The Child Within

I've always liked to give others the impression that I could "hold my own", so to speak. I never had any respect for women I considered "weak". I wasn't about to wear high heels everywhere, obsess about whether or not to wear white after Labor Day, and I would never, ever consider owning a pink, cashmere sweater.

 The women who really made me sick were the ones who were waiting around for their "knight in shining armor". After all, I was only a fan of marriage when I was a little girl, and really didn't understand the dynamics of the institution. Once I reached a certain age, I started to believe that most women really only wanted the wedding, and not the actual marriage. I mean, the 50% divorce rate in the United States, I thought, spoke volumes. Weddings, to me, were nothing more than expensive, self-glorification ceremonies for "divas", who were willing to have their parents spare no expense, just so they could hear people say how "beautiful" and "radiant" they looked, all day long. I still kind of feel that way, in some instances, I admit. I have been married, myself, for 15 years now, and it has been FAR from the fairy tale we were all promised when we were little girls. And, I got married at the courthouse, in a pair of pants, thank you very much.

I only feel comfortable wearing dark colors, even today. Amazingly, I don't have any tattoos (yet), but I did try to get my tongue pierced, once. That ended in utter failure, when I acquired a massive infection, and had to remove the post, and let my tongue heal back. I don't often wear jewelry, but, when I do, it's never gold and sparkly. It might even include a skull, or two. I was blessed with naturally black hair (although, I do admit, it's not so "natural" anymore), but, if I had not been, I would have probably dyed it that color, anyway. 

The other night, when I laid down in bed, I was considering painting my nails the next day. I was trying to decide between dark blood red, and black. Then, I grabbed my favorite fuzzy, pink blanket, and covered up with it. Then, it hit me. My favorite blanket isn't black, and covered with skulls, nails, bear-traps, or whatnot. It's fuzzy and PINK.

This brought back the memory of a woman I met, probably at least 7 years ago. I don't even remember her name today. However, I wish I did. 

Basically, we met while both hospitalized in a psychiatric unit, in a local hospital. I have seen the inside of several mental health facilities, throughout my life. Sometimes I was holding the keys, and sometimes I wasn't. This time, as I mentioned, was one of the times I wasn't. 

She was admitted, a couple of days after I had arrived. I remember thinking something along the lines of, "Oh, look. A little princess, probably here because she broke a nail". I think she may have been wearing pink, but I'm not sure. I do remember though, with great clarity, how she dressed, once she got settled in.

For anyone who has ever spent any time in a psych unit, you know the standard "uniform". Most of the patients walk around in sweatpants, T-shirts, and those hospital-issue socks, with the treads on the bottom, so you don't slip and hurt yourself, and the hospital doesn't end up with a lawsuit. About one-third of those people usually walk around with the blanket off of their bed, wrapped around their shoulders. She was the exception, though.

Once her vital signs were taken, her possessions put away, and she was officially "processed", for lack of a better term, she got into her comfy clothes. She came out of her room, wearing pink pajama pants, with kittens on them. She had a rather fancy bed-jacket (pink, of course), trimmed in lace. On her feet, she wore pink bunny slippers. She was still in full make-up (a little too much, actually, in my opinion), but had tied up her hair with pink ribbons, into pigtails. This woman was, as I later found out, 28 years old, married, and had a small child of her own: and she was dressed like she was 4.

On her bed, she had brought her own fuzzy, pink blanket, and a pink pillow. I believe the pillow had Hello Kitty on it. She had brought in various stuffed animals with her: kitties, bunnies, bears, etc. I was actually surprised they let her keep them, as staff in psych units will usually confiscate those types of things, due to contraband risks. But they didn't this time. Maybe they knew she was no risk. Or maybe they knew how much she needed them.

The next day, in a therapy group for women, she admitted that she had been sexually abused as a child. As a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, myself, this did not really surprise me. In fact, it's one of the first things I expected, when I saw her style of dress, and how she had decorated her bed. I understood that she was trying to reclaim her childhood, her innocence, that had been so violently stolen from her. I remember feeling so sorry for her: how obvious she was, how ridiculous she looked (at least, in my own jaded eyes), and how weak she was. She was a textbook case. There was no pretense about her. Why didn't she just toughen up? Why didn't put up walls? Why didn't she just smile, and tell everyone that everything was fine? That's what I always did, after all, and it always worked for me....right?

But, the other night, after all of these years, I realized something I hadn't before. Maybe she wasn't the weak one. Maybe I was. She was sick, had been violated, and was deeply, deeply wounded, possibly almost beyond repair. But she wasn't hiding her quest to reclaim her innocence. She was needy, and she let everyone know it. But so was I. The only difference was I had built walls so thick that no one could get through. I told lie after lie that I was strong and capable, and that nothing, and no one, could hurt me. I partied, I drank, and had a lot of meaningless sex, just to prove that I wasn't innocent, and wanted nothing to do with it. But, you know what? I did. I really, really did.. 

I cry when I think of the child I was, before the abuse. I remember the purple footie pajamas my Grandma would put on me, just after a bath. I remember how good it felt to run around the house, all warm and clean. I can also recall regularly trying to get out of going to bed, by begging to watch "just one more commercial". I thought I might miss something, I suppose.

I remember the walks in the woods with my Grandpa. During the winter, I would sometimes sled down a hill there, which I thought was so much fun. We had one of those old wooden sleds, with the metal runners. Not one of those plastic toboggans, that you could never get to stay unrolled. I hated those things. Still do.

And, I remember how much I used to love pink, frilly dresses, and stuffed animals. I had so many stuffed animals, I couldn't even count them. 

That was who I was. And that is who I still am, on the inside. Just a small, scared child, who just wants to feel safe: to be held, and loved, and assured that everything will be alright, in the end. 

I hope, so very much, for this woman I met in the hospital that time, that she's finally found some peace and happiness. I hope she no longer feels frightened or lonely, but rather completely safe, and well-loved. Basically, I hope for her, all of the things I hope for myself, someday.

I might want to take just a bit from her playbook. I mean, I'm not planning on putting my hair in pink ribbons, or buying a Hello Kitty pillow. However, maybe I should show more courage, and let others, who truly do love and care for me, know that I AM scared, that I AM sad, and that I need to feel safe. I need to learn to drop the facade, and see that there's no shame in asking for help. And, most of all, I need to stop smiling, and telling everyone, all the time, that "I'm fine".

And, for now, I'm going to continue to hold on tightly to my fuzzy, pink blanket.