Where The Day Takes You

There’s a really good movie by the title, “Where the Day Takes You”, or at least, I remember liking it. It was many years ago that I saw it, and maybe I enjoyed it for the simple fact that I related to it. It is about a group of runaways, and for a time, I existed in a very similar situation. I wrestle greatly with this part of my shadowy past. Yet there is still a part of that runaway that lives inside me, and I struggle with her a lot. She holds many thrilling and terrifying memories. This part of me wants to tell her story, and it has been suggested to me on many occasions (by people, in divination and through the Unseen) that I tell this story. But every time I try, the fear of revealing these difficult truths holds me back. This part of me leaks out at times, and I think it is because it needs to…whether I like it or not, this is part of my own tale. Whether I will be judged for it, ridiculed for it, despised or disowned for it, it is my story and I think it wants to be told. I’ve been reading a lot about telling our own tales, writing our own mythologies. I have always loved this idea, and I think it’s partially why I am so drawn to film studies and writing. The pragmatic voices in my head have always steered me away from following my heart on this path. Maybe it is fear of telling this part of my story, of making it real again. For so long, I kept this part of me so hidden I had almost forgotten. When I did share bits and pieces, I felt as if people’s judgements where tearing that vulnerable, very damaged young girl into bit and pieces, and I learned to swallow her up into an internal mind-grave that I deliberately buried her in. A lot of the work I did to help heal my post-traumatic-stress-disorder symptoms involved building mental walls around this damaged part of myself, creating this grave for her/me, learning to integrate the humiliation I experienced, and to understand that power-over is a very real and difficult part of existence that must be willingly accepted in order to gain power-over it (which I know is a mind-fuck, but there it is.) This helped me for a long time, allowing myself to heal in ways that I think needed to have her buried in order that the rest of me, the adult me, be allowed to grow. But then the Unseen started to give me signals that she needed to be exhumed and healed fully, to be allowed to be a child again, to cry it out, to be heard and given the empathy she desperately needed, that she needed to become alive again in order to integrate with the rest of me, making me whole again. So I dug her up, very cautiously. Kelly-Ann was integral in assisting in this process. This has been the majority of my work for the past few years, and in doing so, I think this part of me is healed enough to be allowed to tell her story.

The reason I keep bringing all this shit up is because some family members, particularly my mom and dad, keep bringing it up. I reckon it has to do with their age and the guilt that they feel in the matter. It feels like a punch in the gut every time they do this, and while I know that my actions affected them, especially my mom, they do not understand how much it feels like they are dragging me through the dirt when they do this. To continually have your traumas replayed for you as if it is just some anecdotal tale from a lifeless book, is something that keeps healing from really getting through, and I try to disallow it. So while I try not to be a big cry-baby about the past, I am realizing how hurt and broken I was, how much trauma really lives in those memories, and how it has got to be me that becomes my archetypal mother here, I must be the one to nurture my own soul and healing. My other family members are incapable of providing this, and nor should I place this responsibility upon them. I’ve been blogging privately about this because some serious betrayals revealed themselves to me last month, and it awakened my need to really just fucking deal with this already. It is not so simple, though…you don’t just open up your heart, scrape out the blackened mess, stitch it up and move on. It is a process. An arduous process. Sigh.



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