By JILLIAN KRISTINA
Paradox. Chaos. Storms. We’re taught to fear these energies, these onslaughts. We’re taught that there’s no beauty in destruction; no life in death. We’re told that black and white reign supreme, and that the gray doesn’t exist.
None of this is true, and deep down, we know this. And yet, so few of us are able to fully embrace and accept and embody all of these energies at once. This is where fissures are created – the denial that we can be all the things, all at once. We can be the storm as well as the calm within it. We can be both order and chaos. And we can love so, so much, that we actually hurt. That we destroy.
Enter Olivia Crane. Liv, as her husband Hugh calls her. Liv is everything we’ve been taught a woman should be – she’s breathtakingly beautiful. She’s graceful, yet strong. She’s intelligent, educated and creative. She’s a devoted wife and a doting mother. She would go to the ends of the earth and beyond for her children…and in a way, she does.
In Mike Flanagan’s 2018 devastatingly superb supernatural horror, THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE, Liv (Carla Gugino) and husband Hugh (Henry Thomas) are an idyllic couple leading a unique, albeit equally idyllic life – they renovate and sell houses for a living, and this time, they’ve just purchased a notorious mansion, Hill House. In tow are five children: Steve (Paxton Singleton), Shirley (Lulu Wilson), Theo (McKenna Grace), Nell (Violet McGraw) and her twin brother, Luke (Julian Hilliard). In spite of, or maybe because of, the constant shuffle of moving from house to house, the family is a tight knit unit. The story takes place in the summer of 1992, so the seven are insular, exploring and working on the house. One could say they’re isolated from the outside world, with the exception of the Dudley’s – the couple who has been working at Hill House for decades. Otherwise, it’s the Crane’s and the house. Just the Crane’s. Just the house.
“They lived all alone. In the night. In the dark.”
There’s something special about the Crane women. They can sense things – see things. Shirley sees through her dreams; Theo sees through touch, and Nell, she sees premonitions of tragedy so unreal, so impossible for her young mind to comprehend that it literally molds and haunts her entire short life. Liv’s second sight is ignited by crushing migraines – “color storms” – that seem to break the barrier between the physical and non-physical realms, allowing her glimpses into not only the future, but the past trapped in the present.
Like Shirley, Liv also sees through dreams. Dreams so real, so vivid, so impossible to tell the difference between what is real and what is exhaustion. Poppy Hill (Catherine Parker), wife of William Hill, who once owned Hill House, sensed this, encouraged this. She visited Liv in her dreams, appearing as she was when she lived in Hill House – young, draped in the fashion of the day, talking of her own children dying, right there in that house. Talking of keeping those children safe.
“What if they was having a dream? I mean bad ones. Possilutely screaming meemies. The worst of the worst. What would you do?”
Liv’s headaches persist, as do the dreams. Waking dreams. Waking nightmares. Premonitions take the place of the present. The house almost begins to shrink. To close in. To confuse. And the inhabitants that not everyone can see begin to become louder. More insistent. More forceful.
“Are we safe with you Mommy? Are we really?”
A family, a home, a loving husband, beautiful children. Liv has this life, but life is fragile. Life can change. Our foundations can be rocked so violently that something within us breaks. When these crucial supports are obliterated, we too can crumble. We too, can break. Especially in isolation. Especially when our partner’s don’t see what we see, and worse yet, don’t believe us. This in itself is a sort of abandonment, and when it’s coupled with isolation, this special kind of devastation creates special kinds of fractures.
There is a very powerful, paradoxical Greek mythological figure who knows this special kind of pain all too well – Medea. Granddaughter of the sun god, Helios, Medea was a radiant, fierce creature. She was cunning. She was devoted, and she was brimming with magic, as she’s also known as a priestess of Hekate. She was both healer and destroyer, and she did all of it for love. She was committed to Jason, no matter the cost. She used her skills to aid him in his quest for the Golden Fleece, leaving her brother dead in the wake of their pursuits. After fleeing to Corinth, she and Jason go on to welcome the births of upwards of 14 children. And then, as the story goes, Medea ages, and Jason’s eyes begin to wander. Soon, he would abandon this life they – or rather, she – had worked so hard to create, to seek the hand of the younger, effulgent daughter of the king. This betrayal causes a gargantuan schism in Medea’s heart that, according to Euripides’ tragic account, inspires her to do the unfathomable. The unspeakable.
“Wake them up.”
Liv, just like Medea, embodies her own magic and infuses it into everything she does. Liv, just like Medea, cherishes her children and her husband above and beyond all else. And Liv, just like Medea, wants nothing more than to love and protect her children, no matter the cost. This intense maternal desire takes over, drowning Liv in a blackened whirlpool of anxiety and terror, stripping her of any sense of reality – of any sense of self.
“I’m not me right now. I can’t seem to find me.”
“You’re tired. You’re stressed about the flip, about the kids. You’re stressed.”
“No, I’m not. I was when we got here. I was all the things, all the familiar things. I was stressed and excited and content and motivated and concerned and exhausted and annoyed and grounded and nervous and creative and proud. And all the things. But all those colors, they’re all gone now, Hugh. And there’s only one left. I’m scared. That’s all I am, there’s nothing else. I’m only scared.”
Fear can drive us to do unimaginable, uncharacteristic things. We can’t underestimate the power of fear, of anxiety, of terror – of heartbreak. We also can’t underestimate the portrayal of women in both myth and in life. We can’t paint them in black and white. Some theorize that Medea’s story doesn’t end with the demise of her children at her own hands; others say that, given she was both of the gods and the earth, that she was freeing her children from the suffering of the mortal plane, to transcend and ascend. That she was sparing them, out of mercy. Out of love.
“He’s killing them. He’s driving them into the dark. He’s killing them. He’s killing all of them. He’s driving them toward a silver table. He’s driving them toward the needle. He’s driving them toward disease and heartbreak and sadness and death and those teeth, those teeth that’ll tear and chew and eat them alive a piece at a time…”
There is immense shadow work here. So much to tackle. So much to face, to accept, to integrate. How can love and death exist at once? How can one person hold such paradox, such complexity, within them? Can we be both glorious and monstrous, both caring and destructive? The mind, the heart – they’re immensely powerful, yet excruciatingly fragile things simultaneously, aren’t they? And when applied to the depth and breadth of a mother’s love, especially when threatened, well, to the ends of the earth they go.
“You don’t have to worry now, sweetie. That really bad dream? Of course I would wake you. I’m waking us all up.”
This is horror, true horror. Perhaps this is why we watch horror, to make sense of the horrors that live within each and every one of us. The paradoxes we can’t seem to marry. The places within us that we can’t seem to face. The darkened spots that seem to gnaw, gently at first, then ferociously at our souls, invoking doubt, spawning fear. But within this horror lies love – a love so great, so massive, that it too overtakes us. Horror and love go hand in hand in that way. Just like destruction and beauty. Just like death and life.
Medea was and continues to be, all the things. Just like Liv. Just like all of us. Psychologist, author and teacher Cyndi Brannen has this to say about Medea: “Medea helps us heal aspects of ourselves that we find frightening, or murderous, or enraging. Or the times that we’ve been trapped and made bad decisions. She is a way into healing that within ourselves with kindness, and acceptance, not trying to kill it off.” This ancient figure is seen as a “dark” archetype to some; to others, she’s been contorted by the rising patriarchy, because that’s what the patriarchy does to powerful women. Medea’s story is complex and personal, and takes on myriad different meanings in myriad different interpretations. But what I take away is this – there is power in exploring paradox. There is strength in investigating and listening to the shadow within us all, because that shadow is us. It’s the parts that we were told to be ashamed of; the power that those in power were threatened by. The shadow is not to be shunned, but embraced with an open mind and heart. Reclaiming those parts of ourselves that are too much – too powerful – for others can become our greatest act of rebellion. And these myths – these dark goddesses and female figures – have a lot to tell us about just how much society hasn’t changed. Now that – that’s where the real horror lies.
Interested in learning more about Shadow Work and the concept of the ‘Dark’ Goddess? I offer tarot sessions solely focused on both of those areas of exploration – book here: http://jilliankristina.glossgenius.com
