Little Old Me

Dear Reader,

I am a sibling. I have two brothers and four sisters. ?Growing up there were four of us. I was the second oldest then. I had an older brother, who hated me when I was born (that is the story we were given). ?With my father’s death, we have found that perhaps we can have a relationship with each other. That was never an option for us when my father was alive. That story has yet to be written.

About six months before the pandemic hit us, my brother texted me. He told me my father was being placed in hospice. My father was expected to live another six months or so.

The first active thing I did was start looking for a therapist. It took me eighteen months to find her, and she was worth waiting for. However, by the time I found her, the pandemic had hit, my father was still alive, I had lost my job after a ninety-day furlough and had to clear out all my life savings to survive (a bittersweet pill), so I needed more therapy than I had thought I would when my search began.

Let the healing begin! Right? I always wish it were so easy. Without delving into all the sordid, and often unbelievable trauma of my childhood, I have a very complex relationship with therapy, psychology, and healing from the Western point of view. I cannot read self-help books. I find the terminology very cueing, and I shut down quickly. And…. I was in therapy again.

My therapist and I had started working together and then came the words…. Inner Child. It was such an immediate reaction on my part. My skin started itching. I felt hot. She looked at me and said, “What’s happening?”

“I can’t do it”, I said. I hate the words: Inner Child.

She was patient and kind and we talked through it. What I told her is that it’s crap. I didn’t get to be a child, so my “Inner Child” isn’t some beacon of light waiting for me. There isn’t a tiny child in me waiting to feel safe, secure, loved, wanted. That time is gone. Yes, I understand the developmental stages of my childhood and the trauma and abuse and how that impacted me, AND my “Inner Child” is just…crap. I hate it. I hate the terminology. I hate the way dominant culture talks about it. I hate the artwork. I hate it. It bothers me. If you love it, Godspeed! For me…not my jam.

Part of my work was the language around this, and we landed on something that has become very profound for me.

Little Old Me.

Little Old Me is the young child that modern psychology calls Inner Child. Little Old Me is the version of me that resonates.

This week Little Old Me surfaced. I got home from traveling to work on Tuesday. ?I was very quiet. I think my presence was quite heavy. My girls said it was odd and they missed me. I was physically there, and they could feel the difference. I didn’t have anything to say. I had nothing to give. I felt like I had nothing to share. Everything took so much effort. It felt like the hurt, pain, and agony of the world was drowning me.

Little Old Me.

Just like I felt when I was small.

I looked up images of “Inner Child” on the internet and it was what I expected. Dominant culture, particularly white women, had young white girls under rainbows, sprinkles, drops of rain, smiling, laughing, searching for happiness….not my jam.

Little Old Me.

I was parentified very young. Probably like many of you. I helped raise my younger siblings. It has increased my skill sets as an adult. It has created complex layers in the relationships with my sisters who are younger than I am. It made me extremely mature as a child and resulted in making me extremely ridiculous as an adult.

I took the Nurtured Heart Approach Training while in Community Work. If you ever have an opportunity to take this training: DO IT!

I was blessed with much and one thing Nurtured Heart gave me was that the stigmas of Little Old Me are also strengths.

Little Old Me helped raise her little sisters when she did not really know what she was doing.

Little Old Me fed her little sisters and herself when adults failed to provide food for us.

Little Old Me carried trash bags of laundry across town to the laundromat every weekend so her and her family could have clean clothes.

Little Old Me managed to save her heart from all the cruelty, abuse, and hate she was surrounded by.

Little Old Me tries so hard to do better.

Little Old Me will never, ever give up.

Little Old Me knows there is no going back. There is no “do over” for my childhood, or lack thereof. I was not safe when I was little. I was often in danger and surrounded by adults who caused great harm to me and children around me. I was very, very quiet.

If you know me now, you will not believe this and it’s true. I barely spoke for most of my life, until I gained some freedom in my twenties. I saw much, said little, and tried to survive.

I did. I am here. Healing, growing, loving and rarely quiet.

Although, somedays, like Tuesday, Little Old Me comes around.

Little Old Me is me, within me. I also see her within others. Often at Laundry Love, the store, with families in crisis (acute or chronic), and my heart feels heavy. For, I know….

Little Old Me.

I see her in my childhood photos. I smile at her, at myself. We did it. We are here, alive, and loving.

With love, Aisha & Little Old Me