Trigger warning: the following post contains foul language and discusses domestic violence.
I’m in therapy, every week.
There. I admitted it.
Dealing with mental health issues is often difficult for people to admit. It shows weakness, it shows vulnerability, it shows humanity.
For me it is like a calling card of failure and of triumph. I couldn’t do it on my own. This realization is both a blessing and a curse. If you are dealing with your own issues, seek help. Don’t wait. You don’t have to be strong all by yourself. There are people that care. I am one, but I’m not a trained professional. I still care though.
This week my therapist challenged me: “What emotions have you been struggling with?” Struggling? How dare she? I paused and thought about it. Depression. Guilt. Shame. Fear. Powerlessness. They all swirled past as I thought about my past week. I thought I had been doing okay, until this morning’s phone call.
As we went on to talk, I decided to go with hopelessness. I feel hopeless, a lot. So, she challenged me. My homework this week was to get in touch with my inner child and maybe figure out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
Piece of Cake.
It’s only evaded me and hidden, secluded and buried, somewhere in the deep pervasive chasm that is my subconscious for the past 39 years. I can totally knock it out in a week. Yeah, right.
So, being the overachiever and people pleaser that I am, I dove in.
What is an inner child? One’s experiences and trauma shape one’s experience and this translates into how we see the world. The inner child is one’s deepest emotions. They can be good or bad based on one’s experience. If one can heal one’s inner child, one can go on to experience a richer, more fulfilling life by incorporating the inner child instead of excluding them. In order to heal the inner child, one must validate the emotions and experiences of the past. It is recommended to write a letter, say positive affirmations, practice gentle reparenting of oneself, etc.
But the thing is, I wasn’t drawn to that side. Even though I experienced my fair share of trauma, I was drawn more to the counter point. My Inner Adult.
If the inner child is the emotional experience, the inner adult is how we live practically. It is responsible for well, being responsible. Putting one’s phone down and doing the laundry. Saying no to the last piece of pizza because one knows one has had enough. Going to bed on time. Organizing. Planning. Paying the bills. One’s inner adult is what helps one to adult when times are tough.
That struck a chord.
Those are all things I am not great at on the daily. The struggle, so to speak. I wanted to reconnect with her. I am willful and erratic. I’m a tad irresponsible, and I’ve definitely been known to be sporadic. I have filled my life with infusions of joy and spontaneity, and have been known to shirk the non-fun in favor of a holiday. Procrastination has become a joy, a guilty pleasure, when once it was a burden. Truthfully, I occasionally look forward to putting things off.
So when I went looking for the small voice inside me, I felt blank.
Empty.
Where was my inner child? Certainly not crying front and center and demanding attention, but my inner child didn’t seem to be hiding either. I felt…nothing. Once I realized how deep the chasm of dissociating from my emotions went, I began to realize that I might need to approach from a different perspective.
So, how about a hand for my inner grown-up. Lord knows I have put that bitch, and she is – so no judgement, through the ringer, and I never took the time to really notice. Much like children don’t realize what they put their parents through, and they aren’t supposed to, I had put my inner adult to the test. Luckily for me, she always comes through.
I definitely owe her a beer. Heck, I probably owe her a five page report on the photosynthetic properties of chlorophyll. But it is she who calls to me most. My inner grownup is holding a sign that says “start here,” and here is where I am choosing to start. The beginning is usually the best place, after all.
Since we are supposed to talk to ourselves, or maybe write a letter, I figured this would be the appropriate space to say “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry that I packed so much baggage for you to carry. I’m sorry that I was your “boots on the ground child,” as I like to say. The BOGC is the first tour experience of the raw trauma that any first time soldier would experience when entering combat. Sure, there are lots of books and friends have kids, and maybe there was a few babysitting gigs, but nothing can truly prepare someone for the 24/7/365 that is parenting. Every new deal is a big deal. Its an emotional deal. Its a raw deal. It is non-stop crying, projectile vomit, shit covered, bitter pill life. The in between moments of cute when one must face the reality of life as a parent. Parents of multiples can probably relate, the first child paints the couches with butter or shaves the dog/their eyebrows, and every other emotional rollercoaster is their first terrifying/enraging ride, so that by the time the second kid or third gets around to the same antics, one can brush it off with a laugh like a hardened general. “You spilled the milk? That’s okay, we can get more milk.”
I’m sorry I spilled the milk. I’m sorry I created all those instances you had to save me from, and thank you for saving me.
Thank you for every time you drug me out of bed. For every appointment I made, for every class I passed, its because you were the voice that I needed. The voice that inspired and enthralled, advised or lectured, lifted me up and cheered me on. For all the times that someone else, someone outside of me, should have been there, when I didn’t have anyone, thank you. You don’t always know everything, but you knew that you could help me find the answer. Most importantly, on my worst day, on the day I looked death in the eye, your voice soothed me and got me through.
My day in hell was long. A day in hell would be long, that is hell after all. Can’t expect to pop into hell for a quick pack of smokes and some road beers. (That’s root beer btw, don’t drink and drive) It started when my ex grabbed my kid by the throat and slammed her into a wall. It ended with me being forced to choose a loaded firearm. I survived a hell of a marriage. I survived a deep dark visit to the void. I survived the stalking, the barrage of phone calls and text messages. I survived the night I used that same firearm to clear my own house room by room, not knowing what was waiting for me behind each closed door. The one thing in common all those days and nights was your steady voice, guiding me through. I couldn’t have done it without you.
But I hope you understand why I decided to put you away a little until now. I wanted to be free from fear. I wanted to be free from hate. I wanted to be off guard, just a little. So, no, you can’t come back like you were. I will still need you always, but I want to recognize your significance in my life and then move forward. I want you to have a cherished place of rest. I want you to have a cushioned front row seat to my show. I promise I will learn all my lines, and I can’t promise that I wont need you to rescue me every now and then, but I have to stop disconnecting from my emotions. I have to face the scary ones and the good ones. I hope you will hold my hand. I know that you will.
And I want you to know, I’m proud of me too.
How can I honor you? I am taking a bit more self-care time. I’m taking care of our home (my body) for the first time in a long time. I’ve lost 100 pounds. I am reconnecting with emotions and learning to feel again. I don’t dissociate nearly as much now, or at least I recognize when I do. I am reconnecting to the world slowly. I am not going to give up, even if I am not successful and no one but my husband wants to hang out with me. I am owning my name and my space. I am Geneva O’Kelley. I’m not just okay with it, I am proud of it. I am proud of me.
And how do you like that? I reach out to my inner adult and I find that my inner child was hiding in plain sight. Now to work on that little demon.
Actually, I’m gonna put my feet up. I’ve done quite a bit of heavy lifting and I deserve a rest. I still have a few more days to get my homework done before my next therapy session after all. I’ll tackle my inner child, and what I am going to do with the next 45 years another day.
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