Tender Ache

When she thinks back to her childhood it’s of vivid moments, fragmented memories, and spending time waiting for things to be over.

It’s like she can watch herself then, even now, and understand what it all means, but not feel it. The safety valve in her mind keeps those files sealed along with the feeling addendums. She made that choice after feeling it all with the guidance of a few therapists, to leave them sealed. She lived it once, that was enough.

I was an easy baby. I loved when my mom would tell this story. I thought she told it for me; a special, rare moment of connection with her in my childhood, but later I understood it was for her -- something to have and brag about. Regardless of the reason I would sit, in rapture, as she detailed how I was an easy baby. I slept through the night, 8+ hours a night, and I only cried for a short list of reasons; need changing, hunger, or someone was attempting to make me stay somewhere that wasn’t my home. I didn’t fuss. My brother did. Even then that’s how she told our stories, as comparisons to one another. Most of the time I didn’t measure up and I understood without the words that I often wasn’t wanted in a given situation, but when she told this story I got to matter. It’s a wonderful feeling, to feel like you matter to your mother.

She was the quiet kid. If she’d been abducted she would’ve been described as quiet, kind, tall and large for her age. She could be summed up so succinctly, it made her feel like she should apologize. She couldn’t articulate for what, she didn’t talk much anyway, but even if she had, there wouldn’t have been language yet for her to describe the gnawing feeling inside her. The way she felt useless, used, worthless, in the way, and sorry, so profoundly sorry, for existing and letting everyone down. She tried so hard, but it was never enough, and for that too, she was sorry.

I can remember sitting at the kitchen table, cigarette smoke woven into the fabrics of these memories, still there, even if no one was smoking. I don’t think anyone was. I was sitting, feet swinging off the chair, focused and determined, to write my name. Gracie. The G was wobbly, but mostly correct, and a capital, I remember reviewing these facts in my head, names started with capital letters. I didn’t know why but I knew that they did. I had written the r backwards and was frustrated with myself, but erased it and kept trying. I progressed with my dad checking in, and felt proud of how well I was doing. I loved feeling proud. It felt soothing, like a break from being sorry, and if I practiced hard enough I could be proud of this too. The ‘c’ threw me off. It always did. I’m not sure what about it did because when I wrote ‘cat’ I got it right. Every time. C-A-T, but in my name it went backwards. I was getting frustrated because I was getting mad at myself. I could write a ‘c’ but in my name I couldn’t. My dad came beside me, radiating patience and gentleness, and encouraged me to keep trying. He wrote a ‘c’ above of where I was writing it, so I could look at it while I wrote mine. I was able to finish my name successfully and lit up with pride and elation. He said ‘there ya go, you just got a stick with it and keep practicing those ‘c’s. They can be tricky.’ There was no malice in his statement only understanding, and so quickly I felt okay to exist again. I sat there writing ‘c’ after ‘c’ after ‘c’, getting most of them correct, a few backwards, but didn’t relent until my dad confirmed that I could write my name alright. I hopped off to go fade into the background, being near, but not a bother, to the people I loved, feeling proud and ready for school. I was going to start preschool prepared and able to write my name.

Sometimes there was yelling. Maybe there was yelling often. She can’t recall. It took her a long time to learn that not all yelling was at her, but she felt in trouble whenever any yelling took place. Her stomach would open up, twist upon itself, and she’d feel ashamed for ruining the good times. She didn’t need to know the details of the yelling. It didn’t matter if the yelling was after she was supposed to be asleep. It didn’t matter if she wasn’t in the same room as the yelling. If there was anger she knew, without any doubt, it was her fault. She was so sorry. She didn’t tell them because sometimes that made things worse, so she just pinched her skin, cried as quietly as she could, felt sorry she wasn’t enough, felt such guilt for ruining it all, closed her eyes tight, hugged her stuffed animals and asked God to not make her wake up in the morning. She asked him, since she ruined everything anyway, if he could bring her home. She couldn’t possibly make them angry and ruin everything if she wasn’t there right? So she’d fall asleep, tears streaming, praying ‘please God, I’m so sorry’.

He never did answer those prayers.

I had such a tender heart as a kid, that is one of the few traits that seems to persist with me, that and my playfulness. I would agonize over my stuffed animal collection that, naturally, lived on my bed. When I wasn’t sleeping they all fit fine, but, trouble was, when I did go to sleep they couldn’t all fit. If I positioned myself just right, I reasoned, then all but one could fit. I felt worry though, that the one stuffed animal that had to be left out each night would feel unloved. So I created a rotation so the same stuffed animal wouldn’t have to spend the night off the bed, and on some nights, when I couldn’t bear the loneliness the left out stuffed animal must be feeling I curled myself along the edge of my bed, acting as a safety wall, and piled all the stuff animals on the inside, keeping them safe and loved, and feeling deeply at peace.

I cannot recall a single memory without anxiety until I was in my mid-twenties.

She grasped her dad’s fingers with her hand, other hand near, or likely in her mouth, soothing herself through the anxiety that raged inside. There were people everywhere. People that could see her, talk to her, that she could disappoint. It was loud, it was scary, and she wanted to hide. Children felt more unpredictable than adults so she often saddled up to the table where the adults sat, found an unused chair, and sat. She’d fixate on the table cloth, turning it in a variety of patterns, while she listened to the adults talk around her. She didn’t speak, she didn’t ask questions, though she had many, she just sat, fidgeting in a small and ignorable way, and felt safe as a part of the background. Being a person was dangerous, but existing quietly, as furniture, that wasn’t so bad. There was music, jokes she didn’t understand, and laughter. Every so often someone would notice her and ask if she wanted to go play with the other kids. She’d look up in a wide eyed silent panic, adrenaline racing through her veins, and she’d mutely shake her head no. There was a 50-50 chance this would work. Sometimes the adults figured she probably wasn’t listening anyway and sometimes they’d feel it was too much of an issue to have her there. On those days she’d silently go to the edges of where the kids were playing and sit down. She liked it when there were rocks or something to touch while she watched them play. Kids seemed to notice her more than adults though, so she learned to look down. If she just looked down, focusing on how the rock felt in her hand, or the cold concrete felt then time would pass and eventually it would be over.

She loved when her parents were happy. They’d get loud, but a fun loud, a loud that didn’t make her anxious. It was a loud that made her feel safe. When they got happy loud she came as close to not existing and being left in peace to sit and watch the world go by as she ever was. She loved watching their joy. Like focusing on writing the letter ‘c’ if she focused on how they laughed so freely then she could feel it too, she could feel what it felt like to be happy to be alive. To feel the hopeful, light, freedom that joy brings, like it will go on forever, and sometimes, those days stretched into nights that did seem to go on forever, and she went to sleep wrapped in the echo of other people’s happiness.

It was nice.