An Ode to The Child Inside
You’re all grown up; I’m here for you.
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‘The roots of resilience …are to be found in the sense of being understood by and existing in the mind and heart of a loving, attuned, and self-possessed other.’ — Diana Fosha
A shoulder to cry on:
There comes a point in therapy when you have to bare all. Perhaps, like me, you spend your initial consultations with a new therapist delving into your life story, but find yourself holding back on your truth: It’s gritty, complicated, and you have to be sure she/he is the one.
Though that’s not to say your intentions aren’t well-meaned. You hope that this will be the professional ‘shoulder to cry on’ that you’ve been searching for. You know you need this — that’s why you’re here. It’s why you’re making a dent in your salary to get it all out on the table. Your past has hindered your happiness for years, and you’ve had enough.
Despite my best intentions, going back there was no easy feat. It was even harder to put into words, and harder still to believe that digging up the past was going to change anything.
My natural instinct was to keep the past in the past, and to focus on the now. But I needed to identify that without revisiting ‘the girl within’, I would remain static in my hurt. It would fester for decades and I’d never quite find contentment in this gift we call life.
The first step was accepting that she is, and will always be, a part of me. That as an adult, I’ve adopted the needs of my inner child as my own responsibility: This is my opportunity to take charge of the love that was once out of my hands — The love I was denied when I was powerless to provide it for myself.
Womanhood becomes you:
While most people have been out proclaiming their fears about Covid this year, I have another fear on my mind. At the close of next Spring, I’ll turn 30, which I know is still relatively young, but something about it alarms my psyche into feeling the pressure to be a ‘real adult’.
I’ve been racking my brains as to why this could be, and I came up with various reasons; all very valid, and perhaps marginally true. Though despite my transition into life’s third decade, I think truthfully, the idea of ageing, or even fear of mortality are less scary than the idea of saying goodbye to the ‘girl’ inside forever.
We’ve still got some unfinished business.
That somehow when I’ve reached the big 3–0, the last specks of girlhood will bare a painful similarity to a rug being pulled from under my feet. — Mandatory adulthood thrust upon me before I’d had the chance to be loved without conditions; the way every child deserves. I’m resuming into womanhood un-prepared, too soon, and frankly-
I’m just not ready.
The thought alone makes me want to do what a young girl would; to recoil and hide. To find someone who will foster my needs and take care of me so that I can feel at ease again.
I feel at loss for a time in my life when I yearned for the nurturing of a caregiver who wanted to see me blossom, and thrive — not mis-step into womanhood with a ‘chip on her shoulder’ due to time spent un-loved.
Time equates to age, for sure, but the feeling remains the same. And if you ever stand a chance of it leaving you, you have to dive right back into your past: headfirst, without looking back, and ready for tears.
Because really, it’s going to hurt. It will hurt with the numbness of pain endured only yesterday, but eventually, you’ll turn a corner in the right direction. But it’s likely that you won’t be able to do this on your own.
Letting go of your pain is your only motivation:
Which brings me back to the therapy room: Week 6 was about the point we really started getting somewhere.
The truth was finally seeping out of me; like waves of relief, but then came this melancholic realisation that I may never get out of this. I could talk and talk about the perils of my past, but for some reason still be unequipped to cut the cord. Fated to be forever in yearning for the maternal love that I craved.
Longing to escape from feeling at loss for safe place to go, and a safe ear to listen.
So we discussed, in great detail, about the patterns of behaviour I’ve implemented over the years for the sake of some normalcy:
For something similar to the love I saw the caregivers of my peers give to them so freely. I needed it too, of course I did, but yet in retrospect I see I handled myself well. Considering everything, I never ended up on drugs or engaged in a life of crime or prostitution, which we took a moment to focus on:
The whole point of therapy is to make you feel better, right? I even laughed at myself a little in the midst of tears.
Now we’re getting somewhere:
I think I relished in that moment a little too long, because I knew what had to come next — and this wasn’t going to be such a credit to my resilience. I knew I just had to spit it out because wholeheartedly, it was the truth; and therapy thrives on complete, utterly-raw truth.
It almost felt like a confessional, but I’ll leave out the unnecessary. The real takeaway was in the conclusion that we came to together.
I rely on people in my life to fill the empty space from my childhood.
It’s really as simple as that. Of course I have other complications, but that’s the method I know deep down I’ve used to develop tolerance to my emotional upheaval over the years.
I mean, this was hardly surprising at this point. I’m well aware of my tendency to be drawn to people who exude the ‘nurturing’ quality that I crave; teachers, professionals, and romantic relationships with men twice my age, coincidence? I think not.
And it’s perhaps not my proudest thing to admit, but I don’t always do this unknowingly. It happens too often for it to be a coincidence.
I’m aware that my dysfunctional relationships as an adult stem from the wounds of my childhood. It’s like I’m back at home– age 9, eyes wide, taking in whatever I can, anything to make me feel safe.
But I’m not nine, I’m twenty years her senior. I know it’s not the altruistic way to live.
I know this but I do it anyway.
I can’t help but to form attachments to the types of people mentioned above because there’s something about them had signified some relief from my trauma. On some subconscious level, it’s as if I feel like a relationship of such kind will enable me to re-write history; to erase some of the pain.
Of course, I immediately went down the route of self-depreciation, but was quickly assured-
“It’s not your fault”
I’ve started to accept that.
Yes, I have somewhat different ways of forming attachments, but it doesn’t erase the validity of my emotion. I feel things so intensely, it’s true.
Though my pursuance of these ‘role model’ relationships aren’t solely for the benefit of my own fulfilment. I don’t think I ever gave myself credit for that. I often fall for these people because I’m drawn in by their maternal/paternal qualities.
They make me want to believe in myself.
But I also appreciate their qualities all the more because of the trials I’ve faced — the love I’ve missed out on. There’s always a positive that comes with trauma. a unique experience that shapes you into a more compassionate human being, with tried and tested resilience. I’ve learnt to be proud of that — to own my story.
Their displays of genuine love mean all the more because I’ve spent my whole life searching for the kind of people I deserve to have around.
The book: The Body Keeps The Score — by Bessel Van Der Kolk has been a valuable companion. I’d say it’s an excellent read for Trauma of all kinds — It’s definitely been my go-to.
It’s interesting to discover that trauma and dysfunctional attachment styles in our childhood reflect how we connect to others later in life. Although, I’m not a psychologist by any means, so if you want some solid insight, I’d stick to Bessel’s book.
Strength comes when you allow yourself to bare all:
Let me take you back to the therapy room once more. The truth is — I’ve made progress, but I’m not quite there yet:
I’m not done healing, processing, and grieving ‘the child inside’. But it’s helping her for me to write this.
At times I’m still convinced I’ll never be loved truly because of my fear of letting people in. I have to battle my inherent belief that all people do is disappoint; love with an agenda, or leave.
I feel overly fragile at even the slightest overwhelment, and I’m beginning to understand why. I’m attached to my youth because it’s adds ‘power to the pull’ of people’s help when I feel helpless. I’m a walking contradiction, but at the heart of this lived-trauma is a girl who exudes a resilence beyond the norm, a strength that unvails from an innocent is like no other. It’s not courage, its survival.
At times I still I feel like the embodiment of that wounded child.
And it works because I’m still ‘young’, but with each passing decade I feel a part of her slipping away. In my minds’ eye it’s like I’m convinced that distance over time between the now — to my childhood makes me progressively powerless to heal her.
I’m not even sure if that makes any sense, but what emotionally fuelled feelings do?
There came a point, (and quite a pivotal one), that I laid bare the truth about my fears. I couldn’t quite put it into words but the photo I got out from my pocket organiser said everything I needed to. A picture really can say a thousand words.
“You still feel like that little girl, don’t you?”
Yes.
I do.
I really, really do.
That was a very progressive session. I’m still reaping the benefits from it now, months later. We started work based on my memories of the past — always the painful, but in turn, the most effective. I found that I could go back to see her, that ‘girl inside’, that girl that is still me from another time, at a more tender age.
I could go back and it would now be in my absolute control for how I would treat her.
“What do you think of when you think of that girl, sitting there, overwhelmed by the chaos in the room?”
“I feel sad for her, like I want to reach out my arms in genuine abundance and hold her while she sobs into the nook of my neck. I want to rock her to sleep and tell her she is safe; loved.”
And that’s what did. Memory by memory, I went back and rewrote the most painful moments in my minds’ history. I did it through an acceptance that fulfilling those needs is in my hands.
I now know that when I accept this fully, my whole world will start to fall into place; the ‘girl within’ will still exist, but she will no longer be frightened.
She has a caregiver now — an adult to love her for exactly who she is. To care about her hopes and dreams. To comfort her through a bad dream or a stormy night.
And she was there all along.
It’s me.
If you enjoyed this read, you may enjoy some of my other writing:
Thank you for reading.
