When I was around 9 or 10 years old, my family went for a summer weekend to visit some close relatives in their country cottage out at the end of Long Island. We all tromped out to the beach one day, everyone’s arms filled with all sorts of picnic and "sit on the sand" stuff. For whatever reason, I chose to walk along the edge of a tarred road up a little rise from the path that everyone else was on. As we all chattered away, I was looking over my left shoulder toward my cousins rather than watching the road ahead of me.
Suddenly I was shocked with excruciating pain. I had walked, head on, into the corner of a rusty stop sign. My hands flew up to cover my right eye and cheek as I howled with both pain and terror, dropping whatever I’d been carrying.
I understand, from friends who are mothers, that such behavior is not necessarily that extraordinary or bizarre. Getting angry with her child can be in the emotional mix of the terrifying upset a mother feels when, for example, her child has run out into the street and nearly been hit by a car. Still, this was just one moment in a, by then, endless stream of experiences I’d had of my mother raging at me when I came to her hurt, sick, terrified or needy.
The grown-up in me understands that my neediness, terror and pain really terrified and overwhelmed her. The grown-up in me understands that she was so ill equipped emotionally that rage/anger was, for the most part, her only available response when she felt threatened by my upsets or injuries. The grown-up in me understands she was truly doing the best she could, given her own damaged, stunted emotional capacities.
Still, the child that I was in those years was repeatedly devastated and terrified by the screamed recriminations, threats and harshly mean responses that came at her when she went to her mommy seeking tender solace. When I’d come hurt or sick, her responses always led me to feel it was my own fault, my own stupidity or carelessness that was responsible for my predicament. Or, her responses made it clear that she thought I was making a "big deal out of nothing." Or, that I was malingering. In all cases, the message was incontrovertibly that I deserved no sympathy.
The legacy of her responses was a terrible one. I would feel utterly terrified whenever I’d hurt myself. Then, I would be terrified by my own terror because I had no safe place to go for support or comfort. I learned that I had to find ways to handle my pain and terror by myself. As a young child, though, I had no real resources to do that. I developed an internal version of my angry, critical, belittling mother’s voice that yelled at me even when I was all by myself with my pain. It was all I knew to do.
For most of my life I met every accident or illness that I experienced with a critical, condemning, blaming harshness that was, at best, the equal of what I’d experienced from my mother. Every trip or fall or bump-into-something (and over the years there were many such) would get me calling myself stupid, clumsy, careless, klutzy: "If you’d’ve been paying attention/looking where you were going this wouldn’t have happened!" Every cold, flu or illness would have me feeling guilty, telling myself that I was sick because of my own carelessness, that it was my fault that I was ill. That I really was not anywhere near as sick as I was making myself out to be. That I was making a "big deal out of nothing," that my suffering was my being "melodramatic, a Miss Sarah Heartburn wanting attention!"
With anyone else finding themselves in similar distressing plights, I would be lovingly tender, gentle and sympathetic, solicitous and compassionate. Only with myself was I so negating and so harsh, so consistently.
This unkind, ungentle and unforgiving way of speaking to myself extended beyond these times of physical trauma. Any and all of my emotional upsets, any mistakes I might make in any undertaking, any slips or forgetfulness, any social mishaps, etc.––all these called forth in me a response that was always harshly critical and utterly unsympathetic. The standard to which I held myself was, on every dimension, totally the opposite of what I needed, craved and freely offered to any and everyone else.
When someone treated me compassionately, solicitously or with kindness in these moments that I saw as lapses, I felt either irritated by what I saw as their "being patronizing" or else fearful and guilty that I had somehow manipulated them into this undeserved caring toward me. Needless to say, these responses of mine confused and baffled everyone who might act caringly toward me.
When at 44, in the depths of unutterable despair, I first magically uncovered and began to connect with the little one inside me, this terrible pattern began to change. This precious, delightful little creature inside of me stirred an extraordinary love and compassion and caring for her/my self that I had never before even imagined being able to feel.
Suddenly, it was unthinkable to allow anyone, including me, to be mean or harsh or critical with myself. For the first time in my life I found permission to speak as lovingly and kindly to my wounded, hurt, upset, confused, imperfect self as I’d always spoken to others. (See The Little Ones Story for more about this.) The more lovingly I treated myself, the more kindly, softly and lovingly I spoke to myself the more I began to flourish and grow.
The transformation that began with that miraculous shift has led me to the "who" that I’ve now become.
Along the way to here, I’ve come to understand that no one ever deserved or deserves to be spoken to with harshness, to be undermined by words, to be denied a sympathetic hearing. And, I’ve come to fully trust (despite what our culture would have us believe) that more real change grows from tender nurture than from "drill sergeant" blastings of criticism or ridicule.
Along the way to here I’ve learned that speaking lovingly even to the parts of me that have mean, nasty, self-serving thoughts and feelings helps me to grow. When I am kind with these usually abandoned, angry and unhappy selves, they feel safe enough to reveal their woundings to me. Then I am able to help them find healthy ways to release their pain and heal.
Along the way to here I’ve learned to talk lovingly to myself even when I’m somewhere, or doing something that I don’t like for me to be being or doing. Only when I can lovingly allow myself to truly, fully be where I am while I’m there, can I ever really move beyond that there to somewhere else.
Along the way I’ve learned the language of tenderness toward myself. When I fall, trip, stumble, fumble, spill or break something, inadvertently (or sometimes "advertently") do something that hurts or upsets someone––I hold myself and say, "Poor Honey!" And, "I’m sooo sorry you’re hurting/upset/unhappy that you did that!" And "It’s okay, Honey, we can make it right/fix it/tell the truth!" And, "I’m right here with you Sweetie, we’ll be okay!" And some times I rock and rock and rock and cry and cry and cry. And, I can feel really, really sorry for my sad little self and let her feel really, really sorry for herself until she’s done with feeling that way.
It’s not easy to change a lifetime of mistreating ourselves in the ways we’ve been mistreated by others. Still, beginning consciously to choose to speak softly, kindly and lovingly to ourselves in all the moments of our lives is a moment by moment practice that can and does begin to turn the tide. And, in the middle of starting such a practice, it’s always especially important to speak kindly to ourselves when we notice that we’ve slipped into speaking unlovingly to ourselves!
Consider talking softly, kindly and lovingly to yourself as much of the time as you possibly can,
P.S. So many of your delicious e-mails send appreciations for the affirmation, support and nourishment you receive from the site. When I answer them, I don’t always remember to let you know that having your own deck of the Rememberings and Celebrations cards is a way to bring this same loving voice into your everyday world, to have it at hand as you need to remind yourself of the "real" truth moment to moment in the crazimakingness of the so-called real world!
© For the Little Ones Inside - All Rights Reserved
The card on this page is part of a set of 64 handcolored bookmark-size cards called the Rememberings and Celebrations deck. They can be used as an oracle, a meditation focus or a "book-in-pieces" to kindle and grow a compassionate, gentle, unconditionally loving, fiercely protective inner-Mother to help you carve safe healing space for your emerging self and for the wounded little ones inside.
If you'd like a deck of your very own to support you in your journey, click here to download Order Form.
Please feel free to e-mail me at rposin@hotmail.com. to share your reflections and responses to any or all of what you find here . I'd really like to hear what touches and nourishes you!
Click here for More Like This Or, explore the Monthly Musing Archives
Site Directory (for non-frames viewing)
*
X