Little Girl Lost

It seems impossible I am sitting in this sweet little house, the first I have ever owned, sipping steamy black coffee, and that I am 60 years old. It feels like yesterday I was ramming 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 memory of her existence. There was a big party in the family’s new home. She was dressed in her 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 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, 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 really knew me. My friendliness was a very effective distancing technique. I remember thinking that I ‘got away with it’. Nobody knew I how broken I was. It was around that time that I started singing with bands. It was the only time that I could get the sorrow out without letting anyone else in. A perfect release. This act worked well until it didn't.

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 I carried with me everywhere. It helped me get through the scariest moments of which 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 from the struggle of always hiding myself. It helped me on the road to getting the strength and bravery to keep looking for my safe haven.

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 realize how long it took me to get here, and how much of my time I have lost but everyone has their own road to traverse and mine was a little rockier than many. 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; who knew she was beautiful and that people would love to see her. When I look in the mirror and no longer see the broken pieces and jagged edges, I will know she is here. She is in me and one day I will again, be her.