The Pink Shag Vortex

I suppose I wish to rewrite situations, trauma, childhood, nights, moments… life. I used to dream of living my cousin’s life or a popular girl at school’s life.  Later I convinced myself the past built the present and I would/should/could not change it. 

Still yet, why not overhaul a memory by changing the second half? I gather the beginning of the story, then swap the true ending for a mismatched conclusion. Though the second half is out of time sequence, the powerful part: choosing something meaningful to modify the narrative.

Perhaps new endings merely swap places in time; both the beginning-horror and ending-sweet-memory display truth.  Or, the terror morphs into something palatable? No, not completely. Although a therapist suggested new endings, I want to take the credit because they help. How? Maybe neurons are rerouted, or the cerebral cortex gets new maps? I guess the halves need to be weight-classed to pair up as the emotion requires counterbalance. And, the top and bottom share divided pieces of the whole. New endings change…. something. Yes, new endings change something.

Wonder through this example with me…

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The bolt lock turns sending my sister running up the stairs whisper-shouting my name.  Beth grabs my hand and we scurry to the slope in her bedroom closet.  Will dad change clothes before hollering our names?  We silently shiver together in the heat of the pink shag carpet beneath, only this time we pick teleportation rather than invisibility. And the shag delivers.  

A two-year age gap seems our only dividing factor.  One place on earth suits both of our creative brains – the farm.  Through the vortex we slide right out onto the stock pile of loose straw in the side-barn.

The smell of tractor grease, turpentine, and cow manure combine with the dust fog of loose straw to remind me … I love this barn.  I love this farm.  I love this free feeling.

Our young uncles gear up to swing on the cross bar high above.  Richie flies first and lands with only his boots sticking out of the pile.  Charles lifts Beth to the bar and helps her gain momentum.  She squeals as she free falls.  And I bounce on my toes in anticipation.  Richie hoists me to his shoulders and I hold tight.  He swings me; I hold my breath and shut my eyes as if jumping into a pool.  I come up for air laughing and already begging to do it again!

       We play until Charles sneaks off into the hay loft.  The wildest game of hide-and-seek and finding lost shoes begins. It’s my turn to hide; I fall through a hole six bales deep. I love it.  I know when I am found Charles will pull me out.  Rich and Charles wrap our fun when Pop hollers their names: milking time.  We all run out to gather the cows from the pasture.

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Call me crazy; I definitely do. I’m not changing history, diminishing the desolation and torture of my past, or wishing it away. I stand. And, I can flip the script on a movie that plays at-will in my brain. This is my story; this is my past. If I change the ending – so what? Somehow this brings me a level of power I relish.

        Deep belly breath (because you can). Your past; your story: they’re yours. You can choose to modify them. And bonus, what if it helps turn off the movie?