Scratchy Red Carpet

Sigmund Freud believed that our psyche, the entirety of our being, was related to, formed by, and permeated beyond escape from our childhood. I think he was on to something. As a whatever comes after middle aged woman (sadly, I can no longer be considered middle aged unless I figure out how to make it to 106 – gulp), I spend the majority of my time trying to figure out how to better something: myself, the world, my finances, the environment, my city, the lives of my grandchildren, all the animals, etc. These are noble thoughts. I have worked hard to get to this point. Yet, in times of distress and anguish, I still see myself as a vulnerable child. There is a dark corner I retreat to when I can’t take the ills of this life any longer. In my childhood bedroom, the one with the scratchy indoor/outdoor red carpet from the unclaimed freight store, there is a waterbed covered by a purple and lavender afghan, crocheted with a zig zag stitch. On the far side of that bed, there is a 2 ft space between the base of the bed and the golden oak paneling, right under the aluminum window with the diamond panes. That is where I hide when things go badly. I can still feel the prickle of those red carpet fibers. I can still smell those waterbed chemicals. For all the things I have accomplished and for all the things I continue to strive to do, at my core, I’m a little girl hiding where no one can find me. And, I had a great childhood. This is why, midway through the pandemic, I began something called innerchild work.

I still have nightmares about the first time I disappointed my father. I wasn’t of school age, yet. My parents planned a trip with their best friends in Seagoville, the Swindles. They were going away for a week, to Matagorda, TX, to look at some property they were thinking of buying. My dad decided I should stay with his parents, my grandparents in Wilmer. Now, I really didn’t know my Granny and Gramp that well. I was only 5ish. My maternal grandparents were a different story. I saw them nearly every day. I could practically smell the importance of this stay. My dad was so insistent that I go, that I want to go, that I love his parents. My cousins would be in and out every day, too. It was time to get to know that side of my family. So, I nodded yes and cried incessantly when coaxed out of my mother’s arms and into my Granny Stilwell’s bungalow on Dallas Ave. I made it 2 days. I didn’t know these cousins at all. They knew all the nooks and crannies. They blazed a trail to the corner store, alone. They played games I didn’t know the rules for. Once the tears started, they wouldn’t stop. My sweet grandmother finally whispered into my ear, “DD, would you like to go back to Seagoville to W.D. & Lucille’s?” The relief was unbelievable. I slept, exhausted from crying, all the way there. But, the tears wouldn’t stop. At 5, I knew I had screwed up. At 5, I felt my father would never love me as much as he would have loved me if I’d stayed in Wilmer. For the entire first week after my parents returned, they woke to find my bed empty, their daughter tucked into the space between the bed and the wall. Anytime something really tragic happens in my life, there’s a little voice that says, “Shoulda stayed in Wilmer.”

It is my firm belief that anger is a byproduct of fear. We all have crazy, intense fear within us. We fear for our children as they grow up in a cruel world. We fear for our parents, aging and scrambling to cope in circumstances they don’t understand. We have fears based in disease and war and hunger. We have fear surrounding our mortality. Some of us handle it by retreating, some by fighting, some by running away. It all depends, I think, on those first few experiences in life. I guess, as I focus on that child hiding next to her bed, I wonder why retreat was my instinctive mechanism. Why do others immediately want to attack? In the 40,000 years since Cro-Magnon man, how have we not figured this out? I wanted to know, so I struck out on a path toward healing this last year. I’ve poured over self-help books. I’ve listened to scores of podcasts. I’ve watched infinite documentaries. This inner child work is no joke. See your inner child, they say. Sit with your inner child, they tell me. Don’t ask anything of her. She won’t speak to you. That’s not her job. Just see her and tell her you’re there. Tell her you’re paying attention, finally. Say that you’re going to protect her and make sure she knows that she doesn’t have to be alone any longer. Remind her that you’re a grandparent now. You see how your own grandchildren miss their mom and their other grandparents. If all else fails, crawl into that 2 ft space and burrow into that scratchy red carpet right next to her. It’s all going to work out just fine.