I can’t watch movies made for adults anymore. My official reason is that I don’t have time. The real reason: I can’t stomach the violence and drama – the tragedy.
It doesn’t make a difference how many Oscars or how critically acclaimed a film is, if it is rated 16, count me out.
Perhaps it’s because I am visually inclined, and violent words or tragic dialogues can replay in my head forever… If it’s violent – or worse, tragic violence, I feel panic creeping into my conciousness.
Maybe I suffer from a mild case of PTSD. Real life had dealt me enough blows. One more cinematic tragedy may tip the scales into a downward spiral I cannot indulge in.
My kids need me to be here, comforting and smiling when they get bruised by life, legos and table top corners. I cannot slip on a movie scene, and fall into a self-made puddle of depression.
So, I generally avoid those movies. Hazards and hurdles to happy thoughts. But, sometimes like tonight, my ears glimpse what Michael is watching. Tonight, the screams on the screen forced my eyes to listen too… I begged him to switch the channel and he did before the imminent “worse”.
Even if I only saw minutes, I am laying wide awake in bed replaying what I heard and saw (and felt) for what feels like hours. I feel sick.
Now. I must choose to mop those thoughts with cheerful alternatives. I think of Maia and Dara on a wheelbarrrow this morning. I think off Michael’s fish curry. It was a gorgeous day. It was a gift. It was delicious and to be sucked on like a mint, a counter to a pungent taste overstaying its welcome.
As I rinse my thoughts and wipe away the remnants of a tragedy, I feel a little lighter. I am thankful for that dark moment too; it brought me to gratitude. A wheelbarrow full of thank you’s and it smells minty.