Is there a reason people can't let go? Of things that made them unhappy? You see it pretty frequently (though not from thirty-five year old women) in every sort of group. A negative influence in someone's life that they cling to, and on the rare occasion they try to let go of it, they often think about whatever the influence was with stunning regularity. I wonder why that is.
Logically, you know better, and you know distance is helpful; you've seen improvement in whatever was wrong. But emotionally? Whatever was given up or pushed away, you still want quite desperately. Especially, as in many cases, when there are lingering traces of it everywhere, each trace acting as a constant reminder that something bad had it's really good parts too. This applies to relationships, ex-husbands, foul jobs, friends, neighborhoods...It could be a letter, something that was commented on, or going as deep as your development and understanding of the world.
This must be frustrating. At least, I believe so. Does everyone have something like this? Something they cannot turn back to, though see every day and miss horribly? Is there a way to make it stop? Like a memento given to you by your dearest beloved that left you, or an art project from a dead child...You can't throw away the pieces, or delete them from your sight. You can't forget the stories you wrote with friends, or laughter that was shared long ago. A person might not want to see these items, the imagery, but they keep the offending items anyway. To keep some shred of hope, or torture themselves? To leave the door open?
It's very much like a door. One with double-sided hinges. You slam it shut, and there's that brief resistance, but with it's weight it slowly just swings in and out of the doorway, back and forth. Finally you think it's closed, and turn back to a darker room then whatever was through the door. But you see a crack of light, shooting across the floor in front of you like lightning in the night. You're tired, so you leave the door that way, but it reminds you constantly there's something on the other side of that door. A door you thought you wanted to close, and tried rather hard to, but in the end you couldn't do it.
This is the point where a person should reconsider if they need a nightlight or not. Is it a warm, safe memory, or does it cast jagged, scary shadows on your walls and toys?
We've described the how, and the symptoms, but...why? Why do people do this? Is there a way to stop such a behavior, and the discomfort that comes with it? Like people in their more generalized sense, I had something beautiful too. It was painful, and as relentless as a crow fighting you for your last piece of bread. It was fake of course, mostly an illusion of light and shadow like a clever magic trick, but I miss it. Faces I created and danced across a dull landscape, and stories that captivated me. People that weren't really people, but just puppets and dolls. I would very much like to write it off as an unpleasant experience and forget the entire affair, but I also understand that will probably never happen. I couldn't be a doll anymore, but I miss the game, the teaparty. I miss the other faces, and the places, and the time.
If only I had some turpentine. The scentless variety that breaks down paints and snakes it's way through and around oily build-up. For I would have such a major project with it and it alone, filled with a violent kind of energy. As so many memories, and events that happen now are colored by all of these past games, I could just dissolve the painting. I could take away the colors that keep showing up in my sights and remind me. I could soak the painting and make it's blaring, bright colors stop. Then every time I saw pink locks, a fanged smile, a character in a book, or some delightfully, painfully crazy idea, it would be new. I could enjoy it again, without regretting.
Funny thing about that. I would sit there on a paint-splattered floor, dull colored drapes all around. Next to my new, pale watercolors that offer the fluidity and the blending tones I required. I would stare at the ruined canvas that had all the bright oil paints, and I would regret. I regretted before, for so many reasons, and I felt sad, wistful. But even with those memories gone, and a new project, I would regret. Regret destroying it, regret the empty space, and feel sad for it's loss. I would want it back...possibly more then I did before when staring at the colors.
So maybe that is the reason. The reason the canvas still sits there, the letters and the ideas still float around, and pictures of dolls and teaparties remain on the walls. You regret not letting go, and don't like to see the memories or the reminders. However, perhaps it's because you understand that to fully let go would be much worse. Either that, or you're afraid. Or don't know what you wanted in the first place.
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