Hug Your Inner Child

I’m starting to realize how much my inner child needs healing. 

I clearly have negative and painful memories when it comes to my father. When my dad would wake up in the morning and wander out of his room, I would stay silent until I could scrutinize the way he walked and the expression on his face. I needed to know the volume in which to speak that morning. I needed to know if I could be relaxed or if I needed to stay alert. I needed to decide whether or not I could try being playful that morning or if I should make myself invisible. I remember willing my brain to sort through all possible scenarios as fast as I could, trying to figure out what he was upset about as he yelled. I remember trying to stay a step ahead so I could figure out the answers to his cryptic questions before he was able to “trip me up”. I remember trying to figure out what I was suppose to apologize for. I remember never feeling like my own person, not feeling heard. No matter what my explanation was, I was always going to be wrong because my dad had already made up his mind, and he was always right. 

I don’t recall getting positive reinforcement, so I took the negative. I accepted the criticism when I was looking for praise, validation, and worthiness. My A’s in school never mattered until fifth grade when I started getting B’s. Then, my dad gave me a lecture about letting my grades slip. When company was coming over on short notice, I made a comment about how I was impressed with how quickly my sisters and I were able to clean the house. My dad responded, saying that we wouldn’t have to rush so much if we had just kept the house clean in the first place. When I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, my dad asked me why I would use so much peanut butter, and no wonder we went through it so fast. All of these moments, as bad as they made me feel, were better than sitting in the tense silence and waiting for an explosion. They were better than being ignored. 

I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be heard. I wanted to be loved. I wanted to be cherished. Perhaps that’s why I loved his mother so much. My grandmother. She would write me letters and send me cute stamps to write her back. She responded to every letter I wrote, thoughtfully, as if she had read my words and viewed me as my own person. She took time out of her life to write me, listen to me, develop a relationship with me. She noticed me. When we would visit her, her face would light up. We even spent a week with her during spring break, and she made plans for us the entire week that evolved around spending time together. I was in middle school when she died. For a few nights after she passed, I remember sobbing in my bed at night. Tears streamed down my face as I whisper-screamed up to the heavens to take me, too. I begged and pleaded with the dark until my body was tired enough to sleep.

I think about that little girl. I feel her hurting, alone in the dark. Little girl, it’s ok to be lonely. I understand. It’s ok to want your life to be different. There is nothing wrong with you. It’s ok to feel like life is hard. I know it’s not easy to imagine, but you’re going to be ok. I survived. And I am here with you. 

I survived. 

I survived. 

I survived.