Today’s post is a very vulnerable, raw piece. Content warning: Religious abuse/trauma.
The Halls of Pandemonium prompt was to write a poem or story based on a song.
I chose the song “Landslide” by Fleetwood Mac. Not long ago, I was out to dinner with my family and it was playing in the restaurant. My mom said to me: “Everyone thinks this song is about children growing up and their parents being sad about it. But it was actually about Stevie Nicks trying to decide if she was going to keep pursuing her music career and her emotions around that decision.”
I could explain in more depth why I chose this song, but I would rather you listen to it, and then read the short piece and decide for yourself. :)
Landslide
“Go to the conference table in your mind, and invite all the past versions of you to join,” she says.
You nod, closing your eyes. The clock ticks, subtle and relentless. Though you only come to sessions once a month now, your heartbeat still adjusts to its rhythm.
“Are any of the past you’s angry?” She asks.
“Mmhmm.” You clutch the orange throw pillow in your lap, wondering how many other people have sat in this chair, opposite this woman who has stopped dying her hair since you started seeing her eleven years ago.
She’s gotten older, and you’ve gotten older, too.
You look up at her now, eyes glazed with tears. Every four weeks, you come to this therapist’s office with her essential oil diffuser and soft Christian music on repeat in the waiting room. You haven’t called yourself a Christian in ages. She doesn’t seem to care.
“Which one is angry?” She asks. Not pushy. Curious.
“Teenage me,” you mutter, staring down the box of Kleenex on the coffee table like it’s personally offended you.
“Okay,” your therapist nods with that ever-patient smile. “Can you talk to her? Ask her why she’s angry?”
You comply, closing your eyes a little too tightly. There’s a conference table all right, but it’s just you--and her. That sixteen-year-old in a Beatles t-shirt and Chuck Taylor high tops. The version of you that used to use boxed hair dye and hid the Avril Lavigne CD she bought at Hot Topic under her mattress because it wasn’t “appropriate”. She used to play guitar with the guys out on the school lawn between classes because the snooty, rich girls at the private school never made much sense to her. Especially confusing was the time her friend, Veronica, kept tickling her side in the movie theater. It felt a whole lot like flirting, which was confusing as hell to your teen self, because she wanted to flirt right back.
Focus! You chide yourself.
“What’s she saying to you?” The therapist asks.
You open your eyes, gazing at the taupe lines in the rug beneath your feet. “She’s still angry. That no one stood up for her. No one protected her. But…I couldn’t back then. I couldn’t defend her.”
“You shouldn’t have had to,” the therapist says gently.
She’s right. You close your eyes again. The memory races in, nearly eighteen years ago. You’re pulled from lunch for a meeting with the principal. She sits across from you in the science classroom, sporting a dark perm that in no universe is natural for a woman her age. Her steely gaze pierces you in the gut.
She’s never liked you, this woman you once believed spoke for God. She’s punished you before for breaking rules, but this time--this boy--this is the last straw.
“You know it’s against the rules for two students on the leadership team to date each other without approval.”
She’s going to kick you out, you can feel it. The fluorescent lights are too bright. You’ve forgotten all about your lunch. You can’t bear to look at her, so you stare at your muted reflection in the shiny black, chemical-resistant tabletop. Your friends are probably wondering what’s going on, or they are the ones who ratted you out. Regardless, you’re trapped. You have no recourse. And why only you? Are they going after him next?
“Our parents know about it,” you finally speak up. “And we’re not acting any differently on campus. No PDA or anything.”
“Do you understand that you are stealing his heart? From God?”
The memory fades, and you’re back in the conference room in your mind. Your younger self is seething. She knows it wasn’t enough. She’s still angry that she had to stay in that school for another year and a half, pretending she didn’t know her best friend. Pretending that he didn’t exist. Pretending that she didn’t exist. Staying as small and as “above reproach” as possible.
“What’s going on now, in the conference room?” your therapist calmly interjects.
“She’s still so angry,” you murmur, “Because she was powerless, silenced.”
Your therapist instructs you to tell your teen self that she’s safe. That she survived, and she doesn’t have to prove herself worthy because she always has been. That she’s now the kind of adult who would never treat a young person the way she was treated.
“You can let that part of you go now,” she says.
You squeeze the throw pillow some more, shifting in your chair. Eyes closed, it’s back to the conference room for the last time. You reach across the table and take the hand of this version of you who was scrutinized for who she was, who she loved, how she dressed, how she spoke. It occurs to you now that by keeping her buried deep inside, you will never be able to fully grow into who you are meant to be. She will always be part of you, yes, but you’ve changed. And you have to tell her.
Even though you’re scared as hell, you take a deep breath, squeeze your younger self’s hand, and say:
“It’s okay. Don’t be afraid. We made it.”
<3
Hallie
oh my gosh 🥺
I feel this in my bones
🥹🥹