The inner child in me is looking at me and wondering why I keep etching the same patterns in the dirt with a stick.
“I don’t know,” I say to myself.
“What does it mean?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply.
“Then why – “
“I don’t know,” I cut her off.
“Do you know anything?” she asks, frustrated.
“Yes. No. I know that I don’t know most things, and the only thing I do know is that right now, I’m sitting here with you, with this stick, making this shape in the dirt. That’s what’s happening. I don’t think it needs to be anything other than that – do you?”
Her face scrunches up. She’s thinking. I know myself so well. The agitation is starting to build up in her chest because she doesn’t honestly care because she sees the bigger picture (I always saw the bigger picture), but it bothers her that my answer seems flippant. She feels invalidated. She feels like I don’t care enough about the conversation to even try to respond thoughtfully, and she’s internalizing it as not caring about her. I’m bored with her and I want her to go away. She doesn’t care why I’m drawing this shape with a stick. She doesn’t need to know a real answer. She just wants me to care about what I’m doing because she wants to connect and feel someone else care about something.
She is tired of being vulnerable to have it returned with emotional or spiritual bypassing. I can feel the walls begin to grow up inside of her. I know I only spoke the truth, but I also know that she requires a certain level of compassionate consideration during conversation.
“Do you see something interesting in this shape?” I ask.
Her eyes flash.
“I mean, I think maybe it could look like an ichthus. I thought maybe you were drawing – like a line in the sand.”
“That’s so interesting! I can see how you can see that. Maybe I did draw that – or perhaps it’s a…” I trailed off and began naming random objects. Her laugh bounced through the air.
All she wanted was to be included and to feel like she was wanted in the conversation. Like I cared about her ideas; her thoughts. She didn’t want to have to shove herself in so hard anymore. She didn’t have to beg to sit at the table anymore. Her presence was welcome, and her ideas were valid and desired. She was desired. She was wanted. She wasn’t just being placated.
I really struggle with sometimes feeling like I have to shove myself in to places. I am someone that requires a level of honesty. I love big and I love hard. I desire to be seen and understood – but also I just want to feel safe.
Here is where a healing journey begins.
