Y’know the clip on 101 Dalmations, when Cruela Deville falls backwards into the molasses? Gets stuck, gets pissed, and then I can’t remember the rest. Well, this molasses is my latest metaphor. The molasses is my ‘stuff’…my life, the bunch of history that’s needing to be healed. All dark and sticky and messy, but despite what it looks like, there’s a lotta wholesome goodness about the stuff. And it’s tasty too, provided it’s tasted in the right way. My ‘stuff’ is exactly the same. And it feels like it even bloody spreads itself on my toast (if I ate toast), on those days when all I can see is the past.

About a year and a half ago, I blew up my lilo and lay on the top of this vat of molasses. My vat of shit. I sometimes fell off the lilo and face first into the black and sticky stuff…actually quite a lot. Sometimes I’d fall off the side of the vat and get a break, and do something wacky and fun. Or just get five minutes soaking up the sun on my surfboard. Other times I have just happily soaked up the sun from my lilo, above the stuff…letting it be there, beneath me, but not all encompassing me. And then there was this one time when I sunk right to bottom of this vat and overdosed. I reckon that was my Cruella Deville, sinking, moment. I got to know the darkest of my dark, and knew it wasn’t for me. The year following has been kinda like cleaning off all the molasses that got stuck all over, and getting to know my lilo again – resting gently on top of it, and just dipping a toe in now and again to get to know another little inch of the molasses vat.

Enough about molasses, although all this talk is making me miss the stuff. It’s right good for you, did you know that? But it sure is sugary too. Sugar is like my crack – and I don’t do crack – so this is my molasses/sugar hit. Just the metaphor kind.


photo 3-5

It’s been kinda quiet this end recently. It’s weird. Part of me has been craving writing but have kinda been on the theme of ‘what’s the point’ (helpful theme) and also I’ve just been so into ‘life’ and wanting to just do stuff that DOESN’T involve technology, so that’s what I’ve been trying to do. Cartoons have been the other theme too. I’ve also noticed that when I’m feeling super alone in this healing maze, I tend to retreat more into my own little healing shell and words just feel a million miles away. I guess I’m scared that noone will read them. Or maybe I just don’t even freakin’ know where to start, and so I don’t. I think that’s what’s happened too.

Today I had EMDR and geez, I am an arsey bitch. I regularly tell both my therapists that I hate them…something that always makes me laugh afterwards because it’s not often you actually say that to someone. But today I told my therapist I wanted to kill her….?! Just to be clear, I didn’t quite say it as bluntly as it could have been, but those were the words that came out of my mouth. Followed by a smile and a laugh. Then a reassurance that, ‘don’t worry, I wouldn’t actually do it’. She laughed too and quickly just told me to follow the dot. (The emdr dot.) It has taken me a long time to voice this kinda stuff, and it has taken me a long time to not try to people-please, so as much as this blinding hatred might sound like I’m just a mega bitch, I’m not. I think I’m healing. I can say it, and I can be heard, and at the same time I can be super aware that I am just so clearly projecting/transferring (whatever the lingo) all this unhealed shit from my childhood and relationship with my mum. Jackpot. This shit is finally getting a voice. I just feel like a mega arsey teenage bitch, but it’s gotta happen. And it’s quite comical to watch it so.

photo 4-3

On another note, I’ve got beef with this healing business. I mean, COME ON. Like, so much shit has healed. So much shit has shifted. So so many corners of myself I have come to know, allow for, and end up loving. How beautiful is that? But what the fuck dude? Where does all this pain keep coming from? Geeeez. It’s like I dip a toe into the vat of molasses, expecting to find a nugget of pain that I got to know last week or last month, but no. Instead I stir it up and am faced with a toe covered in old sticky stuff that I never wanted to see again. Or at least not right now.

But it’s healing, right? People tell me so, and I think I feel it so. This molasses won’t heal itself so for the time being, so I’m just gonna go get my multicoloured blinged-up and bitching lilo, and go for a float. And maybe someday soon, I’ll fall off the side of the vat and get drunk. Have a break from this floaty, confusing, dark and messy healing business. That’d be nice. But for now, it’s sobriety. I just dream of the drunken days. The nicely drunken days.

(A borrowed image)

Enough about lilo’s and molasses, it’s time for post-emdr sleep-head bed.


One thought on “Molasses

  1. Pingback: Someone order some gin | metaphorical marathons

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