I made it through my first session, and my first gut reaction was correct, I had diarrhea of the mouth. I went from topic to topic that seemed to make sense to me in my head at the time but later as I was thinking I must’ve seemed like a squirrel with ADHD. We talked about my childhood, my dad then and my dad now. We talked my children, and that I don’t want them to suffer the same fate as me.
One of the first things I said to her was a thought that occured to me when I was driving to the appointment- I never had a chance. That little girl that still lives inside of me, she never had a chance. The grade-schooler that was miserable with the kids being cruel to her and then her father being cruel when she got home – she never had a chance. The middleschooler who was depressed, overweight and being made fun of at school and home, she never had a chance. That teenager, who was a recluse, had very few friends – she never had a chance. Even that lovely, thin, girl who thought she was fat and ugly, who met a wonderful boy at 17 years old. Even though he rescued her from the homelife she suffered she didn’t have a chance.
I picture the little girl inside me, with her hair and curly pigtails, a blue flowered dress, with lace around the collar, made by her mom, wearing white socks with lace trim and her shiny black patent leather shoes. This is quite literally her, at age 4. I have blurred my face as I am not yet ready to share with those who know me all the scars I carry.
She’s sitting there, on a chair, legs crossed at the ankles swinging her little legs back and forth too small to reach the floor. I see her face smiling, but I can see her eyes. Her eyes don’t lie. She is sad, deep inside because she knows she’s not enough. She’s not enough for her father, and if she’s not enough for him, she’ll never feel like she’s enough for anyone else. I want to hug her. I want to tell her that I know her pain, because I am her. I want to tell her that it will all turn out ok, but that would be a lie. That little girl haunts me, day and night. What’s worse, is my daughter is practically a clone of that little girl. I am so extra protective of my daughter, almost as if I protect her enough it’ll save the little girl inside me. But I know that’s not true. I don’t know if that little girl in the blue dress will ever be ok. Or if she’ll end up looking like Voldemort at the end of Goblet of Fire.
I want to look inside me and see her running through a field of dandelions, her favorite thing to do, I want to see her pigtails flying behind her, with an uninhibited laugh. Not nervous that she might do something to make Daddy mad that would end up causing her pain. I want her to be free of the memories of Daddy beating Mommy. I want her to be free from the pain of beatings, taunting, teasing and ridicule. I want her memories and thoughts to be of loving and being loved.
I don’t know if I will ever be able to give that little girl that gift, but I sure hope by the end of this that I will be able to love and be loved. That I will be able to be happy, that I will feel better that I won’t feel like I am less than, that I will be able to know that I am a free, loved, cherished child of God. I want to know that I will pass that on to my children, not pass on the generational brokenness that comes with my family history.