The Child in Me

To the child that was me…

You are a beautiful soul meant for greatness.

From the crown of brown hair on your head down to your toes.

Life’s going to treat you a little harshly.

Taking the time to sit back and tell you everything is going to be okay in the end seems like the right thing to do in this moment.

~

You’re in your late thirties now.

Practically the old witch you love from Hocus Pocus, and that’s okay.

Because you sit back and laugh at the fallacy of things.

There are certain people who would refer to you as a witch with a B.

There are ten times more people who love and care about you.

~

Look at me…

The child within me whispers.

It’s like your eyes are staring at me willing me to know that things are right with the world and with myself.

Life was a bit more blissful then.

Just a little more peaceful, or at least that was part of the lie I fed myself to be okay.

~

I’ve taken so much time to write out my feelings and emotions.

I’ve dedicated the quill and paper to be the ink bleeding for you.

There’s so much within you.

So much passion and strength,

So much more than I ever imagined you having.

You’re my poster girl for being strong.

~

What can I say to my child self?

What shouldn’t I say?

I wish I could reach out, take your hand, and shield you from the evils that I know are going to plague you.

I wish I could lead you to better decisions,

Help you heal from the pain against your heart.

Most of all, I want to say I’m sorry.

I’m sorry for not respecting you.

I’m sorry I haven’t been listening.

I’m sorry that I haven’t been there for you, when you need me more now than ever.

~

I hope that the child within me would smile.

I hope that it would be that bright beaming grin that caresses her face again as she stares back at me.

~

I am not what happened to me.

I am what I choose to become.

~

I feel the compassion and love in my thoughts.

I feel like I can relate to my inner child once more.

We can’t control what happens in our lives, but we can define who we become after the fact.

In that picture, is my mother and me.

In that picture is a child who loves her family.

A child who’s happy to have spent Christmas with her mom, sister, and grandparents.

I remember it vividly.

I remember the little yellow pocket pet beeping because it was time to feed my digital pet.

I remember opening Christmas presents in grandma and grandpa’s living room.

It’s from the house on Ingram Street.

It’s also the house that grandma swore was haunted.

And I remember her yelling at the ghost who mischievously would knock all of her Christmas cards over.

I remember that picture like it was yesterday.

And then I remember the pain attached to it too.

Mom left. My sister was taken away.

And that was the last Christmas we spent together for several years.

~

I can forgive mom for leaving.

I can forgive even though it hurts.

The beautiful thought now saturated with pain and forever burned into my memories.

This is my therapy…

Writing things out so that they become clear once more.

And hopefully through the writing, I’ll give someone else the chance to feel and to heal from their hurt as well.

I am not what happened to me, and I never will be.

I’ll keep holding my head up.

I’ll keep walking even when my knees are weak.