#6, Blog May 16, Little Girl

Wasn't I Cute?

When you feel a child inside of you springing to life, that's how you know you're where you should be. C. JoyBell C.

I am adding this in retrospect to the heading Where Did i Go? which is odd because I never realized it fit until pondering the launch of my memoir plus and its connection. Where did i go perfectly sums up my life even as a little girl. As witnessed in the first attached picture, I was a mischievous little thing, and I believe outspoken, which sometimes got me in trouble. I enjoyed being playful and making others laugh. See my impish grin above?

I can’t remember a lot of my past; sadly, that blew away with my fall and head injury. Now I’m not sure how much I want to get into what I remember of those early years. Somewhere else I will, but I believe my parents did the best they could for where they were in life. I loved them, but I did not like the things they did. That, I guess that is true for most of us.

Grief lived in the walls of our father’s house, which was strict with lots of rules, and you obeyed them or else (?) I think it was the threats that stifled and shut me down as a child. If I were to ask where did I go as a little girl and teen, the answer would be deep, deep within, where I could hide and stay safe from an environment of fear, chaos, danger, and grief.

Raised as a Catholic, my father was a master manipulator and had a tendency to use the devil as a discipline. I don’t want to speak badly of faith, as it got me through terrible, lonely years when I felt I had nowhere to go. It carried me during rough times like footprints in the sand my entire life. It was a faith in a man named Jesus, and Christianity that helped me, and the stories of his love from the Holy Bible.

My father often threatened that the devil would get me if I did anything wrong. And so as a child I coloured within the lines, afraid of everything and anything, never allowing myself to wander out for fear of repercussions. My lead pencil tip almost went through the paper. I pressed so hard in my printing and, later, with my forceable, cursive writing. I suspect in retrospect it held the panic and insane fear I suppressed.

No child should be raised in fear; it leaves lasting scars and affects their entire makeup, and leads to a lifelong struggle to silence those intimidating, influential, harsh voices. Because they come from a person of prominence, those comments only solidify that as a child, we must be wrong and our parents right, which is not always the case. But because of our situation, as children living in a parent's house, we must listen and obey, and find healthy ways to cope.

The crux, as children, we have little say, and we cannot control the people raising us. We have to bide our time and do our best to not let the bad dominant our lives. That requires maturity, patience, resilience, a plan or strategy to get involved in school, extracurricular, or sports, and to find good friends who have their head in the right place. An adult advocate or support would also help navigate wild riptides.

It is my firm belief that those who run away are running from something or someone, and as such, we should show compassion and understanding where we can. It warms my heart that many sponsors, organizations, and groups are building homes for those who have less. And I would wager that most people who get addicted to drugs, alcohol, gambling, sex, or work are struggling with some inner affliction they have not faced because the journey within is too painful. I am not a therapist, so sift from it what you will. It is just an educated opinion.

When life cuts us in two, we have a choice. Wilt and turn to unsavoury methods of coping, or become stronger by growing and learning from the pain and suffering, and doing something beneficial with it. My dad turned to alcohol, and it was no joyride living with a violent drunk. I believe our purpose is to share our lives with others so that we learn, and grow, and stretch our minds with the help of multiple viewpoints, opinions, and lived experiences. But sometimes the road is a bumpy, dangerous one, and we need someone to mentor us.

By revealing intimate details in a safe place, we create trust and connections that peel off the layers of pain, allow us to be authentically ourselves. But for that to occur, we need someone to trust and, as we know, that person or place can be difficult to find. She, the little girl in me, searched and searched during her childhood and teen years but she did not feel safe anywhere or with anyone, and so she retreated inward, farther and farther away from the world, leaving but a fragment of her true spirit. The pain of being authentically herself and continuously shot down, or punished, kept her tied in knots, as she tried to survive, a ghost wearing pale skin clothing, her light extinguished so no one would find her.

Grade Primary, Sorrowful Wasn't I?

And yet, awful things did. So she curled tighter and tighter into a fetus to protect herself from the slings, and arrows, and abuse that comes from dysfunction, alcoholism, and the seedier sides of people. The outside of her had to be strong, perfect, and capable. So with purpose, she rose to the top, seemingly confident, a disguise so others would not guess they destroyed her inside and she could not develop into her true self. The risk of rejection was simply too great.

Seriousness became her mantra and sad eyes, her countenance. Referred to as the strong silent type, she observed and held back, afraid unless prepared. She blushed if anyone spoke her name, and tears watered her eyes as she turned vermillion red. Sadly, she tried to duck to avoid conversations, hid until she discovered if people outside the family noticed her for an accomplishment, then she had a change at maybe being good enough. Born into a family of six girls and two boys, both taken too soon, she could never measure up unless she had the same anatomy.

No matter how much she tried, she never felt good enough and was forever scared to reveal her true nature. Times she tried to sing around the house as that was a gift and she loved singing, but, “If you sing at the table you will cry before night.” Glimpses of her spirit surfaced at such times only to duck back in, and scurry away for fear of retaliation, blood-red anger and the snapping of the big, black, leather belt.

The shadow of her excelled academically, first in her family to go off to university, on scholarships, yet she could not find her voice with everything else stripped away. Give her committees, she could perform; organizations, she reached the top; causes, she promoted; speeches, she could give; but inside the slightly breathing remains of a precocious, mischievous little girl begged to be released; if only she could find a safe place.

So engrained was the fear and panic, that layers and layers of moss and weeds grew over the angelic little girl, threatening to destroy her entire passage on Earth. There were glimpses, rays of sunshine brightening her face, allowing blooms and flowers in moments of pride as she stood tall, but it took so very much out of her.

Locked up for decades, the barriers inside were difficult to break through, chains longer and stronger than Rapunzel’s hair wrapped her perfectly still and afraid to move. She did never want to upset the apple cart, or cause a fierce fight. It was safer to bury her true self and to never let her spirit live.

But a restlessness took hold of her and she could never figure out why she was dissatisfied, hungering for something more. Her shadow forgot about her essence buried inside, and it looked like she would die before who she was meant to be, lived. It was a sad time for her and her shadow, as they were out of sorts and unable to reconcile.

A kind, nurturing hand reached out, no judgment, no parameters, no expectations. The little girl within felt a gentle nudge, and it felt warm and comforting. A soft voice urged her to uncurl, to feel a stretch, and to come out and play, but she was too scared. But the stretching felt good.

Next, the sage voice invited her to jump up and down, to remove any litter or parasites living on her skin. It felt good, and freeing, as the weight of terror and control dissipated. She shook and shook, felt joy in the movement, and remembered being silly, and playing a long, long time ago. For the first time in decades she smiled, and feeling her lips curl upwards felt good. She had forgotten the joy of lifting the corners of her mouth.

Ever so slowly, helping hands reached as the shadow remembered and invited her companion out for a stroll in the sunshine, but even as the years turned, she was too afraid. Time sped up as it always does with getting older, and a yearning to be more playful, less serious, and more relaxed burned within the little girl. She wanted to come out to play but ...

Will she ever feel safe enough?

Does your little person feel safe, really safe? It is a question many of us ask. She is trying.

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