It brought to mind a couple of different incidents from childhood. One was in kindergarten. A few of us were coloring. One kid (Jason, I think his name was) had yet to receive his coloring talent and spent a good portion of the time outside the lines. Another kid started laughing at him and unfortunately that laughter was contagious.
I whispered to Jason, “I think your coloring is good.”
Another memory was in fifth grade. A kid who seemingly had everything going for him started a fight with a kid who had nothing going for him. I remember it being premeditated and me trying to call bullshit. I stepped in to try to prevent it, but was pushed aside by a bigger friend of the bully. The recess lady broke it up at some point, but not before damage was done.
In both cases I was thinking about what it meant to the picked on kid that I said something. I have two vivid memories seeing the 5th grader outside of school after that. He adored me for sticking up for him. I’m sure that was new to him.
Same with the kid whose coloring skills weren’t up to par. Or the kid who started these thoughts…the one from my friend’s facebook post who had his best day in a long time. That indescribable feeling of going from lonely to knowing someone is on your side.
There’s something to me sticking up for the victims. Me being a voice for the people that feel like they don’t have a voice. Having been a victim myself and having been silenced for so long…I don’t know…I guess I just have a soft spot for those who are going through shit.
I had therapy yesterday for the first time in a long time. As soon as I walked in, a box of Kleenex triggered deep emotion. I’d been to this therapist in high school. I remember trying to come off like I had it all together. There was no need for Kleenex. I was a stone wall. I was emotionless.
There was something beautiful about seeing that Kleenex box. It was symbolic of how far I’ve come emotionally…how much work I’ve put in…how hard it’s been. There’s so much shit from the way I grew up to the divorce. It's so cool to realize how much I've grown. So, to be at this point where I knew I was going to need that Kleenex box yesterday and it was going to be a good thing…that was a big deal.
Time with my therapist went by way too fast. I had so much to say. What a difference she has made for me. I used to be muted…both my emotions and my words and especially the connection of the two, that is giving voice to my emotions. But, she opened the floodgates and now I won’t shut the fuck up. But, see I have to talk. I have to tell my story…for the sake of those beat down kids I talked about above.
And I’m not just talking about the ones I stood up for. What about the ones who played the tough guy? What the fuck was going on in their home lives that they had to point and laugh at the poor kid who couldn’t color or punch the kid with no friends? When you need to beat up a defenseless kid…what’s the back story? What happened to you?
Maybe you weren’t parented well. Maybe you were beat down yourself. I think the common ground we all have as it pertains to what’s fucked up from our childhood is this…we all had the misfortune of being parented by humans. Right? Our fucked up parents' past and how they were parented by fucked up parents deeply affects who they become and how they parent and who we become and how we parent. Humans fuck up. That's what we do. And our fuck ups lead to pain, both for ourselves and others.
But, we can heal. We can use that fucking Kleenex box and talk through our shit and get to a point where we’re not the sad victim, stuck in the corner, with nothing to wrap around us but shadows. Or we're not the sad aggressor, not knowing why we have this need to pick on the helpless. Our parents should comfort us and walk with us through our shit, but a lot of times, not even necessarily intentionally, they pile more shit on us.
But, as adults, we can unbury ourselves. We don’t have to live with the shit weighing us down. When we call shit shit it starts to lose its hold on us. But, we have to find the courage to tell the truth…to tell our real story. Maybe it’s, “I beat the shit out of that kid, because my dad would come home from work and beat the shit out of me.” Or, “I color outside the lines because my mind is completely checked out, because I don’t know how to deal with the trauma I’m enduring at home.”
We’re all bullies. We’re all victims. Fuck the mentality that we need to beat down someone else to feel good about ourselves....those beat downs, big or small, are anything that create the feeling "I'm better than him or her because...". It feels shitty to be the beaten down one, to feel like we’re different than everyone else. I recently caught myself thinking someone’s accent was funny. I'm better than him, because I can speak my native language better than he can speak it? Come on...I had to laugh at myself and the absurdity of me giving a shit about how he talked.
I don’t care how you talk. I just want you to know that you can talk. Tell me your real story. Not the stuff I can see...look at my new car or I finally can afford the house in that neighborhood....the things that we often use to compare ourselves to others. The only thing I want to compare is stories. And when we do that, it gives us the chance to meet at the lowest common denominator…we’re both fucked up.
And it's nice to have other fucked up people in our corner when the bully of life comes to kick our ass. And the voice of those who know our story is so powerful when we feel like shit...that little bit of wisdom or encouragement when we're feeling off. I think your coloring is good.
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