The Journey Inward

My word this year is STORY and I’ve been thinking a lot about what my story is, how I tell it, who I tell it to, when I tell it and why I tell it. Little memories come to me and I think about whether they are ones worth sharing, turning over, finding meaning in. I am savoring this process.

Last week I thought about this story from my childhood. I was somewhere between 5 and 7, I think. My mom, brothers and I were playing Candy Land or possible Chutes and Ladders. One brother was 6 years older and the other 10 years older. My mom would have been in her early to mid 40’s. I say this for context because being the youngest by quite a bit made me feel left out, like I didn’t belong, like I couldn’t keep up. My siblings were additional parents to me. You know how some “pleasant surprise” children get coddled and doted on? Not this one! The expectations were high and I constantly felt less than.

Anyway, at some point in the game, my little game marker got sent back on the board. Like, way back. Like almost beginning back. Everyone else was nearing the finish. I balked. My brothers taunted me and chided me. I started to whimper and they called me a baby. I stood up and ran upstairs to my room, frustrated and hurt. They yelled, “Quitter!” after me. I threw myself down on the floor on the other side of my bed, crying hot, angry tears. I waited for someone to come up and comfort me, tell me they understood and ask me to rejoin the game.

If my spoiler alert in paragraph 2 went unnoticed, no one came. Not even my mom. I waited there a long time. It got dark. I could smell dinner cooking. Sheepishly, I left my room and came to the top of the stairs, waiting to be admonished for being such a brat. But no one was there. I came down for dinner expecting the worst. Nothing was said.

I was grateful, but also sad. I hadn’t been teased more, but nor had anyone given me and my pouting another thought, apparently.

I have lived all my years, right up to and including year 54, feeling like I am too much, not enough, and above all, a selfish brat when I get upset or frustrated. It wasn’t until I started exploring my story that I could see that event in a new light. I wasn’t immature or bratty or entitled or selfish or needy or a baby. I was a child, behaving as children do. ”It’s not fair!” is the cry of many a board game playing child, and I was no different. But I felt different. I got a message about who and what I was from the people most influential to me, whether purposeful or not, and I held it close to my chest, then consumed it and let it branch out through my veins and arteries until it pulsed through my body as life blood. I chose that identify for myself and it has held me back, made me small, kept me quiet and prevented me from asking for what I want and need. 

I tell this story to reclaim the child I was and to show her grace and mercy and compassion and empathy and love and acceptance and understanding. She was a child, acting as a child would. Because when I was a child, I acted like a child. But not very often after that.

Photo: Mountainside, NJ. Circa 1975. Photographer unknown.