousand people warmly embrace a musical group of gay men living with HIV/AIDS, a stark and healing contrast to the judgment I had encountered in other religious settings. The tenderness and acceptance I felt in that room were a powerful affirmation that the love I had experienced on the mountain was not a solitary phenomenon, but a shared human potential.
This new life, this “upgraded Bruce 2.0,” was filled with a sense of continuous joy and wonder. I spent hours each day in prayer and meditation, not as a chore, but as a way to remain connected to the deep well of peace I had discovered. I was taught on an inner plane about aspects of consciousness that no book could have explained. This was not a Christian God, a Jewish God, or the Buddha Mind. It was the master teacher that lies within each of us, the voice of inner wisdom that is so often ignored. The world I had once wanted to escape so desperately was now paradise on Earth.
One of the greatest challenges after a profound spiritual experience is finding the language to communicate it. For years, I struggled to articulate what had happened on that mountain. The experience was ineffable, beyond the grasp of words and rational thought. As William Blake wrote, “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite.” My doors had been cleansed, but the world I now saw was difficult to describe to those still looking through the “narrow chinks of their cavern.”
Many who have such experiences fall silent, give up trying to explain, or attempt to fit their understanding into existing religious frameworks. My path was different. I realized my role was not to describe the light, but to help clear away the debris that obscures it for others. My path became one of via transformativa and via negativa—a way of transformation that comes after one has perceived, healed, and cleared the collective field of human misunderstanding.
What is left after the garbage is cleared? It is akin to the metamorphosis of a butterfly. The butterfly, once a caterpillar, would surely rather speak of its newfound freedom to fly than its former life crawling on the ground. Yet, its story originates from that grounded existence. The journey through our own “dirt”—our trauma, our addictions, our conditioning—is what makes the emergence of the butterfly possible.
Spiritual freedom is the letting go of limitations. It is realizing that the stories we tell ourselves about who we are, are not the whole truth. We all need a bigger story, one that encompasses not only our personal struggles but also our connection to the divine fabric of life.
My story is not one of perfection; it is a human story of falling, rising, and learning to sing one’s own song. The miracle is not that others listen, but that we finally begin to listen to ourselves. The journey from the chaos of a fractured mind to the clarity of a unified consciousness is a testament to the healing power that lies dormant within each of us.
The divine is not an external entity to be sought, but an internal reality to be realized. It is the silent presence beneath the noise of our thoughts, the boundless love that connects us all, and the profound peace that awaits when we finally let go of who we think we are and embrace the truth of what we have always been. Healing trauma is not just about recovery; it is about the sacred act of remembering our wholeness and finding our place in the great, unfolding story of life itself. We are all interconnected, and in that connection, we find not only our healing, but our divinity.
