Little Girl Lost

It seems impossible that I am sitting in my sweet little house, the first I have ever owned, sipping steamy black coffee, that I am 60 years old. It feels like yesterday that I rammed through years of my life knowing I had all the time in the world. Always searching for that adorable, trusting, little girl I somehow let down. I am not sure when exactly I lost her, I have only one real memories of her existence. There was a big party in the family’s new home. She was dressed in favorite dress. It was creamy white, with short sleeves that puffed up like little clouds. At the neck was a peter pan collar and a long green stemmed, red rose, stitched down the front. You could feel the rose if ran your finger over the stitching. It was the first ‘big girl’ dress she ever owned. She twirled around in it in front of the mirror just to feel the soft material against her legs and watch the rose move back and forth, swaying in breeze that was her own. In that moment she was a princess and so excited to see the guests arrive and show off her beautiful new dress. It was a wonderful night that was burned in her memory and it was the last memory like that she would ever have. That was right before I lost that sweet little girl and all her innocence. I have spent a lifetime trying to find her.

As the years passed, I was consumed by a desperate need to fit in and appear ‘normal’. I studied how the other girls carried themselves and acted around others. I learned what normal looked like, so I faked it. I was so convincing, too. I dressed and acted like everyone else, had a handsome boyfriend and lots of friends. I was even voted ‘Friendliest’ in my high school. Everyone felt they had a connection with me, yet none of them did. My friendliness was a veery effective distancing technique. I remember thinking that I ‘got away with it’. Nobody knew I how broken I was. I started singing with bands. It was the only time that I could get the sorrow out without letting anyone else in. This act worked well until it did not.

In my early twenties, my protective walls began to slowly crumble. It was so hard to keep it from everyone. I started to write down my feelings in a little black book that I carried with me everywhere. It helped to get me through the scariest moments, and there were many. When I felt like I was slipping down, I would drag out my warn and tattered little black book and pour my heart, soul and pain into it. I tried to end each entry with how I hoped to get through and what that would look like. I was always searching for a safe place in the storm that my thoughts would sometimes lead me to. My little black book was the closest I could get. The writing freed me the struggle of always hiding myself. It helped me on the road to getting the strength to and bravery to get through the worst moments. When my parents passed away, I inherited $ 20,000. Not a huge amount, but enough to make a down payment on my own sweet little house. The house I sit in as I write this. Here I will create my own safe place. It is hard to know how long it took me to get here, but my road has been a long and winding one. I am so close to finding my peace, but I have one last thing to accomplish. I must find that little girl in the creamy white dress, with the little clouds on her shoulders and the beautiful long-stemmed rose stitched down the front. When I look in the mirror and no longer see the broken pieces and jagged edges, I will know she is here. She is me and one day I will again be her.