It is late...
Just finished reading a blog from a dear friend who has experienced a "breakthrough". She and I share a fun, crazy past together while enjoying a paralleled present. I feel her pain as she parses through her fears/emotions and thoughts.
I find it very difficult to be the woman we envision in our heads. You know that woman who creates effortlessly, makes messy look stylish, has the perfect way of saying anything so it sounds intelligent and thoughtful, is calm with her children while being educational at every turn, has the fantastic job that accomodates her need to be a mother and an intellectual contributer to the greater world, and doesn't ever feel like a scared little girl that has to protect herself from things that she shouldn't need protecting from.
Oh the pain of our childhood can rear its ugly head on a dime. The smallest of memories, of moments, of interactions can lead us down a dark and lonely hallway into a room that is filled with shadows, nightmares, smells, noises and monsters; even if we completely blocked them out as children, the "feeling" of that pain is there.
Another friend brought this to the table a long while ago. Even if I appear strong, confident, decisive, assertive, put together, in control... that is only 95% of me. There will always be 5% of otherness that may take on any form and may need tending to. As parents of small children, we go through the memories of our childhood and it will make us parent differently, think from a different perspective. It challenges us to rethink, to remember and to choose wisely. It begs us to find better choices, deliberate actions that we may have to educate ourselves. Because the fact is, we don't know how to do it good enough, we were never taught that as a child from those who were supposed to keep our best interests at heart.
I feel her pain, I feel my pain. It is always there, but I find the 95% of me can hold the 5% of me up while I cry. Thank goodness there is 95% of me here!