Forgiveness does not change the past

Forgiveness does not change the past, but it does enlarge the future.
-- Paul Boese

Lately I've been working to get in touch with this inner child of mine, the one leaping with/living for joy and contentment somewhere deep within the folds of my Self. Folks from John Bradshaw to the late great Carl Jung have talked about this inner, divine child as the child in each of us who is our true, spiritual, unencumbered Self but who, somewhere along our childhood path, was wounded and, resultantly, developed a shell/mask/false Self to protect it from the blows to its inherently pure/good authentic Self. As we got older, this masked/unhealed kid who has a tendency to be co-dependent, get lost in crippling addictions, has trust and intimacy issues, and feels relentless emptiness/apathy/sadness took over our adult lives and dictated our responses in everything we did. My inner kid has been acting out/in for years, fighting to be heard and validated. It's high time I look at/after the little girl who resides in me.

I hadn't given a lot of credence to the inner child work. Heck, I believed whatever was going on with me at any given time was the result of a choice I had made and that was the end of it. But then I began to look at the choices I continued to make over and over and wondered why I made those same choices, especially when I knew I'd get the same results. There had to be a reason I continued to accumulate stuff, or a reason my spending was so undisciplined. There had to be a reason for these overwrought/inflated/out of control emotions. Perhaps I am responding as a result of some pains from long ago.

Inner child therapy posits that somewhere during your childhood, something happened that perhaps made you feel ashamed, guilty, abandoned, afraid/terrorized, unsafe, etc. and all of these feelings were the consequence of what parents and/or other caregivers did to you. Inner child work says that the feelings were happened upon you because your parents and caregivers themselves were wounded and parented you through their wounded Self. Ultimately, you feel the way you do, live the life you live because your parents didn't heal/know any better.

In my case, I can't blame my parents. They were absolutely awesome to the little chicky in me. They showed/gave me and my sister unconditional love, protected us from evils known and unknown, and made sure we had everything we needed to be smart, educated and well-cultured girls who would then become productive, contributing, and classy women. They have their flaws, like we all do, but, as parents, my mama and daddy should receive God's highest reward of "well done" when it's their turn to see heaven.

No, it wasn't in my home during infancy, toddlerhood, or preschool where the little one in me received her injuries/dents/scratches/wrongs. It was in my elementary, middle, and high school years at elementary, middle, and high school.

It was the wounded kids around me who wounded the kid I was.

I was the tall and lanky kid with thick glasses; the one with the large forehead and even larger nose; the one whose chin seemed as elongated and pointy as her legs were long. I was the kid who was brainy yet wacky/chatty yet socially clumsy/well-behaved yet sly. At school, I was that kid who didn't wear the "hip" clothes; my mother made everything we wore – except for the Girl Scout uniforms we wore on Picture Day. Because my mom was a teacher, my schools and teachers were hand-selected and on the 1970's rotary speed dial. That meant I was often the teacher's pet, did/could do no wrong, and got special recognition/praise that the other kids didn't get. The school bus stopped right in front of our house and the bus driver would wait patiently as mama wrapped us in our matching puffy coats or daddy handed us our matching ballet-inspired lunchboxes. I sat at the front of the bus because mama said Rosa Parks did; besides that, the loud kids who teased sat in the back and every day I could tell they were ready to pounce on the four-eyed, goofy, goody-two-shoes chick they believed I was. I'd keep my hood on and head down for the entire ride to school where I could then tuck myself near the teacher who would protect me.

… until we got to the playground. It was there that all those characteristics, peculiarities, and special treatments led to the teasing and ridicule. The playground was where they wouldn't share the ball/pick me for the team/play the patty-cake games with me/be my boyfriend/talk behind my back/let me in on the latest news. I'd return from recess emotionally battered and bruised and spend the rest of the day withdrawn and vowing to concentrate only on things academic.

… until I got to high school where it seemed all the kids around me were smart with little effort. They mastered chemistry and calculus. They spoke Latin and German. They would not be seen in the "shop" hallway. AND, they were cool! Everybody knew their names. They sat together in the cafeteria. They lived on the same side of town. They knew stuff about one another that was funny and things that were inside jokes. And my mom didn't know many of the teacher's in high school so for lots of the time I was on my own. By myself and an outsider.

I know most of this sounds like what lots of kids go through. Certainly my experiences were not much different from anyone else's; we were all impacted in some way by the things that other kids did to us or who we perceived them to be. And, after all, many people would argue, all that was a part of growing up AND I survived it. But, my survival was hard-pressed. I got stuck in some places, took what the kids said/who I believed they were at face value, and let all of it define/drive me. And I allowed my Self to grow into adulthood unexamined/flattened, never stopping to throw light on/set straight what I had come to believe about myself. Instead, I put on a Superwoman suit, went impulsively on my way, and set out to never show how hurt, inadequate, afraid, and shamed I felt.

And I'm so tired. This blue cat suit with the big a— belt is heavy. It also doesn't fit anymore.

In order to move forward today and begin to live in a more genuine manner, in order to recoup/rescue the lovable/trusting/optimistic/resilient/fun kid who's covered by layers of feigned adultness, I must begin to forgive the other wounded kids who lost their optimism/resiliency/fun somewhere along the way. I must forgive the teasing and ridicule of 3rd graders; the disparaging gossip of 6th graders; and the exclusionary practices of 10th graders. I have to see them all as God's babies who were also trying to find a place to fit. And while to my child Self they seemed to have found a place that ultimately kept me out, I have to realize that they were just as afraid and confused as I was.

I must also ask my little Self for forgiveness – forgiveness for leaving her behind and buying into the travesties that covered her up/changed her outlook/stunted her emotional growth. I have to apologize and let her know that at the time I just didn't know any better. And now that I know what I know, I can apologize to her, tell her I love her, always tell her the truth, give her hugs via affirmations, and, of course, never leave her again. That's definitely something she needs to know/feel. I can tell my little one a different/more accurate /much more righteous story than the one she got stuck on, and I can introduce her to and tell her about the wonderful opportunities she and I will get to experience now that we're getting free. I can teach my girl new ways of responding to/managing life's inevitable challenges. And I'll tell her all about God, how He loves us both so much, and how He's been planning for me to come back and get her for years.

I'm looking forward to reclaiming and being a cheerleader to the little one in me. I know she's fabulous because God made her that way. I can't wait to strip off the layers and see who she really is. I hope I didn't smother her; I hope she still knows how to breathe. I hope the light doesn't hurt her eyes and the air isn't too oppressive for her. I hope she didn't forget how to double dutch, sing off key on purpose, pretend she was Wonder Woman, or believe that butterflies were heavenly fairies.

I just hope she'll forgive me for taking so long.