‘Children show scars like medals…

Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.’

– Leonard Cohen
You hear and read about all kinds of inner child crap. Apparently, we all have one and we must nurture, protect, be aware of this child. My question is, what if you have an outer child? That seems like 2 more kids than I care for, really.

See, my trouble is this: I do not think I have dealt with my outer child yet, forget the one inside. The one that screams, shouts and cries when ignored. The one that hates to lose at games and sulks when she doesn’t get what she wants. The one that feels bad every time someone makes fun of her in the playground or when someone decides she is not their friend anymore. The one that always messes up her clothes (especially the white ones. Always the white ones, damn it), is clumsy and manages to get inexplicable cuts and bruises all over her body. The one that hates homework and for whom lunch hour is the most fun time of the day. This is the kid who wishes she had one best friend because it’s cool to have an ally. The kid who makes the most noise in class, writes on desks and is most likely to give the bully a shiner if he gets too smart with her.

That’s me.

So who the hell is the kid inside? I don’t know. But she cries an awful lot and always seems to be in pain. She’s hurting and the reasons are a mystery to me for the most part; until the few times when I’ve really sat down to think and remembered all this stuff from way back when I was little girl. And it comes to me suddenly, in a flash that almost knocks me off my feet. Those insignificant times that I kept locked away in my head, the stray moments that I can see clear as day, the random afternoons I thought I would never remember, especially not now in my thirties, or ever need to even.

Maybe she cries because I ignore her needs. Maybe because I can’t bring myself to admit to her existence at all because I think its pop-trash and corny psychobabble. But my God, she can cry, this one. And when she does, I look everywhere to everyone to try and make her feel better. I don’t try, myself. I don’t think I know how and in some way, it scares me that there is not a ‘something’ but a ‘someone’ inside of me that I need to acknowledge. I don’t know ‘how’ to ‘hold’ her, and tell her she’s safe and it’s all okay. I just don’t know how to tell her that everything will be all right tomorrow. Perhaps because I do not believe it will be.

My therapist says we need to talk. She’s right but my God, how I hate it when people say that.

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