In the previous post, I shared how dialoguing with different parts of who I am might lead to a breakthrough about why I am unable to finish projects specifically related to my story. This is my unedited (yes, unedited) dialogue with THE CHILD, 10 years old in the 1950s and early 1960s.
SHARON (to THE CHILD): What would you like me to know about you?
THE CHILD: First, thank you for asking. You know, over the years — decades, actually — we have sometimes dialogued. You saved those dialogues. Printed them up. What did you do with them. Did you learn anything about me?
SHARON: I have them in one of several three-ring binders about my life. I haven’t looked at them for a while. That being said, what would you like me to know about you now?
THE CHILD: I would like you to remember what I told you over and over again: I’m so sad and lonely. Why didn’t you ever notice? I didn’t realize how sad and lonely I was until President Kennedy was assassinated. Everyone looked so sad. Even Walter Cronkite. I looked at all the grown-ups on TV and thought, “That’s how I feel all the time.” That’s when I knew that I was sad.
SHARON: Do you know why?
THE CHILD: I’m not sure, but I think it’s because I took up so much of Mom’s time — she paid so much attention to me because I wasn’t like my other sisters. I had big feet, read books, hated dolls and talked back. Plus, I wore glasses. I LOOKED sad and lonely. Like an abandoned bug. Mom made me take them off whenever she took pictures of us.
SHARON: I’m so sorry.
THE CHILD: The Kennedy assassination was SO BIG, it seemed to make the world turn the other way. Our family didn’t argue for several days. Mom kept saying, “Those poor kids,” about Jackie’s kids. She never seemed sad about her kids, only flustered; and with me, completely fed up. She told me that she used all her “energy and time” dealing with me; that I was “more trouble” than all of my sisters combined. She would put my chin in one of her hands to look right into her face, and I could tell that she didn’t have or didn’t want to have the energy to deal with me.
SHARON: What was your mother dealing” with? What was it about you?
THE CHILD: Have you listened to ANYTHING I’ve said?! I LOOKED different. I TALKED different. I THOUGHT different. I didn’t do it on purpose. There weren’t enough books in the house to occupy me — books were an escape, especially all the Tarzan of the Apes books that belonged to my dad. I read them over and over figuring that if Tarzan could survive in a jungle, I could survive in Mom’s house. The only thing Mom read was Better Homes and Gardens. Then when Kennedy was assassinated, Mom’s make-believe Disney-and-Hollywood-musicals-world was shattered. The real world came into our house.
SHARON: What was that like?
THE CHILD: I felt safer in THAT world; the world of assassinations and death than I did in Mom’s house. The assassination world was in writing that I could read; in articles that had a beginning and an end. I did not know where Mom began or ended. She wanted us to be just like her. My oldest sister liked that “fit.” She wore it perfectly. Me? It was uncomfortable, like wearing those too small “hand-me-down” shoes that I had to wear all the time. It hurt me. Feeling sad about assassinations that I could define was easier than feeling sad about Mom. I could not define or understand her.
SHARON: Gosh, what a burden. Let me see if I understand: You were living in a house with a mother you could not define outside of what she said was wrong with you. That must have frightened her because she didn’t know herself. So what was wrong with you was wrong with her. She was determined that you fit the mold so she could define herself. I have to confess that this is harrowing to write about.
THE CHILD: So are you mad? Are you going to abandon me again?
SHARON: No, I just need a break. I am concerned that there is not enough I can do to make up for what you didn’t get as a child.
THE CHILD: Please. Please. Please. Do not make this about you again. Do. Not. Make. This. About. You. AGAIN. Please.
Oh, Sharon, I am holding you and the perfect child you were in my embrace.
Your mother had no self-esteem at all did she? She must have lived a tortured life. She may have sought to fit in by creating children to be the person she could never be. This is always a recipe for disaster. What a burden for all of you. Especially after she realized she did not have that kind of power.
How does the daughter of a mother with no self esteem learn to create her own? You are living into that question. Keep going.
Thank you, Beth.
Truth be told, I have been avoiding this post ever since it was published. I originally thought it was because so much vulnerability was exposed by both SHARON and THE CHILD. However, 15 minutes ago, while vacuuming, it occurred to me that THE CHILD really has latched onto the “you’re so selfish” assessment of her mom . . . and is assigning it to SHARON.
This is tough shit. Yes, my mother obviously had no self-esteem and it’s been harrowing, and frankly, exhausting to create my own. Wish I could order it from Amazon. Hell, I’m not even sure how I would know if I HAD self-esteem. Where does my mother begin and end with me now? Every Thursday — just like my mother — I clean my kitchen and bathroom and dust and vacuum my entire house. How is that helping me fuel my own self-esteem?
I also didn’t notice until this morning that THE CHILD consistently says, “Mom” while Sharon says, “your mother” like she doesn’t recognize who THE CHILD is referring to. That is completely subconscious. Is this good or bad? Has my self-fueled self-esteem successfully separated me from my mother?
Also, what is it about THE CHILD that makes me want to walk away AGAIN? Am I just so sick and tired of hearing her bitch about her mom? And is that a bad thing? What does this kid really want? To be heard, yes, but I can’t be her Mom.
No you cannot be her Mom AND you can accept her, welcome her, and tell her that she matters, her interests matter, her heart matters, and her experience matters. SHE matters–and she does. Keep going. Of course all this listening and welcoming is scary. You do have courage. You can do this.
Sharon, this is heartbreaking! Over and over that little girl was told, not only that she had DONE something wrong, but that she WAS wrong—all wrong. Your mother was constantly trying to re-birth you and make you right! But something in you—that spark of spunk!—sensed that you were different, but that maybe, just maybe, you were right, and not wrong. You could not, however, at such a developing age, celebrate, affirm, and love that difference from your mother and from who she wanted you to be. Many such children would simply have withered away. Sadly your spunk only gave you more trouble, but it was also, I believe, a saving factor. So as we your friends now hold that little child, mothering her and whispering to her that she is whole and beautiful just as she is, we’ll also gratefully celebrate her spunk which kept her alive!
Thank you. Speaking to our inner child is healing. She’s always there. Waiting for attention. I’m glad to meet her. I’m with Beth, keep going.