It can be a brutal journey or a beautiful one. Usually it’s a colourful mixture of blood red with swirls of pastel mother of pearl, highlights. It’s such an individual thing, all of us have our own paintings of our life, memories, like canvases, hung up on the walls of our minds.
I know when I take trips down memory lane, I walk past all of those paintings, and take pause – here and there…to really look over the details. I see the scenes unfold from my internal paintbrush and I touch the brush strokes, noticing how bold or faded the colours have become.
Some of these pictures of my life, I don’t put up. I keep them locked up in a vault. When I dare to, I open it up and pull them out, one-by-one, to gaze at pain. I think I really don’t see what I think I see. I think my mind has skewed some of the reality that was. Perhaps it really wasn’t all that good, or it really wasn’t all that horribly bad. I don’t know as memories are funny things. They tend to re-write themselves along the way to suit us.
Sometimes you just have to step back and see things the way they really were. This can be difficult but not impossible. It’s incredibly heart wrenching if the memory is a painful one and it throws us into a bright red world of intense, unbearable, torture.
Memories are not just scenes in our minds; they are emotions, powerful ones…emotions that make or break us. And when they break us, it can seem like we are unrepairable. But, we are not. People are resilient. If we look to those who love us and need us along with others who have the skills to really help us, we will prevail.
We can, we WILL carry on and, ultimately, get past it all.