I thought I had done shadow work before. I mean the kind of work where you work on all the icky parts of your personality.I’m fairly sure I had but this that I’m working on is different. I’m not ready to discuss it as I’m still working through it.
I’d like to share a memory instead.
There was a warm day when I was little, I think I was around six or seven and I had just left the garage. My father was still in that garage as I walked away. I was hurt and angry. More angry than I’ve ever been in my life. That anger fueled a determination that lasted over ten years. And a hate for my father that’s lasted a lifetime. That was the day I started counting down to graduating high school. I think I was only in first grade or was going to first grade.
That day is shrouded by a thick brick wall. There is a moment where everything is bright and gay and then there was me walking in extreme anger as an angel and a daemon augured on my shoulder as the sun sets. What lies between I have yet to fully recover. I suspect much. I’ve broken into the vault and gotten glimpses, seconds of memory that make no sense at all. Why would I study so hard at the dust motes? Why the pattern of black and white lines of shadow and light on my skin attract my interest? Why is the memory so far recovered only images? No sound, no scents, no emotions at all are contained in those memories.
But that day is the day I became convinced I was damned. I had two screaming, fighting voices on my shoulder and I wasn’t a part of their conversation. They were so loud I ran. I could not run far enough from them as they sat on my shoulders.
I was damned and this was proof of it. The demons my mother believed and feared in where right there corrupting me. How could the innocent be possessed? Surely that wasn’t possible, was it? Who could I have asked? I kept my mouth shut out of fear.
I think those two have always been arguing over me. I recall how loud and long their fights would be. So bad that I’d whimper down holding my head hoping they would shut up. It would be years before they choose names. And even more years before I came back. I didn’t last long. I died at 12. I didn’t return until my physical age turned 36 and a half.
Those two, the angel and daemon, the ones I call Isabella and Autumn have lived longer than me, seen more than me. In all these years I have never once asked them what they were arguing about.
That answer is a shadow I’ve yet to expose to the light of day.