Growing up is often regarded as being liberating – and, in a sense, it is. You can work, drive, declare your major, what-have-you. But what we are not liberated from is the memory of childhood, the imprint that our experiences have had on us. Of course, that’s what makes us, us – but what that entails is that for those of us with childhood trauma, we are those memories, walking lacerations with blood clots where our childhoods should have been. Growing up quickly has its perks, but it comes at great costs.
Not long ago, I went driving around my old neighborhood. I happened to be in the area and felt compelled to do so. The silly little thing about this neighborhood is that it is where some of my worst memories lie, and it was the last place I lived with my father before moving in with a friend at 13. I was expecting it to be an arrow straight to the heart. I was expecting to have to pull to the curb in front of my old trailer and bawl my eyes out.
But the road was too thin.
Since this was my first time actually driving through this neighborhood, I never realized how thin the roads were. I could hardly squeeze my Equinox past oncoming cars, or even those parked on the curb. What this meant was that I could not sit and gawk at my old house for long without blocking the road. I drove by quite slowly, soaking in the porch that is no longer blue and the shingles rotting off the awning, and then I kept going. What else was I to do? I kept going, admiring the wildflowers adorning nearly every yard, and then I left.
People who were forced to grow up quickly are often perceived as “Having It Together”. Many of us save our money, work as hard as we can in school, and have plans A-Z in case something goes wrong. I have been told that I seem like I “have it together,” whatever that means. The truth is that I do not “have it together,” and I am no more adult than the little kids I hand out stickers to at work. The child in me cries incessantly for all that she cannot have, and I drag her by the wrist everywhere I go. She wants her father, her mother, her blankie, and a glass of milk while I am taking an exam or front-and-facing my store. I have to tell her that none of those things are available, that mother is gone, that father cannot protect her, that we cannot afford milk until tomorrow. She claws the laceration wide open and ruptures each forming clot with her tiny fingers, and I cannot help but love and fear her. I am writing her a storybook and desperately trying to give her a happy ending.
I do not “have it together” because I am not a whole; I am dissonance; I am specks of shattered memory glimmering. My shards do not fit together quite right. They reflect everything I see, well against my will. Weakness breaks through every crack like mold in grout. Every time I feel something heal inside me, something else breaks. The world does not owe me survival; every breath that I take is a gift.
Oh, no, this world does not owe me survival. This world does not owe any of us anything. That is the beauty of trying, of making do, of living off of cheap ramen and sunrises. That is the beauty of life – the elusive everlasting dance with death, be it physical death or the emotional death that occurs when you’re absent of hope. The world definitely does not owe us hope. We’ve got to scrap whatever we can get of that.
I think we often get in our own way when it comes to finding beauty in life. I’ve found that the best part of me to assign to such a task is the inner child. As hard as I can be on her, she is the protector of what little purity is to be had in life.
“If you think the world doesn’t care about you now, wait until you turn 18.”
At the time I write this article (if you can call it that – but it was either this or Courtney Love Fun Facts), I am turning 18 in a little more than 2 months. I still sleep every night with the blanket I’ve had since the age of two. I still watch Full House when I’m feeling down. I still collect rocks and walk bare-footed on grass. I still throw on Meg & Dia on summer days when the vibe is right. My Raggedy Anne doll, perched on her shelf, watches me write, as do the mini fairy figurines. These things are nice to come home to after a 14-hour day.
I spent so long trying to force my inner child underwater, struggling against her nails digging into my arms, bubbles spitting at the raging surface of the waves. But I realize now that she will never drown, and the best thing I can do is teach her to swim alongside me, to shed some love her way. I want more than anything to write a happy ending story. But I know that, should I fail at this, there is nothing that I cannot survive now. The little girl, gliding through lapping waters under which she once choked, reminds me of that every day.
