I’ve been going through old photos and videos dating back to what I looked like prior to shaving my head. It’s been a strange exercise but one I am repeatedly obligated to carry out since the storage on my I-phone is systematically reaching full capacity, causing all of my applications to glitch. I got this device a few months into the relationship with my ex spouse therefore the large majority of the media content found in it covers that season of my life. Don’t get me wrong, it was packed with amazing experiences. Darkness wasn’t all there was. Besides, I was very intentional about creating opportunities to bond, try new things, celebrate life and immortalize it. I don’t have one preferred love language. I go heavy on quality time, acts of service and words of affirmations. Given the sheer amount of files in my gallery, it seems I had volunteered to assume the role of household documentarian. It was important for me to record everything I could and thread the memories of our life together, our daily routines, our adventures and our discoveries, for a chance to reflect on them later on. There is so much I have erased and still so much left that I simply cannot part ways with; anything dog or travel related being at the top of that list. There are also pictures of me I haven’t yet been able to detach myself from. With that too, it’s as bitter as it is sweet. Although they are all tarnished to some degree by a suffocating shadowy presence, they evoke moments of unbelievable beauty and innocence. She who I see on camera was always true and pure with her intentions. I see my inner child so clearly. She’s right there, looking back. I step forward to meet her with only love and compassion in my heart. I don’t perceive her as fragments of the whole -  of who I am now; she is everything that I am and beyond. It was already there, waiting to be express. It’s no coincidence I felt so firmly called to shave my head again. It seems I needed to revisit that version of myself. I needed to resurrect her and spend time with her; interrogate her on how she was feeling and what she most needed from me. Back then, I wasn’t equipped to assist her the way that I can now. I  didn’t know how to hold space for her without passing judgement. Back then, even I struggled to comprehend what she was going through, let alone vocalize it. I want to know all there is to know about what caused her the most pain. I want her to let me know what made her feel unsafe and disempowered and afraid. I’ve analyzed it and deconstructed from a higher vantage point but I want to hear it in her own words. My journal helps me with that. I travel back in time and read her thoughts. I use the photographs and videos as portals through which I can access the past. I go back with the aim to quietly listen. I want her to speak to me. Not with songs. Not with abstract colors. With her own words… It’s not just my inner child who needs my affection; every version preceding my current self, who has known trauma and disconnection from self / source, is who I want to spend time with. She, who lost all she had in the fire and perished in order to let me rise in full form, was my 29 years old self. Her grief is mine. Her sorrow is mine. Her exhaustion is mine. While she needed me, I surrendered everything I had to nourish, nurture, fuel and appease someone else - I failed her. She, who has been laid to rest, hasn’t been restful; my present self needed to reconnect with my energy at that time for a renewed opportunity to soothe my past self and thank her for persisting like she did in order to get me through the storm. She, who I used to be, visits me all the time. Memories are continuously being pulled out of the archives. I understand the purpose of this journeying back and forth but I grow tired of it at times. I think of myself then and it tears me up. She was so vulnerable. She was so thirsty for reciprocal love and affection. Invisible, she felt, as if her needs didn’t matter. Although it warms my heart to see just how much light shines through while drowning in sadness, despair and isolation, it is nevertheless heartbreaking and somewhat disturbing for me to observe myself from the perspective I currently hold. I was clinging onto every opportunity for a moment of relief and happiness while being ill. I was unable to eat and was living with chronic stress and pain, blind to the pernicious grooming and emotional abuse I was being subjected to. I was absolutely miserable and in denial about the direction my life was taking. I knew that I wanted more - that I deserved more. I knew that there had to be more, but I wanted more with my abuser. I can see myself experiencing fleeting moments of childlike joy punctuated with abrupt shots of reality that would suddenly pull me out of the narrative I had created for myself and was trying so hard to stick to. I look so dazed and confused - out of it most of the time. I can spot myself as I’m dissociating from my body. It’s as if I have these moments of forgetfulness, where all seems as normal as it appears on the surface. It’s peace of mind and pure bliss for just a moment in time, and I savor it - I want to believe in it. Out of nowhere, a thought would enter my mind - leaving me with the same exact conundrum my day had started with. I look at myself and I can see the thoughts sprouting in my brain as wonder: “What are we even doing?” “Who are we fooling?” “Is any of this real?” “We both know what happened the night before…” But then again: “Wait, did that really happen?” or  “Who are you?” “Who am I becoming?” “Am I crazy?” “Do you want me here?” “Do you want me dead?” and “What’s happening to us?” “Why do you treat me this way?” “Can we fix it?” “Are we on the same team?” “Are we going to get make it?” “Do you still believe?” Constantly trying to figure out: “What’s hurting you?” “Is it unresolved trauma?” “Do you mean to be this cruel?” “Perhaps you don’t…” “Perhaps if I can take your pain away you won’t hurt me as much…” I was a girl coming into my womanhood and it looked nothing like what I had envisioned for us - for myself. Physiological systems started breaking down to wake me up but I couldn’t make sense of it. I didn’t see the connection. I didn’t yet understand the mind, body, soul connection. I looked everywhere for answers but at what was right under my nose. To cope with trauma, I subconsciously sought to escape my body. If I couldn’t find refuge in drug induced altered stated of consciousness, I’d get drunk on listening to music, on painting, on gardening, on dancing, on reading, on learning… On day dreaming. Art saved my life. Consuming it. Admiring it. Conceptualizing it. Producing it. With no emotional crutch to get me through the day, I’d dissociate. When I watch these videos I can see myself having these moments or reckoning when I stare into my abuser’s eyes with so much anguish, bereavement and regrets. I can feel the pain in my eyes, in my body. I’m walking around, agonizing, nearing spiritual death, with a smile on my face, desirous to laugh from the heart even though every bone in my body ached with generational pain. Awakening to my connection to the divine and catering to spirit saved my life. I wouldn’t be here otherwise. These pictures and videos, I think I’m going to post them all. That way others can see what experiencing severe cognitive dissonance looks like. Those who have no idea what I’m talking about can consider themselves lucky. The ones who have walked a mile in my shoe will be able to recognize it for they understand from experience the kind of fog I’m trying to describe. Either way, I feel need to see it… I’m going to preserve these clips of the past so that I never forget what it looks like to slip further and further away from the self or how far I’ve come to embrace all that I am. The girl who carried me home is a warrior. I should know, she lent me her spirit. I know her heart. I wouldn’t have want to be anyone else.

#MindBodyConnection

#NarcissisticSupply

#ShadowWork

#OdeToSelf

#Rebirth