Jul 06 | CPE Journal #20: July 5th

In my last post I talked about reclaiming pieces of ourselves, and I found that over the last little while I have been able to do that with something that was a great source of shame to me for many years: childhood “meltdowns.”

When I was a little girl I would regularly lose composure and begin to wail and cry over all kinds of things. Some of them were silly things – here’s a great post on that – but some of them were because I was being bullied.

One of my clearest memories of this is of being on the school bus. I couldn’t have been more than 6 or 7 years old. There was a little boy who was sitting in the seat behind me – I even remember that his name was James – who kept reaching over the back of my seat to poke my head or tug at strands of hair. I kept telling him to stop, but of course he wouldn’t. Finally, he put his whole hand over and raked his fingers over it, tugging a whole bunch of hair back. I don’t particularly remember if it really hurt or if it was more because I was startled, but either way I started wailing. I remember leaning forward and drawing in a big breath to do it. I’m sure the bus driver was ready to throw all of us off the bus at that point.

That’s one of the only instances of real physical bullying I can remember, but there were a few others. Most of all I remember that my tormentors tended to be male, which is why I have difficulty trusting a lot of young men. As I got into high school boys would call me names and laugh at me. “Crazy Clare” was one I remember particularly well. Girls would bully me too, mostly with intimidation, threats, and further name-calling.

As a child, I remember responding to this with screaming and name-calling myself, and sometimes simply walking away to cry loudly. More often than not I would run and tell someone that I was being bullied. What I remember being told, over and over, was, “Just ignore them.”

Of course I would do that, but it wouldn’t work. Children are merciless. They love nothing more than repetition, especially when the action causes such great fireworks as I was able to provide. So I would return and tell a grown-up again.

What was most often said to me – and what became internalized – was that it was my own fault for “giving them a reaction” or “being so emotional.”

It took me until last year to realize how pathological that response was.

Basically I was being told that it was my own fault for being bullied. The only possible solution in this idea of the world was, “If you don’t want to be bullied, don’t get bullied.”

Now, my giving them a reaction was absolutely what caused them to keep doing it. I’m not naive – I’m sure the kids were very entertained by my outbursts. But to tell me this, between the ages of 5 and 13, was not appropriate. For one thing, the result was that I became driven by deep shame. I’m sure the people who told me that it was my own fault for giving the bullies what they wanted could not have conceived of the truth that I have on multiple occasions locked myself in the bathroom to look at my red sobbing face in the mirror and say to it, “Shut up, you disgusting pig. Look at your stupid pig face, stop that crying right now.” I’m not vengeful towards them for saying something that was entirely logical. But I do think that it was incredibly careless and, let’s face it, stupid, to tell a child that she is responsible for someone else’s terrible behaviour of her. I do not remember any bullies ever being taken to task for how they treated me. I remember sitting in a classroom at age 12 being harassed right at my desk by the boy sitting next me. After saying, “Shut up,” about fifteen times, I finally yelled, “Can you just shut up for once?” This only made it worse, of course, and eventually I just ran out of the classroom crying. This was a hugely shameful memory for years, not only because everyone saw it and teased me about it afterward, but because I really thought it was my fault for being so “sensitive.” When I think of it now, all I can say is, “What the hell was the teacher doing while I was being bullied?” It was happening right in front of her and she didn’t do a damn thing.

So now you know about my “meltdowns” – and I can tell you how I have come to reclaim them.

I am starting to see these events not as sources of shame, derision, and weakness, but as little pieces of fire that refused to be stamped out. When I was treated unfairly or bullied, my immediate reaction was to rail against that perceived injustice. At times to adults it would have looked like simple childhood outbursts, but I have already recognized in my own personal work that they were the result of a perceived disconnect between the beloved child that I knew I was to my Mum with the object of scorn and contempt that I was to many other children. Eventually, these outbursts were bullied or disciplined out of me. I remember crying alone and suppressing all the anger, finally resulting in someone who made friends easily and desperately but finds it difficult to maintain commitment, because of experiences with impermanence, being tricked by friends, or being followed with taunts.

I am finally reclaiming that little child who still refuses to be silenced. What I once referred to as the Poltergeist – something that makes a huge mess and a lot of noise inside when I feel triggered – has become a little girl throwing things around in her room because no-one will accept or validate her anger. I’m in the room now, as she lies exhausted on her bed, and I’m holding out my hand. I feel some niggling doubt and a little echo from the devil that hides in her room with her, trying to tell her to take the easy way out. It’s easier to go back to being the one in need of rescue, the one who can do nothing on her own but be rescued by Mummy.

I can’t accept this, though, because I’ve already been rescued. I was rescued on the day of my baptism. I can’t be rescued again because the chains are in a pile at my feet. The child keeps picking them up and piling them onto her back, and they keep falling off – that’s what all the noise is about.

Next to Adult Me is my Lord. We have both explained over and over that the chains are broken. My Lord tells the little child every day – even when I refuse to go into that room because it’s too scary – but the little child does not believe.

It has taken me seven years, but I am slowly letting go of those chains. I’m sure the little girl will pick them up again sometimes, but hopefully she can try to remember that they are not binding her. They are nothing.

It has taken me seven years to be “born from above.” What a labour – but look at who emerges.

How beautiful too to consider the cosmic implications of this, as well as the eternal. I am always being born, always living, always dying, always rising. But in this, I have come home to myself.

I therefore wrote the following letter to that child:

Little girl, I see you. You are not alone, and you are strong. They are wrong to treat you badly and it’s not your fault. Those in charge are wrong to imply that it is your fault. You are not in charge of the behaviour of others. You are not responsible for anyone’s cruelty to you. Do not fear. I am with you, because you are in me. I see you, and you are loved.

Amen.

-Clarity

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