Dirt is curled up in the corner of the couch, nose mooshed under a hideous yellow blanket, with his Pomeranian tail peaking out, a waterfall spray of adorableness and I am avoiding my feelings by blogging. (Amazing what a writer can accomplish just thru avoidance techniques.)
Practical Magick is my favorite movie, and this scene, this feels like the stage of life that has just passed. The house is a wreck, my mental health is in breakdown mode, and I need a coven of 12 women, initiated or not, to get in here and help me take everything apart.
I know, I know. I’m supposed to be Sally, strong and resilient sister in this scene. I feel waaaaay more like Jilly. If Jilly, instead of being in an abusive relationship with a man, had found herself in an abusive relationship with her own choices.
In fact, I probably am most like Jilly. I couldn’t wait to fall in love. I couldn’t wait to get outta town, and hitched my ride to the closest star, and that star, ended up being a black hole. A black hole of emotional suffering called moving in with three Navy men at the age of 19, while “dating” one of them. Yuck.
Again now, I am like Jilly because she is suffering. She is miserable. She is possessed, self absorbed, unabsolved and on an exorcism bender post breakup. I am not there externally yet, but I have been sandbagging the shores against the tidal wave of my emotions for the last few months. And Jilly is in such deep trouble that her entire family has to step in to save her. (We already did that last year for me. I needed saved. I got saved. Then I kept going forward and I got hit by a Red Semi-truck that said stop. I stopped.)
Obviously, if you haven’t seen this movie, go, now, find it, or if we’re friends, which is highly likely, then message me and get your ass over here to see it. I will absolutely host a Practical Magic Movie Night Post Breakup Experience. Witch hats are a must. Jumping off roofs is optional. Stripped stockings on a choice by choice basis.
Being Jilly isn’t that bad really. I am just more used to the idea of Sally as the good, useful sister. Letting go of my concepts of being a good, useful sister is harder than feeling strung out on my emotions.
Usually, I have been lucky enough to be more of a Sally. Practical. Maternal. Connected. Desirous of home, hearth and normality, prepared to take on the world with a level head and a connection to her family.
However, Jilly’s story is my archetype right now. I know those men. I know domestic violence. It’s why I stopped sleeping with men. Why I began utterly avoiding men entirely. (Which now, working in a tattoo shop, I have mostly men around me. I like it actually.)
There is more to Sally’s deep, internal empowerment, then the love story of the Witch and Cop, post murder/breakup meet-cute. In the last scene, the sisters jump off the roof together, proving they’re witches, surrounded by their community, no longer cursed and ostracized.
I feel that. I want that. I have felt cursed, tormented and resilient for so long. Acceptance is what I am actually looking for. Acceptance of myself. Of who I want to turn towards becoming. Of what type of destiny I will choose to ride my chariot towards, even when the horses are divergent desires.
I want to learn to be here now. Feet warm under a maroon and orange SouthWestern blanket given to me by a friend, Dirt cuddled up on my legs, writing and almost feeling things in a useful fashion. Some days I am able to break into the fortress of my heart in order to express truths. Other days, I watch Practical Magic and swoon over their theoretical lives.