Yesterday was not a good day. I was scattered, having a fibro flare up which always brings my mood way down. I was trying to remember too much and accomplish too much that I had no desire to accomplish. I had emails to answer, bills to pay, complicated things to do online, and I had four to-do lists going at once, envelopes scattered around the table with old notes scribbled, asterisked and circled that I could not decode for the life of me.
Everything I began took much longer than I anticipated (why does booking a dental appointment take 20 minutes?), so most of it was left only half done. On top of all that I had to skip yoga and on top of all that Jude kept poking at my tummy and saying "squishy, fatty, squishy..." and trying to gather enough of it in his hands to grab hold and suspend himself midair. By the time Jude and I set out for our afternoon adventure, it was 6:30 pm. We settled for Dairy Queen and a short bike ride to the creek.
"I'm just going to accept the fact that I will never feel better," I told Too Cute Face later that night on the phone, as though exaggerating the truth would make someone pay attention and make me feel better this instant. My therapist calls this my "little kid" side.
"Just be gentle with yourself, honey," says TCF, the way he always says it, the way he always reminds me that getting down on myself about not feeling well won't help one bit.
But I'm not having it. Not tonight.
"Why should I be nice to myself? What's the point? My-self is not being very nice to me."
"Honey..."
I oughta be bored with this by now—giving into this little kid part of me—but I want something from it, something I can't quite figure out, and I'm going to go and go until I get that very unknown thing. Besides, this way I can delay being in the present moment and feeling what I need to feel: pain.
Why is it sometimes so hard to simply cut to the chase? All I have to do is say, "My body hurts. I feel sad and overwhelmed right now" and then just feel it. It's a heck of a lot easier than "life is too hard and I can't do this and Medica is out to get me and my entire world," which I know, even as I say it, isn't one bit true. I mean, I get it. I get I am being little and throwing my mindfulness out the window so I can indulge an old story... an old personal mythology...
It doesn't help that Too Cute Face thinks it's cute (most of the time). Admittedly, my little self can be endearing, but I wouldn't want to stay there too long: been there, done that. And actually, it helps a lot that he thinks she's cute. It means I can learn to see her differently and decode what she really needs behind all that frustrated little kid pain. And, I don't need to take her littleness too seriously. It doesn't have to mean anything. Feeling sad/pain is part of life. You feel it, you move on. But first you feel it. And then you feel the next thing. And you talk about it (or write about it, etc). Mindfulness 101. So, how and why do I forget this?
Perhaps what I've wanted all along from acting out this "little kid" side of myself is my full adult attention. My adult side/self as witness. I figure some little kid part of me did not get enough of fill-in-the-blanks undivided attention and so she is still trying to do so "out there." Ding! Ding! Ding! Helloooooo in there... is anyone listening?
Well! Go figure that: And now, my voice of experience reflects on my voice of innocence. (Perhaps we'll talk more about that next week).
So, here's to the little kid in all of us. To the little kid in me that says she may as well get used to chronic pain... and to the even littler kid in me that said to my brother/Ma "fine... I'll run away from home if that's what you want," carrying my little red vinyl suitcase to the side door.... To the little kid in Jude that says "just forget about it. Forget about everything. Forget this conversation right now! Don't you even know you're not talking about anything I'm saying?! Listen to me: you sound like me now!"...
To the Little kid in TCF who says "oh so you aren't answering my texts today...?" and to the little kid in Ma who says across the So Cal phone lines, "don't you want me to move there?"
...and to all the little beings alive and well in all adults everywhere who every now and then wonder aloud on an off night— perhaps and because they are feeling a little hungry for a bit of extra attention from their beloveds—and perhaps and because they trust they might this time be loved and heard unconditionally once and for all. Even as the words come out, we know they're all wrong, but somehow we just can't help ourselves: "Why do you care? Why does anyone care? Nobody really gives a shit. I'm okay. I'm fine. You go on ahead. You have better things to do."
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What does this have to do with writing?
Empathy, discovering about our truth as humans and allowing for empathy and vulnerability to come alive on the page.
What does your little kid say? What cute, endearing little kid words come paddling out of your mouth when you are feeling vulnerable?
