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One of my earliest memories is of taking my father’s temperature, giving him an injection and tapping his knee with one of those hammer-like tools. Since we didn’t keep lollipops in the house, I think I handed him a Scooter pie from the refrigerator at the conclusion of my “exam,” and told him he was all better now.
I was 4 and I remember it like it was yesterday.
I recall how great it felt to reach into my doctor’s bag and pull out something which I knew could help my dad feel better. Not that he was sick; he was just pretending. But still, I remember feeling kind of, I don’t know … competent. Useful. My mother was a nurse and used to do that sort of thing all the time. It wasn’t until I was a little older that I realized not everybody’s mom talked about medical things during dinner. She wasn’t much of a domestic type but boy, if you needed someone to clean a cut or bring a fever down, my mom was your person. She wasn’t big on physical affection. Not a very huggy person. Or a verbally expressive one, either, when it came to saying, “I love you.”
Not her thing.
She was born in Arkansas and spoke with a slight Southern drawl. Compared to the way those of us from New Jersey speak, she added an extra syllable to my name. Ca-ath-y, she’d say. I loved the way that sounded. She never met a stranger and was the kindest, least judgmental person I’ve known. At the same time, she was precise, emotionally unavailable and often said things like, “You do what’s best for the patient. You never coddle them.” So, coddled I wasn’t.
I think I wish I was.
I’ll spare you the details, too numerous to elucidate anywhere but in my therapist’s office but suffice it to say I had feelings about growing up as Grace’s daughter. One part proud – she was in the military and did a stint as then General Eisenhower’s private duty nurse when he had a tonsillectomy in the 1940s. His surgery took place over the Thanksgiving holiday. My mom had dinner with the General and Mrs. Eisenhower and was gifted a recipe for pumpkin chiffon pie written in Mrs. Eisenhower’s own hand. Someone in the family made the pie every single Thanksgiving since, including me who has since taken over the tradition.
And another part many other things.
In the second grade, for instance, when the other moms picked their kids up from school, greeting each with a big hug, my mon remained in the car. I told myself every day that those hugs were for the wimpy girls. “My mom is too important for hugs,” I told myself in my head. She had a lot on her mind, after all, and needed to get back to work. Who needs coddling? Not me.
Yes, me.
I needed coddling. Some, anyway. Just a little? And so, to put it succinctly, my yearning for my mom’s tenderness got wrapped in layers of “I don’t need anything.” “I’m fine.” The soft center of my tootsie-roll heart was concealed by a hardened, slick shell that read “Keep your distance.” It was easier that way. I didn’t have to go near the boo-boo.
Anxiety
To the girls in middle school who left peanuts on my desk with a note that read, “To the girl with the big ears, the circus is waiting,” it took me a few decades, but I’m over it.
Has it happened to you, too? I’d venture to guess it has.
Very few of us made it through our middle school years without encountering mean girls (or boys) whose mission in life, it seemed, was to make us feel badly about ourselves. Other kids who were cooler or bigger, or who cornered the market on social power banned together (they typically travel in coteries), to call attention, mock and otherwise shred our already sponge like pre-adolescent self-image. At a time when fitting in matters more than almost anything else in the world, nearly everything that is thrown at our young sense of ourselves sticks hard to the back wall of our mind, and often does so for life.
As it turns out, I have my father’s ears. It’s not only that they’re too large for my head, they stick out by approximately 75% or at least that is my subjective estimate based on the mental portrait that hangs on my back wall. In middle school, I wore my longish brown hair tucked behind my ears. I thought it looked best that way, parted straight down the center with one side draped across my acne dabbled forehead. Though slightly frizzy, I made sure it always smelled good. Clairol’s Herbal Essence conditioner took care of that. Woodsy yet fresh. I was set.
Apparently, my oversized ears caught the attention of Jo Ellen (not her real name) and became a lightening rod for the ridicule and taunting she doled out. Never directly to my face, of course. I remember her as pretty as pretty can be, polite and generous to her friends, buying them snacks and bringing in delicious-looking sandwiches on homemade Italian bread. She was funny and her prominent Roman nose was often the brunt of her own self-deprecating humor. I admired her look in those days. I even appreciated her noticeable nose. Maybe because it was the exact same nose my dad had. I got my mother’s.
One morning, as I approached my school desk, I could see there was something scattered across the top of it. When I got closer, I saw what it was. There, to greet me, was a pile of peanuts in their shells with a handwritten note that read something like, “To the girl with the ears, the circus is waiting.” I don’t recall which was worse, the gut punch message itself or the fact that Jo Ellen and her cohorts were poised and waiting for me to discover their calculated prank. When I did, they had a good giggle. They didn’t say a word, but their eye contact with each other said it all. They were in. I was out. They were good. I was nothing. Looking back, I have less to say about how scalding that moment was and more to lament about how many years the replay of it followed me. Like a cataract that clouded my vision of myself for years, decades even, my view of myself was skewed in the direction of how Jo Ellen and the others saw me. I was never able to see myself independent of what I internalized about myself that day. The rest of me – my grades, my friendships, my accomplishments (there’s been a few) – were organized around a core belief that something like that could happen again at any moment. I could walk back to my desk, unsuspectingly, and be confronted with my imperfections, my short comings, my shame. I’ve worked hard to avoid that. I worked at it even when I had no idea I was working. I suppose I became numb to the sting and just used to my strategy to defend against it.
The inner middle schooler in us does not go away easily, if ever. The hurt we felt back then can’t be erased. It happened. It’s a fact of our lives. Denying it won’t help. Suppressing it will make it worse. Going these routes will only siphon our psychic energy making the juice we need for living well a scarce resource. Not good. Scarcity makes life an uphill climb. So, what can we do to free ourselves from the grip of outdated beliefs that have imbedded themselves into our psyches? How can we undo the reflexive tendency to view ourselves in situation after situation through Jo Ellen’s lens? How can we see ourselves on our own terms, according to our own intelligent and realistic self-assessment?
Here are a few of the steps I took to warm up to the unfamiliar and experimental notion that Jo Ellen and the other middle school girls no longer define me. Try them on for yourself and see what happens.
1. I called my younger self to mind.
I pictured her as a person outside myself. I allowed myself to envision her the moment she discovered the peanuts. I noticed her hurt and didn’t turn away from her. I decided that if she felt it, I wasn’t going to let her feel it alone. I decided to shoulder the pain with her. I let myself be touched by her pain. I stayed there for a few heartfelt moments. I chose compassion over harshness. I chose to care for her for being hurt rather than despise her for being weak.
2. I talked to her…like a good friend, not a drill sergeant.
I told my innocent, inner middle schooler that I not only recognize how badly she feels, I have her back. I told her that now that I’m older and bigger, I can protect her against bullies and mean-spirited people. Even those who mean no harm but are clumsy, insensitive and out-of-touch. I will put up stop signals. I will say “no” when necessary. I will fight for her. I told her I will never leave her. I committed to be the protector she needed back then but didn’t have. I took an unshakable stance that if anyone tried to harm her, they would have to go through me. Few would be so foolish as to try. I told her she could trust me.
3. I validated her.
I told her that she didn’t deserve to be treated in the manner she was. While it happened, it wasn’t right. I reminded her that the world is full of people who themselves are hurting and they handle it by hurting others. That way, they don’t feel so alone. Although it’s counterproductive and hurtful, it is also one of the givens of life.
4. I let her cry if she needed to.
I let her express what she couldn’t express all that time ago. I told her she is entitled to her emotions, her anger and her sadness, and that I deeply want to know how she feels. I let her know I can handle it.
5. I told her it’s okay to feel sad.
I told my adult self that although I felt I needed to hide the true “me” all this time, I can think about being the person I truly am. I let myself know it’s okay to grieve all the lost time and opportunities trying to protect myself.
6. I told her she will never be alone again now that she has me.
I let her know that she has a protector now. If anyone tries to harm her, they’ll have to get past me first. I have her back and I always will. No exceptions. I made sure she knew that she is my purpose now: I am responsible for her safety and happiness. Then I envisioned myself holding her close until she almost melted into me.
My inner pre-teen and I have a lot of heart-to-hearts these days. I’ve gotten better at remembering to reassure her, console her, honor her. I’ve come to love her. How can I not? She is lovable. She always was.
As for Jo Ellen….I ran into her a few years ago at a department store in NYC. We exchanged pleasantries. She was still as pretty as pretty can be. She seemed softer than I remembered. I liked her old nose better. As we spoke, I felt a warmth swell inside my chest, grateful that my cataracts have cleared up, grateful that I can love as fiercely as I do. Grateful that my inner 7th grader and I are pals for life and share one heart.
