I was about 2 years old when I woke up on the lounge. The sun was streaming through the window so that it felt like I had awoken in a bright yellow warm cocoon. I saw nothing but the light, but I felt something missing. I was home alone and I did not like this one bit. Within seconds, for the sake of the story lets make it a good few minutes, my mum opened the front door and walked in with shopping bags.
Spotting me crying, like a scared little girl, she offloaded her wrath onto me. How dare I think she had left me alone in the house, she was just out the front. What she said and what I saw did not match. The disgust on her face was enough to separate us emotionally for decades, and enough to know that showing fear is punishable. Bury it…keep it buried…if it shows signs of emerging stomp on that blackness until it is so deeply submerged it can surely do no more damage. She was no longer my protector and nurturer, she was my dungeon master, the judge, the guilt trip. My gaslighter. My childhood ended that day. Survival commenced. Out of the cocoon should have emerged a butterfly, but I was not ready for my metamorphosis. I had also lost the protection wrapped around me to allow for a secure transformation. Out in the world, on a path anticipating only mental, physical, emotional and psychic attack. The only support, a tattered cord that stretched from my head to a fearful mother, disappearing up into an ancestral line of mute submission.
OK OK….. this wasn’t exactly my first memory. I LIED. My first memory was of my brother and I sitting on the edge of the red concrete balcony in the sun eating watermelon slices. Making a huge mess, swinging our legs and laughing. I’ll even throw mum in somewhere in the background beaming with happiness at our frolicking. But that type of memory is not really conducive to blame, victim-hood, and doesn’t explain the emotional disability that took me many years to understand let alone overcome. Pfffftt, laughter and watermelon doesn’t cut it in this complex world. Let’s get down to some painful realities, you know, the safe stuff, the stuff that helps you hide inside a grey cloaked uniform that society gave you.
Mercury was retrograde when I wrote the above some years ago. I was sitting alone digging and digging and digging, trying to logically nut out why I was sitting alone digging and digging and digging for yet another day in pain. I decided to write it all down and the above reflection is the first thing that came to mind. I think the key to healing your past is to employ interpretive magic. If events from your past are interpreted from a victim point of view, then you become a victim. Great, become a victim, delve into it and see if you can in fact remain a victim. Live it, breath it, believe it. tell the story to yourself, your friends, your partner, the internet. Tell everyone, the more the better, really gel that concept into your head. Well done. Happy?
It takes a lot of courage to look at your own history impartially. Lots of responsibility involved though, not for everyone. Not everyone wants ownership.
It is extremely empowering to reinterpret memories as lessons that helped you to learn what you needed to know to be the person you are now.
That knowledge alone carries momentum to move toward the person you want to become.
It is a very limiting assumption that we only have one interpretation of an event or period in our lives. But the phenomenal world is rarely so cut and dried.
Interpretation is actually a choice. People forget we all have options. People want to forget we all have options. But we adopt masks to protect ourselves, each one becoming a bar of our self-distorted prison. We are so scared of free-will because it equals responsibility, and that’s just hard work. Blame is easy, but it also takes away your power to change. It took me many years to learn this.
Another thing I learned is when you tell your story you send it off into the universe. I believe I’m ready to part with mine.
You me at Six – A Little bit of Truth
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