How To Heal The Past (...even when it is really painful)

It was a long distance relationship.  Which just for the record - is not real life dating.  Long distance dating is that new relationship kinda high - but on steroids - which eventually fizzles your nuts.  The anticipation.  Planning.  Dreaming.  Sexting.  The reunion.  And the departure.  On repeat.  ...oh, the agony.  

Each outfit and activity were carefully planned to demonstrate all the wonderful sides of me that were the most easy to love.  Hot black dress for stunning arrival, booty rockin jeans with the girls out for casual witty banter at trendy restaurant, silk nighty with tousled hair for deep conversations on existential dilemmas, and football jersey for Sunday Funday to show I’m really just one of the guys. The real zinger was in our time apart, I would memorize random history facts to have interesting points at hand in case it came up in conversation.  

WTF?  Cause history facts make you hot?!  I don’t even like history!  Or football for that matter.

So you could imagine my horror when after weeks of crash dieting, two drinks into dinner I let a little crazy start to slip out.  Maaa-aybe more than a little.  The night closed with me a sloppy mess wailing and splashing in the bathtub that he didn’t love me well enough, hard enough, or let me know often enough.  He stood there fully clothed looking down with unveiled panic.  His body didn’t move but his heart couldn’t run fast enough.

Sweet baby jesus!  How could I have let my rolls of shame come so violently to the surface in front of the person I so desperately wanted to love me ?!?  I thought he was special.  And if he loved me then I must be special too. I needed to be special.

This was not my freak flag flying here.  These were my warts and oozed over inner sores that came snot nosing through my bawling mess of shame.  I had never verbalized this level of my inner filth let alone acted it out in amplified drunken stupor.  Oh my god.  I played this scene over and over and over again on repeat for years.

I ended the relationship.  But.  I didn’t.  Not really.  I just put myself out of misery.  

And I continually used the shame of this scene as a weapon of self cruelty until one day, almost as a gift from the gods, I just couldn’t ravage myself over the coals of unworth anymore.  And decided to face that darling wet mess of a train wreck and give that broken little girl exactly what she needed.

Poor Katie Baby. I murmured of her sweetness as I picked her up out of the tub.  I dried off her hair and wiped away the mascara tears.  Sweet Katie.  My baby, come here let me hold you.  I whispered to my inner girl as I stroked her face.   Everything is ok honey.  I’m here.  I see you.  I won’t leave you again..  Katie Baby you are loved. You are safe.  And my darling.  You are so very special.

The memory of holding that whimpering grown version of my broken inner child has become one of my sweetest.  I found a way to love and care for one of my most shameful shadows by turning into the pain and caring for the brokenness.  In doing so it healed the past and called back the ownership of my worthiness.

I still talk to myself this way.  My darling, Katie Baby.  The more I croon and dote on this little girl the less she dictates my under world. And I found out.  

I really do love you, my Katie Baby.  Warts and sores and shadows and all.


Photo cred:  Kerri Ann

Photo cred:  Kerri Ann

Sister, have you ever felt this way?  If so, try talking to yourself in third person, as you would a child you so tenderly love.  And then let me know if it helps.  

I love hearing from you.  
xoxo  Sister, Katherine.