Little me...

I have a picture of my two-year-old self up on the top of my little cabinet in my bathroom, where I see it often. She has big brown eyes, pigtails and a look of wonder on her face. It is the best picture of me ever taken. Now, Maya Anjelou says that every woman should realize that, while her childhood may have been awful, it is over. But, is it? I think I carry that little person within me. Her dreams, her hurts, her shame, all still are present. I know this because sometimes my feelings just don't match the outer circumstances, and it is clear I am reliving an old belief. Even more poignant is my seven-year-old self, the one that was a head taller than all the other kids, boys included (boys especially, actually), miles of legs hanging out the bottom of skirts my mother had to sew straps onto just to keep them from slipping off my hips. I realize now that I was a pretty little girl, but I felt ugly. I strived to be the best to make up for my other deficiencies, which obviously disappointed my mother, who pointed out my flaws daily. My attributes, and there were many, were ignored. So I formed the habit of surveying myself as a collection of flaws, and even worse, shameful stains of my own making. Seventeen years of recovery and re-parenting myself have healed a lot of this for me, but as in any wound, it is still thinly scarred over, and occasionally, it opens and bleeds, again. If I am diligent in my program of self-care, it doesn't happen very often. So, Maya, I think you are wrong. And I have learned that my child needs to play, a lot. Today, I am drawing an elephant.