Unearthing the negative

By this time, I had taken my completed timeline to Sara. We went over a short period of time on my timeline during each session. There was decidedly much to cover, so Sara and I concluded it might take a while for us to go through the timeline so I could give her basic explanations of each notation. After we were finished generally going over the timeline, we would move on to the biggest traumas, going over each in a more detailed manner. I certainly was not looking forward to those sessions, but today I wouldn’t need to worry about that quite yet. Today, Sara and I had reached the birth of my nephew on my timeline. I was ten years old.

After I explained the circumstances surrounding my nephew’s birth, Sara sat back in her chair for a moment, pensive. She then leaned forward and asked if I really realized how difficult my childhood was. I sat in silence, thinking. To me, it was an odd question. I had always thought that your childhood is what it is. There is nothing you can do to change it, so why mope? I had routinely told myself while growing up that no matter how bad I had it, others in the world had it worse. Feeling sorry for myself, therefore, seemed selfish and weak- it was not an option. It hadn’t occurred to me that one must greive the loss of a childhood just as you must grieve over the loss of a loved one – in order to heal, in order to be able to move on.

Sara urged me to see my childhood in terms of it happening to someone else. Not myself, but another child. A child, even, that I loved – perhaps one of my nephews. Sara asked that I visualize a child other than myself in the position of keeping their mother from committing suicide or stifling molestation or performing hours of daily house work. The thought struck me like a truck. I suddenly felt outraged, horrified, grief-stricken. This childhood was simply unacceptable for someone else to experience. But for some reason, I had felt it was okay for me to experience.

Now I needed to figure out why I thought a stranger deserves more than I do. Why did I so firmly believe that I was unworthy of a good and happy life? I had been shown and even told throughout my childhood that I wasn’t good enough. I had been mistreated so many times that I began to let the hateful feelings that accompany abuse sink into me, forming my opinion about myself. I had been told that I was bad and I believed it.

Now, my task was to try to slowly begin to undo these thoughts. I had more hard work ahead of me, I thought, as I have had these negative thoughts about myself for a long time and I didn’t exactly feel like I knew how to break them down yet.