February 2

“Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.” Marianne Williamson 

When I was a kid I used to set the mirror on the floor and look down into the ceiling. Our house was littered with fast food toys, old newspapers, and random school projects – but the world in the mirror was clean and new. I’d hold the mirror in my hands and walk around, head down, stepping over the imaginary thresholds of door frames. At the time I didn’t realize my need to escape. I told myself a story that everything was fine; that I could hold it all together for the four of us. 

I was seven years old when my Mom took me and my sister to the Days Inn in Lightfoot after spending the evening with my grandparents. She must have packed our swimsuits because I remember being excited about the indoor pool and a chance to swim, even though it was Winter. The next day, Mama forced us to play hooky at school. I didn’t quite know what to tell my myself about what was happening, let alone my friends.

“I got to stay at a hotel!” I bragged when I returned to second grade. “I swam in a pool!” No one asked any more questions. No one suspects anything, I thought. My cover is sound. 

Over the next few months, the secret of my parent’s separation wasn’t really a secret at all. Yet, I locked away my anger, sadness, and confusion – a naughty trio, imprisoned just under the surface of my chest like some twisted Superman badge. These emotions, I knew, were my true self. Outwardly, however, I was anything but.

“Be honest,” I’d exclaim, when I was anything but. “Stop fighting!” I’d say to my sister and father as she threw scissors and he laughed. But inside I wanted to scream, throw, and smash, too.

And so anger, sadness, and confusion, planted deep within the soil of my bones, began to take root. As my body began to grow, breasts blossoming, legs lengthening, the trio stretched and rooted in my neck, my head, my fingers, my heart, pulsating just under the surface. Hidden, but constantly escaping. I compulsively checked the time, read license plates, tapped my toes in the car each time we passed a driveway. I told myself, “If I accidentally step on a crack on my walk home, I’ll have to kill myself.” I was both comforted and horrified by these thoughts. I didn’t actually want to die; I knew I wouldn’t hurt myself. But the trio was growing louder, and I needed to control myself. Control my feelings. Control everything outside, because I had none within. 

Then I read an article in Seventeen magazine about Obsessive Compulsive Disorder where the author told himself that if he did not give into his compulsions, he would have to hurt himself. A watershed of grief welled up inside my body – I wasn’t alone, but so many people were just as sad as me. I began to recognize my empathy even though I had never heard the word “empathy” before in my life.

“I don’t know why, but I can understand where people are coming from. Even murderers sometimes, and this scares me. I don’t know why, and I don’t agree, but I get where they’re coming from,” I wrote in my journal.

For the first time in my life I thought that maybe if I wrote about my own experiences, like the boy who wrote for Seventeen, I could make someone feel understood, too. But I was afraid, and I’m still afraid. Not of failure, but of the power within my words. And not for the power that will be released into the world and the minds of the reader, but the power to make the trio real. What will happen when those emotions tear up through my skin, drip out of my eyes, shoot through the ends of my fingers? Will they change the shape of my face? Will anyone recognize me? Will they like me a little bit less? Maybe more? Will my children be scared? Will my parents be disappointed? There’s only one way to find out.