When I think back to my childhood – mainly from the age of 4 to probably 8 – I have NO memories of being randomly hugged, or rocked to sleep, or even being tended to when I was hurt or sick. What I remember is being left to my own devices. I remember being chastised for crying. I remember the feeling of needing to be held so badly, but there was no one … NO ONE.
What I remember, what I learned was that *I* rocked myself to sleep. *I* was the one who picked myself up. *I* wiped away my own tears. *I* bandaged myself up when I was hurt. *I* soothed my own broken heart.
Me.
Just me.
Even though I’m WAAAAY older now, I’m still triggered by so many things, so many memories. Even as I write this out, I can feel the tears welling up, and the heartache in my chest. I remember my 4 year old self crying for attention, but receiving none. I remember myself as an 8 year old, having had enough, and just wanting it to end. It’s so visceral and it feels so real. And it’s painful. Very painful. So I remind my small, 4 and 8 year old selves, that it’s okay, that we’re okay … I got them. I’ve always had them.
It’s always been me.
I got me.
Running Code 3 