My therapist recently asked me if I’ve ever done any work with my inner child.
I cringed immediately, and contemplated leaving the room.
Returning to that time in my life feels torturous: as soon as I gained consciousness, I desperately wanted to be born again as anybody else.
I remember being six years old, sick with the swine flu in a Florida hotel. Perched on a stool in front of the bathroom mirror, I lifted my pink Sleeping Beauty shirt and stared at my protruding ribcage. I couldn’t believe my bones would ever be obscured by well-fed flesh. My legs, the legs that would someday carry me down runways, jutted out from my body and felt uncomfortably long. Their weak, lanky form fanned the flames of inherent clumsiness. I didn’t know it at the time, but I hated my body.
I remember being eight years old, picking out clothes from a fashion catalog with my mom. Tweed dresses, polka-dot skirts, Mary-Jane shoes. I pointed at a child model with a round belly, and I said I would never want her dress because she just looked so ugly in it. I felt a strange power in insulting her, a brief reprieve from the shyness I carried with me. When Momma reprimanded me for saying something cruel, I didn’t have the vocabulary to clarify that it was less of an insult and more of a projection. I had never stepped on a scale, but I was starting to suspect that I had gained a bit of weight. I hated my body.
I remember being ten years old in the Gordman’s dressing room, trying on a new pair of shorts for the summer. To my dismay, the zipper would not close over my stomach. I thought back to every bag of chips, every piece of caramel candy as I spam-texted my BFF telling her the horrible news: I had a “hangover”, which was my poor attempt at referencing the way my stomach spilled over denim. I described in detail how pudgy and awful my body looked in the dirty dressing room mirror. I’ll never forget the moment BFF called, the sound of both her and her Nana laughing hysterically at me. Looking back, her Nana likely found it silly that a girl as little as me could even fathom insecurity, and I’m sure BFF was just following her lead. Still, I learned that I had to keep my burgeoning problem a secret: I hated my body.
I don’t remember how old I was when the day I deemed my most tragic finally came. I weighed myself (a rigorous habit I developed the moment I had access to it), watched the number on the scale tick to 99, and hesitate before hitting 100 for the very first time. I would spend roughly the next decade doing everything in my power to stay as close to that number as possible. Those long legs I resented continued to sprout all the way until I measured in at five-foot-seven, a height that couldn’t possibly be sustained by a measly 100 pounds. A barrage of similar misfortunes followed soon after: acne, greasy hair, the realization that my “baby face” wasn’t melting into the boney model-esque structure I desperately longed for. My crippling social anxiety also refused to fade away, in each conversation I somehow always found the wrong thing to say. I felt alien to my peers in body and in mind. By the time I was thirteen, I finally knew for a fact that I hated myself.
Through middle school, gym class rapidly became a nightmare for me due to the preceding locker room experience. Being surrounded by girls my age who all seemed to be developing at a rapid pace in comparison to my own body’s timeline was certainly stressful, but it felt as though the number one trait I envied was that they were anyone but me. Girls who somehow looked mature whether their breasts were full and sculpted or only just beginning to bud. Girls whose faces either sported smooth, glass skin, or little red blemishes which somehow seemed to blend in more beautifully than if they had none at all.
Mom would take me shopping for new clothes at the end of each summer, so I would spend the months leading up to this on the internet trying to determine what the trendiest possible outfits were. I researched everything: athletic shorts, dresses, the training bras that I would be forced to show off to my peers changing near me. I was horrified each year when I would show up to school and realize that my classmates and I had evidently been on the complete opposite side of the internet. When I wore leggings, they wore jeans. When I opted for all black, it seemed that only colorful florals were in season.
No matter what choices I made about my appearance, they were always wrong.
In order to compensate for my lackluster looks, I tried my very best to join in on the conversations happening around me. I often ended up starting sentences that were never finished, and people quickly learned not to pay too much attention to me. Those with ill intentions realized that giving me attention was the fastest way to harness their own. I was such an easy target because I was happy to talk to anyone, even if I knew they only wanted to make a spectacle of me (this was actually the foundation of my friendship with the aforementioned BFF). Even now, I feel regrettable self-hate bubbling up within me as I think back to all of the times I made a fool of myself in hopes that by the end of it, the people laughing may have instead chosen to be my friend.
Gym class was the bane of my existence for more reasons than the locker room experience. We would often have to wear tiny heart rate monitors strapped to our chests, long before the era of Apple watches becoming mainstream. Our heart rates would then be projected on a screen for the entire class to see, and those of us who did not stay within the required heart rate zone would be forced to remain in class after the bell until the teacher deemed our workout as “good enough”. I never did get to leave on time, and I always dreaded the humiliation of everyone knowing as they watched the numbers on the screen that I would be staying late yet again.
Running was the absolute worst. My sides would burn in horrific pain, and instead of being given the grace of focusing on why my body felt as though it was under attack, all I could worry about was the fact that the people who loved to use me as a scapegoat for their entertainment would soon turn around and realize that as they sprinted like gazelles in the wild, I was left behind, clutching at my sides and gasping for air.
I would often think, screaming in my internal monologue, “WHY CAN’T YOU JUST FUCKING BE NORMAL FOR ONCE?”
When I began high school, I had the choice to take yoga class instead of traditional gym, and immediately gave up on all things cardio. It was around this time that my body started to develop, as well as my budget for the beauty industry. I would look in the mirror each morning and use my newfound skills to slather my childhood face in layers of makeup, waving “bye-bye” to her with malice as I painted the woman I desperately wanted to become.
Something shocking happened: as I learned how to become “conventionally attractive”, I suddenly started to be treated with respect and kindness. People cared about who I was, and the friendships I formed no longer felt transactional. The worst part was realizing that changing myself had been the solution: I came to the conclusion that any instance of my mistreatment was entirely my fault.
During this time, I was at war with myself through a critical lens that I would like to think I have since escaped, but cannot honestly say is out of my mind. I wouldn’t dream of saying anything mean to myself these days, yet I cannot stop the hateful thoughts that flow like an avalanche every time I look back on school-age photos of myself. I want to jump back in time and grab her by the shoulders and scream at her to blow out her hair and remember to use setting powder and, while she’s at it, stop doing that horrible ugly laugh every time someone tells a joke. I couldn’t hurt a fly, but I can’t stop myself from wanting to slap her across the face.
Seeing this version of myself as a separate entity has become a fragile coping mechanism which is now my lifeline. I am presently healed, but the child within me certainly is not. In fact, I neglect her because I hate her deeply. To love her is to be riddled with shame and anger which I often tell myself I simply do not have time for. So I have cut her off, buried her down, and stomped all over her grave. I have gotten quite good at ignoring the beating feeling of grief in my chest every time I gaze upon my old stuffed animals. It hurts to remember where I came from, who, deep down, I have always been.
Shockingly, that little girl lives on within me, dancing and screaming the lyrics to songs by The Doors, opting for dresses every day no matter the occasion, bursting into a flood of tears at the slightest prick of emotion. I see her sometimes when I pull my hair back. I never quite adjusted to using my legs. I love these things about myself, yet I detest the ways they manifested in her.
I know deep within me
That it is not her fault that I hate her.
I am trying to find the strength needed to look at her, really look at her, and understand why my thoughts rapidly turn bitter when I do. I know she dreamed of becoming me, and would be brokenhearted upon discovering my opinion of her.
Despite my apprehension, there are certain things I wish I could say to her. Things that would heal the war between us, however briefly:
- I want to tell her that she will someday fall in love with running, that it will melt away the stress of her adult life as she wonders how she ever disliked the sport. I want to tell her she kind of becomes a nerd about perfectly-white running shoes, just like Momma always was.
- I want to travel back in time and peel her off the floor of her childhood bedroom in Joliet, cold and lonely, and cradle her in my arms. I’d tell her that someday, she will close the door of her first apartment behind her, and stare at her new home as she falls to her knees sobbing. Happy tears, angry tears, the relief of freedom and the burning pain of leaving it all behind.
- I want to tell her that external validation – well, first I probably want to explain to her what that means – becomes her lowest priority once she’s out on her own. I want her to know that we feel beautiful, cool, smart, and interesting no matter what anyone else has to say about it.
- While I’m at it, I’d also like to let her know that we never grow out of wanting a kitten, but we finally have plans to get one soon-ish!
The more I illustrate the parallels between us, my disgust diminishes and is replaced with that oh-so-avoidable sadness. I hate her because of that feeling, not because she is ugly or awkward or embarassing. When I let myself sit with the pain, it becomes clear that it’s not my fault I had to hold my own hand through adolescence, and I actually feel quite proud of myself for the tumultuous journey I managed to survive. I am devastated that I once believed I was to blame. Why, then, have I continued the cycle of abuse with animosity towards memories of my younger self? I am still trying to answer that question, but I think I know what steps I need to take.
Just like running, I plan to continue confronting the parts of myself I regrettably resent.
I’ve come far enough that it would just be silly to cower in fear at the path ahead: instead of scowling at any sight of my inner child, I will try my best to smile and wave.
I have finally found happiness, and it’s only right that I learn how to share it with her.
I’m proud of myself for every single iteration of my existence that has brought me here today in the pursuit of growth.
May we all learn how to live in harmony.
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