A Past Life Regression Story

Haunted by A Past Life?

A past life or many different past lives can “bleed through” and hamper our present day
existence, usually because of old karma attached to the experiences. Recovering the
memories of those lives can release us from the past, and free us to move forward more
easily.

Here is one young man’s story..

Three years ago while living in Vancouver I noticed a strange ad in a New Age newspaper.
The ad read: “Discover your past lives. Discover who you are and where you have been.
Phone Diane, hypnotherapist, at the number listed below.” What did a hypnotherapist do? I
had never heard of such a profession.
A week later, after having built up my courage as well as my curiosity, I went to see Diane. I
liked Diane from the moment we met. She was in her 60’s but looked many years younger.
She told me that she specialized in past life regression. Here’s the story of what happened

A Visit to Pompei
“If you discover your past lives, you discover who you are and you can change yourself,
forever altering your future,” said Diane.
I smiled but remained skeptical. What could I uncover? Would I be in some drug-induced
trance? Would I even remember what I saw, assuming of course that I would see something?
Oh well, it’s only $40. If she’s a “nut” or phony I’ll find out soon enough.
I sat in a reclining chair as she closed the blinds and darkened the room. Her soft voice
combined with her chamomile tea put me at ease, almost making me sleepy. She lit a candle,
wound up a piano meter—the kind that ticks back and forth at regular intervals—and focused
my attention to a large strange moving object on the wall. The object consisted of black
concentric lines against a white background. The lines moved inward, pulling my eyes
attention to them and fixating them on the downward spiraling lines. Part of me wanted to
leave, but I stayed. I couldn’t move. The object before me kept dragging me into it.
“And now take a deep breath and begin to count back from one hundred,” said Diane.
“One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven, ninety-six…” I slowly said out loud.
“Go back to where it all began.”
“I see nothing.”
“Concentrate harder. Look at the moving lines, hear the piano meter tick back and forth, and
ask for God to reveal the secret lives that have long since faded from your conscious
memory.”

Sand in my Face
I sat in a chair in the midst of the darkened room, counting backwards and staring at the
concentric lines moving inwards then outwards. Then at about the count of twenty I closed
my eyes. Still counting, I asked repeatedly for God to uncover my past lives.
Suddenly I jumped. Something had hit my face and continued to hit it. It was sand, coarse
white sand, blown so heavily by the wind that it scrapped my face. I couldn’t see. I put my
arm in front of my eyes, moving forward against the wind. My clothes flapped in the wind so
violently that I expected them to be ripped to shreads. I stumbled over some uneven stones in
my path. My knee bled. My eyes burned. My hair hurt as the wind blew it back, almost
ripping it out from its roots. I hunched over putting one arm in front of me, trying desperately
to find the way. As the sunlight faded, I looked for shelter. After several minutes I touched
what seemed to be a wall. I followed the wall until I found an entrance. At the place where
two walls joined I crouched down, putting my face on my knees and covering my head with
my arms. Exhausted I fell into a deep sleep.
The next morning I awoke. Completely covered in sand, I couldn’t move. It took me several
minutes to free myself. I walked out of the building, shielded my eyes from the sunlight, and
walked down a cobblestone street. I looked at my feet, clothing, and arms: I wore brown,
leather sandals, a white tunic with a leather belt, elaborately-carved gold arm bracelets, one
on each arm, and a dagger in a leather sheath. The street looked deserted—not even a dog in
sight. Yesterday’s wind had died down to a faint breeze. Yet, as I walked along, I choked on
the fine powder-like sand in the air. I continually beat the sand off my tunic and brushed it off
my arms and legs. I looked around. Where was I? Many extensively damaged white stone
buildings lay everywhere. Sand covered everything: the streets, the house rooftops, the front
porches—even the leaves of the trees. From where did all this sand come? Obviously the
occupants of the entire town had left. But what had happened? As I walked towards what
must have once been the Town Square I noticed that many buildings lay in ruin. Silence filled
the air. I called out. No answer. Where was everyone?
I continued walking down the town’s main street. A heavily damaged shop with an open
entrance stood to the right of me. I walked into the shop. I saw no one. A few cast iron pots
and pans lay on the floor, their handles protruding from the sand which covered them. On the
wall lay the remnants of a mirror. I looked into the small piece of mirror remaining. I saw
myself: I had long brown hair, looked about eighteen years old, and had an olive complexion.
On one side of my head my hair had turned white. When I ran my fingers through my hair the
white disappeared—it had only been sand. I left the shop and continued walking. The town
looked familiar. Every town in my province, however, followed a standard layout making it
difficult to tell one town from another. With so much devastation to the buildings I couldn’t
make out what town it had been. I could not see even one sign, anywhere .
Finally I came upon the remains of what must have been a wealthy nobleman’s home– only a
nobleman could have lived in such a large house. The front porch had collapsed inwards,
toppling four Corinthian style pillars. Huge slabs of blue marble carvings lay scattered on the
ground in the front of the building—obviously a fresco at one time. I walked nimbly through
the rubble and entered what must have been the foyer. The left wall still stood even though it
was completely covered with the same fine white powder that was present throughout the
town. I brushed part of the wall off. Underneath was a tile mosaic. I brushed more of the wall
off until a picture of a blue dolphin emerged. Several yellow fishes also emerged. I continued
to brush the powder off the wall. Slowly, lettering emerged. Finally I could make out the
wording: “Welcome to all who venture into these premises. Here lies the house of a great
nobleman, Germanicus Anthony, Mayor of this fair town, loyal servant of the Emperor.”
“No, it can’t be!” I cried out.
I brushed the remaining powder away, revealing the name of the town.
“Oh my God! What had happened! It must be a mistake!” I cried.
The town’s name was Pompeii—my hometown. I fell onto my knees sobbing. Everyone that
I had known must be dead—all of my family and friends. But how? What had happened here
to bring about such utter destruction? Had Vandals attacked the town? If so, where did all this
sand come from? A month earlier I had left Pompeii. I had had a fight with my father. He had
wanted me to stay and take over the family business in Pompeii. I had wanted to see more of
the world. My mother had begged me to stay. So had my girlfriend, Olivia. Maybe someone
survived. I had to find my parents home and Olivia’s. I ran out of the ruined building and
made my way to the area of town where my parents lived. I found their house or what
remained of it. The house was completely destroyed. It had fallen inwards, collapsing the
roof, the pillars supporting the roof, and the walls. If they had been inside they could not have
survived. I sat down on one of the front porch steps and cried. For about half an hour I cried,
then I thought of Olivia. I got up and ran towards her parent’s home. It was only about a ten
minute walk from my parent’s place.
Her parents lived in a large house right on the corner of the street opposite City Hall. I
jumped over the rubble that lay strewn in the street and made my way to Olivia’s. As I neared
her home I saw the remains of her parents house. The same type of destruction that had fell
upon my parents home had hit her home as well. I collapsed in front of her house sobbing,
crying out in anger, asking how the Gods could have allowed such disaster to hit such a noble
town. I walked back to my parent’s home, standing in the midst of its ruins, waving my hands
up towards the Heavens, crying out for help. After several minutes I sat down, leaning
against a pillar. I was exhausted. Several hours later I was suddenly being shaken. I awoke.
“Marcus, get up, don’t worry I’m here to help you,” said my Uncle Petronius. I jumped up,
threw my arms round him, and sobbed.
“What happened?” I asked.
“A volcano destroyed the entire town. It erupted without any warning, killing everyone. No
one had a chance to escape. I’m so sorry. Your poor mother and father!”
“Are they dead?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“And Olivia and her family?”
“Dead as well. This has been the worst disaster I’ve ever witnessed in my life.”
“What’s to become of me now? I have no one left in this entire world except for you,” I said.
“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. I have a chariot waiting for us. I knew that you would
return here. I’ve come here every day since the disaster hit, hoping to find you. The sun will
soon be setting. It’s a long journey back to Rome. Come, my boy, there’s nothing here
anymore for you. Let’s leave.”
I walked out of the ruins with my uncle. At the edge of the city we boarded his chariot. I
looked back as the chariot left Pompeii. I knew that I would never return. A new life awaited
me in Rome.
“One, two, three,” a woman yelled out.
At the count of three she snapped her fingers.
“Where am I?” I asked.
“In my living room where you have been for most of the afternoon,” said Diane.
“What happened? I must have briefly dozed off for a minute,” I said.
“You must have tapped into one of your past lives.”
“That’s impossible. I would know if something like that had happened. Let’s continue on
with the session.”
“Continue on. With what?” asked Diane.
“It’s only 2:00 p.m. The session has hardly begun. I’m still waiting to be put under. Mind you,
I’m skeptical.”
“It’s not 2:00 p.m.—it’s 5:30 p.m.”
“What happened?”
“You tell me! By the way, who is Olivia? You mentioned her several times throughout the
afternoon.”
For a moment I felt stunned, like I had just emerged from a deep sleep. Three and a half
hours of my life had disappeared and I had not even been aware of its departure. I felt scared.
What had happened? Slowly my recollection of my visit to Pompeii returned. What I had
experienced felt so real: the sand had scrapped my skin, I had touched the marble columns at
the mayor’s home, and the warm Italian sun had shone upon me. For a moment the thought
crossed my mind that either I had gone temporarily mad or Diane had slipped a narcotic into
my tea. I didn’t know what to believe. Unlike a normal dream which I would forget upon
wakening, this experience had become etched into my memory. Everything had been so vivid,
like a grandiose episode filmed in technicolor, with myself in the lead role. The intensity of
the experience captivated me–no ordinary drug or drink could induce such an experience. I
had crossed into another dimension, tapped into the unknown, and lived to tell about it.
Diane analyzed my experience, telling me that my present family problems were a repeat of
my previous family problems back in Pompeii. Her explanation sounded absurd, yet it rang
true. She thanked me for coming to see her, then mentioned that her next appointment would
be arriving soon. I left her place, dazed, yet intrigued. I never went back, but to this day I still
remember every detail of my “visit” to Pompeii, as though I had been there in person. Eric
Hamilton ehamilt@interlog.com

Narasumber :
http://www.thepsychicwell.com/spirituality/past-lives-and-reincarnation/a-past-life-regression-
story/