An Afternoon with my Wounded Child

I cautiously approached my wounded child today. She looked up at me through unkempt hair, clothes grubby and face streaked with dirt and tears. She was wearing an iron-on shirt with a little girl playing baseball and the words "Girls can Do Anything Boys can Do" across the top. It, like her flared cords looked like they needed a wash. On her feet were the brown bobos I had always detested and been embarrassed to wear.

Her look to me had the merest moment of hope, but that was quickly covered by a stoic expression. Oh how it hurt to see that on the outside on a face that young! I glared at the faded outlines of teachers, librarians, neighbors that surrounded her and never said anything. There she was, reaching for the book she always had ready beside her. I knew what would happen, she'd fall into that book, withdrawing from the world and walking next to the characters, their lives almost more real than her own.

I reached for her hand before she could open it and pulled her into my lap. "It's okay. I'm here and I'll always be here." She sat stiffly on my lap for a moment, but as I stroked her hair, she slowly melted into me, sobbing. I didn't have to ask why she was crying. I knew. I knew she felt like her mother didn't love her, her father abandoned her. I knew she felt she was unworthy of love and tried desperately to make up for that by being good, but her good was never enough to earn the love she craved. She only saw a future of more of the same, and that was true in a way. Dad would still rely on his wife to know the parenting, only this time it would be a stepmom who had her own wounded child inside. Even this girl-child's marriage, that started out so promising and so full of love would fail her longing to be loved just because she IS.

I whispered in her ear about hope, about faith, about love. "There is One who Loves you," I told her, "He loves you now and will always love you. It is through Him that you will find your peace and your love on earth."

I also told her something that was very hard for someone my age to understand, let alone a small child.

"You are loved. But because of who you are, your perception might not always be the truth. Sometimes you live in your fantasy as reality and try to make your reality a fantasy. It is hard to see things with clear eyes when they are full of tears, but you can. You can see how your friends and family love you- in their way. They too have their own way of looking at things, their own bruises from their past. But they are just as capable of love as you are, they might show it differently."

When the sobs faded to deep breaths, I held her awhile longer, our hearts beating as one. For that time, we were both at peace. When she awoke, I gave her a bath and watched the grime of the past slide off and shimmer on the surface of the water. Clean, dressed and feeling more peaceful, I led her to a sunlit park. I knew she had bruises deep inside that would take more time to heal, but for now she had started the process.

I introduced her to the two people in the world that I knew loved her in the way her childish heart wanted. Unconditional and with the giving joy kids have, my children ran to her and held her hands. As they tumbled in the grass together, laughing, I knew that we would all be fine. The child inside me could help me love my children in the way they needed, and their love could be part of her healing.

Snowflakes

Yet another dual blog day.

On the way home from our first marriage counseling session, P. suddenly said, "Look, what do you see?"
I peered into the darkness. The traffic sign? Car ahead of us?
"No, look closer, in the headlights."
The license plate with one of those vanity sayings you don't quite get?
"No- it's snow! You love when it snows!"

Normally I did, but right then, my heart was heavy with our problems, it only lifted my spirits a little. The first snow of the year and I was too morose to enjoy it.

Today, as I was driving home from a couple of days staying with good friends, the light drizzle became snow as I drove up into the mountains. Lightly falling snow that reminded me of the first one. I started thinking about how each flake is so fleeting. It was like the feelings and thoughts that I have let overwhelm me in the past, and still have to fight now (perhaps my whole life). Like snow, they can pile up, oppress, freeze you in one spot. But taken one at a time, recognized as a thought and not reality, I can let them melt away.

It seems so simple, recognizing a thought as just that and not reality. But it's taken me 33 years and countless therapists to learn that. Now, some thoughts I try to imagine as gnats and I squish them to get rid of them. Others are snowflakes and they just melt away.

I think I can begin enjoying the snow again with the joyful abandon I always had before.

Fisher King

Wikipedia has a bit of a different take on it than I remember from my studies but it will give you an idea of what I am talking about. I do find it interesting the connections the entry draws with "fishers of men" and the legend. Also, the French words for "fisher" and "sinner" being so close.

I was thinking about the legend (as I remembered from my lit classes in college). It was about a king, wounded, sometimes legend has it by his own weapon. As the wound refuses to heal, his kingdom languishes. We see this allegory in pop culture because it is still very much a part of the human expereince. Being wounded (possibly by your own 'weapon') and having the power to heal yourself right there, but not knowing it. We saw it in the Lion King, where Simba ran off, thinking he had caused his father's death, leaving his kingdom to Scar and to fall to ruins. The power to heal was always right there with him. To either accept his part in it or to just take charge no matter what his guilt was for the good of the kingdom. Of course, this being Disney. Simba had no guilt. But in real life, that often isn't the case.

I feel like a Fisher King. I nurtured the wounds in me so long, I really didn't notice that the power to heal was right there also. It's hard to access that part of you when you are busy cradling your wounds. Letting go of that hurt when you are not sure of the healing is hard. I suppose it only happens when the hurt gets so bad that you can no longer fool yourself into believing that it is made better by your coddling, that the only chance it has to heal is to let it go.

What I have found during these early stages of healing is that it is tremendously hard to ask for help- initially. It gets easier. Since I began reaching out, I am totally amazed by those that reach back (and because so many do, the sting is taken out of those who don't). I have more energy, I love people more- even myself. And even better, I am open to their love. I have pride in myself for the first time in a long time. I am looking around me, in me and seeing that I am a person worth something.

I look back at earlier posts and try not to cringe at the whining person I was. Those days are not far gone, and to be honest, it's a fear that they might return. I suppose that's why I keep recording all of this, so I can remember who I was, who I am and who I want to be ;)

The Moon

So, last night we spent time as a family looking at the moon. I noticed something. With the naked eye, there is a huge contrast. There are definite shadows and areas of light. Through the telescope, you see more. You see the trenches and the craters and the gouges, marks of events that changed the landscape of the moon. But you don't see the dark and the light.

I feel like the moon sometimes. When I am right with myself and letting God in, moment by moment, I can see the gouges and craters that have made me. I can appreciate them for what they are, even see a small shadow here and there. But there's not the huge demarcation between light and dark. I've been feeling that evenness for almost two months now. I've been amazed at how much of a change there has been. I have also, frankly, been on the verge of terrified that my old self will come back. Knowing that it is likely is why I have been putting my support network into place. The pieces are lined up, but the slowness of life during the holiday season has dictated that they aren't actually in place yet.

So the contrast came back Friday night. I kept trying to hold onto the areas of light, but the shadows kept creeping up. I began feeling like I hated myself. I began to feel a hurt so bad it was physical. At one point, I scratched my arm to try and distract myself. Usually there's a sting and a dull ache after that. It went away too quickly. By the next morning there was no evidence, until I took a shower and the dull sting was there when the water hit. I was relieved to be reminded, but more relieved that while the pain had been just as intense in my heart, my reaction had diminished. I focused on the whole of my landscape, not just my shadows. I went there and managed to come back, maybe not unscathed, but certainly not battle scarred as was so often the case before. My fear had been realized and I moved through it. I walked it out. And that will give me strength the next time. The shadows will always be there, it is just in how I see them and respond.

For a smile, here's a pic P. took of the moon last night through the telescope- it's not great, camera phone pics never are. But the moon shines brightly. Today during church, I noticed during a song that so often the pictures that represent God are of the sun and sunlight. I started thinking the male and female perspective, old traditions, Apollo, the Goddess as represented by the phases of the moon...and I know that for now, to me, God is seen through the moon. The light and dark, the push and pull. The reflection of the sunlight.

Dear Mrs. Williams,

I've been meaning to write this letter for awhile now. You made my first year teaching high school harder than it needed to be. Instead of a mentor you were a tormentor.

I don't need to recount all the wrongs. They don't matter. What matters is the realization of your motivation behind them. Many mentors would say they needed to be tough to make sure a rookie teacher has a solid start. You took it to a whole new level. There were rumors of teachers before me falling apart and the teacher after me being on the verge of quitting. The faculty knew what you were, yet were powerless to stop a tenured teacher. Maybe you had terrorized them in the past, because surely co-workers that had known you for years would have spoken up as friends to point out your folly. Maybe there was fear there too. I have no idea what was happening in the county offices. They said they had many complaints about you, yet their hands were tied until a more egregious offense.

My theory about you is that you are a small person in search of power. That's why you enjoyed the horse races so much. Imagine those tiny jockeys just controlling those massive animals. You were short, you were a woman and you were black. I can only imagine what growing up in the decades before mine were like. They left you with a taste of resentment that you had to pour out on those you had power over. There was a limit to what you could do to the students, because the parents in that county had all the say. So you brandished your power over the fledgling teachers.

What did you accomplish? Did you weed those that aren't meant for teaching from the herd? Or did you do the scholastic community a disservice by leaving us with a bad taste in our mouths for teaching?

I loved teaching, and I loved the students. What turned everything sour was my experience with you and the resulting realizations about the power of the faculty. If you don't have their support, a hard job becomes a burden instead of a challenge. Teaching is indeed a career where dinosaurs rule. If you happen upon an 'old skool' school, the tenured have the power and refuse to see any new ideas as good.

Even now though, years later, I smile at the memory of what my students accomplished. I feel that it reflects on me as a teacher. And nothing pleases me more about my relationship with you than to know that the students I taught, many of them your former students, passed the Standards of Learning under my care after they had failed through you. Somewhere, I managed to give them a spark of learning you couldn't impart. Napoleon has her Waterloo, she just doesn't know it yet.

Who I was, Who I am and Who I Want to be (Part Four)

I look at the women in my life, past and present, to discover who I want to be.

I want to be like my Gram, who had so much affection in her marriage, even as her life faded from her, her love for Boompa was still strong. She saw who I really am and still loved me. I still hold her unconditional love to my heart. Her life was sometimes the only thing that kept me alive and her death nearly broke me. Knowing that she saw the reality that I lacked a childhood still touches me to no end. She loved me enough to notice, even living thousands of miles away for much of my life.

I want to be like my third grade teacher (well, one of them, the second one I had after moving to Alaska). Her self confidence and strength were uplifting.

I want to be part of a close-knit family like my close high school friend, B. It could be frustrating, but she knew there was always someone there for her. I want to be interesting and have many topics I can talk about like my friends C. and I. They are women who have lived, who are intelligent and witty and not afraid to be themselves.

I want to be a patient mother like J. and R. Also, R. is just so accepting of who her children are, and works with them at their need levels. She also has the patience and fun attitude that I admire in G.

I want to be confident as a wife and businesswoman and mother like K. She knows what in her life works.

I want my faith to shine through me like T's does. She is the embodiment of what a Christian is to me. She lives the Word and holds it close to her heart. S. is striving for that too, and I just admire her so much for finding a resting place in her life and letting go of the torment of a sad childhood, so much more than I have ever been able to.

I want to be like M. She can be negative (er...a realist), but has such a zest for life that it more than makes up for negative spells. Of all the people I have met, she comes closest to reaching back to me. To just accepting me as I am.

I want a marriage with steady companionship like C., she's married to her high school love and it has not faded with time. I want a marriage like I's, who found the strength to leave an abusive husband, even with two children. And then found even more strength and loved herself enough that when a good man came along, she was able to accept that she deserved love and joy. I want a marriage like M. She can talk to her spouse about anything and not be judged. When they are feeling weak, they lean on each other and grow stronger.

I want to deserve love- and know that I deserve it. I want to stop hating myself, my very being. I want to one day celebrate the day I was born and mean it. I want someone else to celebrate my life and mean it.

I want to create. I want the confidence to put myself out there. I want to know what I want to do when I grow up. I want to find my bliss, instead of just taking the safe path. I want to go to my death knowing that I have found as much joy as I could. I want to wash away my regrets, or at least have fewer in my future. I want my children to look back at any point in their lives and think, "I really liked my childhood."

Healingway part one

I've decided I need a Healingway. What's that you might ask. I'm in the midst of planning a Blessingway for a friend. As I do this, I think about my other friends and their experiences. One that still has so many knots because of her birth experience, one because the dream of a healthy child is gone. Then I thought, if they need a healingway, we could do one for everyone. What would mine be?

Healing from feeling isolated and unworthy of time. It's what first came in mind. So I'm putting that on my plate next. Planning a healingway for those of my friends that are willing to come together, help each other heal and commit part of our spirits to each other.

I believe we do have sort of a communal spirit. Christians call it God- He is infused in all. But whatever you call it, whatever your religion, there is something that connects us. Something that can befoul the energy around us. Something that lifts us up and gives us strength. So why wouldn't we also get together to heal and cleanse each other?

Take a moment to think. If you could gather with a small group of friends, share your pain or confusion or struggles, what would you share? What thing in your life would you most like to heal from?