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Some days I feel hysterical, childlike as a little girl, lashing out because her toy was taken away. Feeble-minded and unable to comprehend that this was not done to be cruel. Nonetheless, her lungs belt loud and angry. But I am not a little girl. My toy was not taken by a parent who simply said, “playtime is over.” No, nothing of that sort. I am simply a woman holding resentment the same way. Wounded and bitter I cry with a spirit to match hers.
A girl much younger than me was hurt. I am her, and she is me, but we are disconnected by split realities. I know she’s in pain but often I am frustrated with her. Like the little girl who got her toy taken, I want the old version of me to get over it and I want this sentiment to take over my present being. It’s uneasy to live like this hence the childlike hysteria that settles in and out of my body. Lacking the critical compression to understand what is going on within and around me.
Some days, I’ve moved past the events and grown out of the little girl into the woman that I am today. Other days the younger version of me that was hurt comes rushing back in. Distorting and confusing my mind. Making melancholy rivers flow from my eyes. I don’t recognize the tears because they are hers not mine. I don’t want them; I don’t want to know her or be her. I want to move forward, and she holds me back. I’ve passed the expiration date on this sorrow. I must be content and healed. She is the problem, not me. She’s still inside me and like the little girl she doesn’t understand it is time to move forward.
I am grown, and I understand it is trivial for the little girl to be upset about her toy and less trivial for the younger me to be upset about her trauma. But me, her, us, the little girl - couldn’t or can’t differentiate the trivial versus the trauma. It can all feel the same. I think I understand now but I don’t want to think about it anymore. I’m over it, regardless of what it is or was. Either way it’s in the past, fixed, and unable to change.
The younger me became hysterical but I learned to cope and quiet my mind. I hate when she comes back to talk to me about what happened. I want to yell at her the way you would to the petulant little girl that won’t stop asking for her toy. That’s how I feel about the younger me, annoyed and too tired to fight. I don’t want to be introspective and delve deeper into what happened. I want her to shut up. I don’t want to talk to her, I don’t want to remember, I don’t want to think about it, I don’t want to cry.
My mind betrays me and lets her in despite the long past expiration date. Much more was lost by the younger me than the toy of a little girl, but we cry the same. Unable to quantify the actions done to us and gauge an appropriate reaction to match it. The little girl will learn from whomever she’s with how long it is appropriate to cry. At first, she will be soothed but eventually she will be expected to get over it on her own. The action of getting her toy taken away gets a limited time of hysteria. Then it is expected to come to a close. She will simply grow up and forget all about the trivial event.
It’s the same behavior I expect myself to mimic. As the parents expect the little girl to calm her hysteria, the world expects it of me. Cry, move forward, forget, homeopathically. I model the behavior, but she doesn’t. She, the younger me, won’t stop crying and her tears flow through me. I don’t give her permission, but my body complies in a way my mind does not. I try to push her out but even now her writing spills onto the paper, begging me to listen. Reminding me she lost much more than a toy.
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