We were filming last night and things got real. I was upset. It was my mother's birthday and I didn't call her. I felt horrible. I felt like a bad person. Bry was trying to make me feel better, talk sense into me, blah blah blah...I grabbed the camera and starting filming.
The film is taking another direction. Something unexpected is happening and this documentary, that I was trying to make about other people's perceptions of death, the unknown and the afterlife has turned into this very personal inward look at myself, concerning my familial troubles and the deaths I've had to deal with myself. It's interesting and it's causing me to do a great deal of self reflection. I'm enjoying the artistic and creative side of this thing, though I am just filming everything. I'm filming the bad jokes my husband and I make, I'm filming us playing with the girls, I'm filming us having serious conversations about disappointment, the weather, our work, the film and our move to Los Angeles in a few months, which may play a predominate role in the grand scheme of the film.
I am frustrated and tired, but also my creative juices are flowing. Overflowing, if you will. I feel stronger every day making this film and I hope the end result will be something great. Not just something to take to Sundance, and perhaps win an Oscar (fingers crossed) but something touching, heartfelt and optimistic. I hope it touches people when they see it. I hope I can express myself in a way that reaches out to people who may have their own troubles with a love/hate relationship with their families. I mean, how long in your life can you just accept the things that are happening around you and to you before you take action, stand up, and say that you are sick and tired of being sick and tired? My mind was exhausted at all the things that I saw and had to deal with as a child. My husband told me last night that I was no longer the 3-year-old sitting under the table, holding my doll and sucking my thumb, ignored and invisible, while my mother and brother physically fought. I was no longer the teenager who had to come home from school and lock herself in her room because if I didn't, a fight would ensue and I would be caught in the middle. I was no longer the little child screaming and crying and begging for attention for the good I was doing. Negative attention is bad attention. I don't want that.
So to answer my question, how many years can I take of abuse? Apparently, not quite 30. My birthday is next month. I will document that too. Los Angeles is about 3 months away, friends. I'm counting the days.
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