A rude and wild internal child
A few years back, it was popular to speak of “re-parenting” oneself; of getting in touch with your “inner child” and working through exercises of forgiveness and self-understanding.
I got in touch with my inner child once.
I immediately sent her to her room.
I’m being deliberately flip to mask a serious subject, because even though I’ve gone through the imaginative exercises to “find” my inner child, she hasn’t really gone away. She has been impatiently fidgeting while I fooled around with my adult things, like marriage and parenting and work and ambition and accomplishment. She has been slyly observed my pretensions, laughing disrespectfully when I falter or forget things, and running off whenever I carelessly leave the front door unlocked. If I am awkward for a moment, as I often am, she feels the embarrassment for me. If someone hurts my feelings, she becomes enraged at the injustice and prepares to fight — or she curls up in bed and maybe cries a little. Conversely, if I receive some undeserved affection, she beams. I’ve tried diligently to keep that wild child happy and under control and out of trouble.
But now, in these merciless times, I may need to set her free once again. If I am going to survive, I’m going to need her help.
