Who I was in A Childhood Lost

When I started to describe to my therapist how I behaved as a child, and for most of my life, she said to me, “You were terrified.”
Yeah, I was. I do realize that. But, you know… it’s so difficult to look back at the past when it’s cloaked in something almost invisible. Like a shimmering veil that drapes over me and can’t be seen, touched, heard, or sensed in any way. It’s only later, after having that cloak lifted off for a few moments, that I realize that it was ever there at all.

When I was little, I didn’t talk. I definitely could talk, and I often did either when no one was around or only when a few select people were around. I went through life in utter silence, most of the time. It irked me so that my parents would question me about it from time to time. “I don’t understand why you’re so quiet- we aren’t!” “You know it’s rude when you don’t respond.” Anger and resentment welled up within me. Who the fuck do you think did this to me? I wondered. Of course, I said nothing. The feelings of anger and frustration were quickly eschewed for a state of erasure; it was dangerous to express emotion. Especially when any of injustice had been done on the part of my parents.

I was terrified.

I didn’t want to been seen or heard. I wanted very much to be invisible. In many ways, I wanted to not feel, to not interact, to not know.
Even now, I recognize when that part of myself comes out and presents herself to the world. She is a wide-eyed girl, very slight; a waif. She looks around, staring. She does nothing, or very little. She says nothing, or very little. It’s as if she waits for the world to unfold before her, to impact upon her senses in any way that it might. Her will is not present. She is delicate and sensitive, like a flower. And like a flower, she is utterly helpless to the uncaring heels of those around her.

There is a kind of helpless terror that is associated with her. She receives everything with an outward calm that is quaintly innocent and without discernment. A compliment or a harmless comment is said to her, and she receives that with barely an acknowledgement. She understands what is being said, and that the person saying it is revealing themselves to her, but she has no real interest in it. It’s a remark that can pass by without cutting. However, there is no way to know and no way to predict when a poison dart will fly out. It’s best to not engage.

And that, I think, is the result of being the daughter of a narcissistic mystic.