The other night I was watching “Ward of Evil,” an episode of the series Haunted, directed by Jan Pavlacky. Based on actual events, the program opens with a woman moving into a care home. Middle-aged, with no diagnosis of dementia, something is wrong with her, but what? A sense of uneasiness quickly sets in. Her room turns ice-cold, paintings fall off the walls… Soon, she grows aggressive, stops eating, and speaks in strange tongues. As the caregivers become increasingly distressed, the resident’s abilities extend.
They say that malignant entities feed on people’s negative energies—such as fear and anger.
This isn’t the first time that accounts of possession remind me of certain psychological issues.
Take Sam Raimi’s Drag Me to Hell. Christine Brown is possessed by a particularly vicious demon. After repeated attempts, the young heroine severs its hold on her. She recovers her cheerful disposition and goes on a trip with her fiancé. Suddenly [spoiler alert], she realizes that she switched two items while trying to break the curse and therefore isn’t free. Straight after, she dies on a train track.
What strikes me is the possibility of a dual reading. On the one hand, a good horror movie; on the other, a brilliant presentation of how life conforms to our beliefs.
In a similar way, my view of the past damages my present. When I think of my mother, I feel ashamed. Stained. Taking care of myself seems like a waste, and I don’t deserve to be called “Sweetie.”
On the flip side, I experimented with a device at the STAR WARS™ Identities exhibition that lets you invent a childhood. I gave myself cheerful, confident parents. Even though the illusion lasted only a few minutes, it brought me something beneficial.
Assessing the past angrily, helplessly, as an unsolved problem, strengthens the haunting. It amounts to self-injecting the venom that I wish to vomit on her. And I do indeed feel that poison burning in my belly when rage overwhelms me. Not being able to flush it out generates so much depression and anxiety.
I should consider forgiveness: that is in my power. It would allow me to turn the page. Because in sooth, I must not expect it to come from her. Mind you, if one day she knocks on my door and truly asks for forgiveness, I’ll give in right away. We won’t even need to talk about it. Coffee’s on me—down the street, not at my house. But that won’t happen. I have looked this square in the eye; she won’t change.
And since she won’t change, since she will never acknowledge even a hint of wrongdoing, I won’t knock on her door either: forgiving does not entail telling the person.
Then I would finally take that sanctimonious advice so often dispensed by people who have no idea what I’ve been through. It’s silly; if I wanted to let go without a safety net, I could have done it years ago.
Anyway, better late than never, agreed? I'd be a fool not to change my mind! Alrighty, it’s time we all reach out for something new, as Prince sang. Without any review of the facts and without punishment, because that’s all the justice I’m entitled to. Last but not least: stick smileys on my scars.
Forgive?
Never.
NEVER.
NEVER!
NEVER!!!
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