“The Return To Awareness”
Private Writings #74
Written by Jennifer Kiley
Post Tuesday 12th August 2014
WARNING: ADULT LANGUAGE AND CONTENT
Not Suitable For Children.
ALL CHARACTERS ARE FICTITIOUS.
Anyone Resembling Anyone Living or Dead
Is Purely Coincidental.
private writings to dr. annie haskell psychoanalyst
I am the storyteller using imagination fantasy feelings & thoughts
to discover self soul eternal serenity & bliss
but to most importantly tell the best tale ever after upon a time.
see you down the rabbit hole.
Private Writings: Chapter #74 — “The Return To Awareness”
Tuesday 3rd February 2009
I’d like to tell you a touch about my Grandmother. She meant more to me than anyone ever has in my life. Tosh was a lot like her. Tosh died just before my Gran did. So it was a double blow. I was crushed. It was too much for me to handle. It was one of my Famous suicide attempts. Came close to succeeding then too. With all the love I felt for Tosh & Gran, I had no one to turn to to mourn their death. I felt there wasn’t a reason to survive if all that I loved was gone.
I must tell you that my grandmother had no idea what was happening inside the perverted family I was born into, with the exception of her. Once a year I was allowed to stay with her for a month during the summer. I would forget all about them. Then they came to get me. They missed their sex slave. Their whipping object. They wanted me back where they felt I belonged. When it was time to leave, I would wrap my arms around my Grandmother so tight and lock my hands behind her back. She was rather thin & I had long arms. They would tear my hands apart and they would pull and pull until they had me. Once I was in their possession again, they would drag me out to the car, and sit me in the front seat between my parental units. I think they thought I would try to escape out the car door as they attempted to drive away. Anyway, they weren’t going to take any chances. I was a slippery one. As I said before, I use to run away all of the time. Favorite place to hide was in the woods. No one ever found me there.
Sylvia Kendall crashed through into that dark nightmare and set free the demons locked up tightly inside steel bolted doors. And the evil has been running amok ever since. That is why I had to kill myself. I hated the feelings and sensations that were surfacing. The creepiness of their faces and the memories coming back in flashbacks, quick images, smells, hands with no faces, and my nightmares have returned. I don’t know how to block them any longer. I thought I had them locked away forever until Sylvia Kendall walked into my life and took it over.
You would think I would be thrilled at knowing Sylvia Kendall, after all she is the daughter of one of my favorite actors of all time. They don’t have the same last name. I think Sylvia told me once she 0wanted to make it without her mother’s help. Now I wonder just what made Sylvia into what she is today. Her mother is the epitome of Grandness. She’s British. Sylvia was born in the UK but then the family moved to the states. There were more parts available and her mother became an overnight success in the USA.
Who is her mother, you are wondering? I met her after Sylvia starred in her first film with our Studio, Infinite Imaginations, Inc. [usually referred to as III or Tres]. Our film premiered at Cannes. Her mom attended. She knew who I was, the screenwriter for the film, and she knew Scottie from her reputation as the Film Director with the Rising Star. Her name is none other than Academy & Tony Award Winner, Catherine Leighton. She is beautiful & I have had a crush on her since I was a kid & always will love her.
I agree with Catherine Leighton, Scottie knows exactly what to do with the scripts I give her. Rewrites are fun. She is easy to work with. Quiet but direct with what she wants and expects from her team. We, also, have one of the best Casting Directors. She has been with us from the very beginning. She tried to direct us away from casting Sylvia but I had to insist Scottie give her a screen test. Was it my love of her mother or was she really that good?
No matter the reason, it was an all around poor choice on my part, to coerce Scottie, that is what it felt like, to give Sylvia her chance. I couldn’t help myself. She was attractive. But then, I didn’t know her yet. No one did. We only found out after who she was related to. It was too late by the time Sylvia cast off her kitten costume, and saw the picture of Dorian Grey before our eyes. She was ugly deep inside her bones. And definitely certifiably insane. A person who needed to be locked away to protect her from the rest of us. She fucked with everyone. So don’t tell me she didn’t use her mother’s cred to get all she wanted. And screwing everyone on the way to getting her satisfaction.
I will tell you more as the story continues to unfold. She is still alive, hanging over a melting flow of lava, just waiting for her to drop. Death is such a strange element that opposes life’s existence. Life & Death are always in a battle to keep or get the good ones. Neither wins that battle they all end up in both places eventually & the good, the bad & the brute all join in Death, the final destination. Something tells me that isn’t even close to the truth of the Hereafter, if there is one. I’d like to create that illusion in my head. What it might be. I have a strong feeling we create our own afterlife & I try to imagine mine to be something special with all the animals & people I love. And it is quite similar in design to the island of Barbados.
Well, it felt good to write this to you, Annie. It makes me feel somewhat lighter. It gives me a sense of positivity. That is good.
Goodnight. Ciao Ciao!!!
© Madison Taylor 2008
“I think writing really helps you heal yourself. I think if you write long enough, you will be a healthy person. That is, if you write what you need to write, as opposed to what will make money, or what will make fame.“ — Alice Walker
Maksim – Somewhere In Time – Composer John Barry[Dedicated to Annie]
The beginning always starts out
With a dream.
It is all a dream
In our own nightmares”
— Madison Taylor