Being a Walk-in - and the nature of fear

Some people have outstanding clarity of the events surrounding the occupation of their current form - with a continuity of consciousness that precedes the event.
I’m not one of those people.
I have no idea where I’m from – and discovered only recently that I am in fact a walk-in.
If it hadn’t been for other puzzling events (which I won’t go into right now) that led me to probe into the past, it is quite possible that I may never have realised what I am – never mind trying to figure out who. Though in truth I suspect that very, very few people really know the answer to that one.
One of the bizarre aspects of this walk-in state is that the memory of the me that used to be all those years ago is still very much intact. I can remember the dappled light on the sun canopy of the pram my mother used to put me in for my afternoon nap as a baby. I remember the fringe around the canopy, the pressed steel clip that held the spokes supporting the canopy and the pattern around the inside of the pram.
I remember the beautiful quietness of those summer afternoons in a neighborhood where bicycles were far more common than cars, the interminable afternoons waiting for my two brothers to come home from school – and have amazed my parents by describing in detail the fabric of curtains that were replaced when I was only three years old.

I also remember clearly, one particular day at the beach. My parents were snoozing on towels stretched out on the sand. My older brothers were building a sand castle nearby – and I wandered down to the water. It was a very calm day on a beach that was usually very safe – not the kind of place to go surfing.
There were not many people in the water – and none anywhere near where I began to walk out along a large diameter concrete pipe which stretched out into the sea.

I walked along the top of the pipe for some distance, before reaching a point where it was covered in a soft green carpet of algae. At first this was pleasantly soft and cool under foot, then it became treacherously slippery.
Suddenly my legs slipped out from under me and in I went. Unfortunately, at the age of five, I couldn’t swim.
Visibility underwater wasn’t good. The water was rather cloudy – a little like greenish beige fog. Strangely, sinking down through the water there was no panic. The last thing I remember was thinking “I suppose I’m going to die now”. Then everything went blank.

When I regained consciousness I was lying face down on the wet sand at the water’s edge. Nobody was around and I couldn’t figure out how I got there (and still don’t know).
I ran up the beach and told my parents I ‘nearly’ drowned, which elicited a “Yes dear” kind of response from my mother.
My oldest brother grabbed me and playfully started performing the old style artificial respiration technique, which was hurtling like hell but producing an amazing amount of water. I was coughing and spluttering fit to burst and begging him to stop – but he ignored my pleas and so did my parents.

The gap – the blank period in that episode always puzzled me. Although it was never a big concern I never could figure out how I ended up back on the beach with nobody to help.

When I found out I was a walk-in and that I did actually drown as a child it upset me greatly – and strangely, I developed a fear of that past event – even though I wasn’t scared of dying at the time.

It has been said that walk-ins inherit the memories of the previous entity in the body, so I was happy to go along with that theory for a while – but there were other issues to resolve and in due course further revelations emerged.

From what I have learned, it seems most usual for one entity to leave the body when the other enters it - commonly by some prior agreement. So in the main, most walk-ins are single entities. I have also heard of instances where different parts of the body may be inhabited by different entities.

Mysteriously in my case it seems that the centre strand of my Kundalini is split right down the middle. The original me is still resident along with the walk-in. So the two of us have some kind of sharing arrangement.
It has been suggested that it would be possible to restore the ascendancy of the original me – but what would become of the me I’ve grown to be.

Seems like a split in the Kundalini has brought spiritual development to a full halt, but it does explain one or two otherwise baffling events. One of these was driving through a small town at night – and watching myself drive past from the inside of a darkened shop.
The other was far more disturbing.

When many people have an out of body or near death experience commonly they report being able to look down on their lifeless body, for example in the operating theatre or at the scene of an accident etc. That’s not the way it happened for me.

20 years or so ago I had some trouble with episodes that caused me to wake screaming in the night. On one such occasion I found myself looking down – not on a lifeless body – but my own body crawling around on its hands and knees on the bed screaming.

There was the same dispassionate view of events as described by others – until I returned to my body – at which point I was consumed by the same overpowering terror the body was going through.

The reason I found this so disturbing was that it seemed to contradict certain aspects of my belief system. How was it that my body was screaming when I was not in it. It was as though a conscious part of us really does die – and only part of us survives.

The realization that only one entity “jumped ship” leaving the other to struggle briefly alone is a comforting one – but the more important lesson learned regards the nature of fear itself.

It seems to me that fear is hard-wired in the body. There is a profound contrast between the calm state of being outside the body - completely unaffected by what is happening to the body - and the sudden overwhelming fear that takes hold immediately on merging back into it.

If ever I find myself in fear, the notion that it is only my body that is scared definitely makes a difference.