Skipping briskly across the lawn to the growing pile of leaves, her blonde, wavy hair whisks along the curves of her cheeks, lining the grin ever-present on her face. Old torn jeans- one of many ripped and destroyed from countless hours of bike riding, tree-climbing, and mud-pie making- hang down along her scrawny preschool legs and butt-less thighs. How she loves raking the autumn into the largest mountains her scraggly little arms can manage, only to trail-back several feet, pause for a moment, and race toward the colorful peaks, pouncing into the mess of twigs and bugs, as ungracefully as possible, of course. As she stands up and brushes herself off, she slightly adjusts the lacy pink bow in her hair before preparing another pile to demolish. But what happened to this child of yesterday? Where did her joy and innocence go? How did a few years of mental, emotional, and spiritual abuse rip it all away, never caring for the pain and scars left behind?
Late last year, I walked into my therapist’s office, planning on giving a general overview of situations growing up, a mere highlight reel of sorts to give a baseline understanding of the overwhelming issues and struggles left from three years with my mentors in high school and early college. Certain questions were bound to come up and I simply wanted to get them out on the table in order to move forward with working through the trauma of the abuse. What I did not realize was that all of those situations left huge wounds that were never fully healed, seemingly leaving me open and vulnerable to the abuse to come. I did not realize that I would have to go back through each one and soothe that hurting inner child, which is, as I understand it, the subconscious halted at various stages of maturity because of the wounds inflicted and endured.
My hurting inner child in high school, probably fifteen or sixteen years old, is the first one I could see and connect with. She is the one in the middle of the abuse with my mentors. Anytime I see her, she is alone on her bed, often siting with arms wrapped around her knees, deep in thought, or hands attempting to cover the tears streaming down her cheeks. She has told me often, “It is never enough” and “the crazy never ends. There’s always more.” In frustration, trying relentlessly and desperately to simply do right, she feels like a failure, constantly the reason for the pain of those around her. She feels betrayed by those closest to her and the hurt runs deep.
My preschooler, approximately four or five years old, made me extremely hesitant. I knew the pain she would suffer and endure, but more than that, I was ashamed of her. She kept telling me she did not know it was wrong. In the mind of an innocent four-year-old, she did not know the turmoil to come from those actions, yet she was continually blamed for them.
My middle-schooler, about seventh or eighth grade, is hurting. She is the one that is ashamed. She feels like a failure who already ruined her life before it even started. I tell her she’s beautiful, and yet she hits my hand away. She does not think she is attractive. She does not believe she is intelligent anymore. And she does not think anyone would love her for who she is. She feels confused, overwhelmed, and alone. She longs for an understanding friend.
I am learning, slowly, that it is my job to be “mom” to those parts of myself growing that still need comfort. It is my job to be their best friend, protector, and guide. They need to be told that they are loved and lovely, that God made them perfect. That I am sorry I did not protect them before, but I am here now and I am not going anywhere, ever. I am teaching them healthy boundaries, and that their privacy is a boundary to be respected. I am teaching them about self-worth. One of the biggest things right now, however, is telling them that no matter what happens, I am right here, and always will be.
