Sunday, May 20, 2012
Wow, that blog plucked a very raw nerve for me, because the blogger could have been writing about my life: good girl, straight A's, too uncoordinated for sports, afraid to try anything that could result in failure. What surfaced, along with tears, were two distinct, painful memories of how parents' words can cut like a knife.
The first memory was when I returned from a national Girl Scout event when I was in junior high. Now, it was an honor to be chosen for a national event, and only only two girls from my state were selected. The event was held on a college campus in Illinois, and in those days, we traveled by bus, so I made the trip on my own, the first solo excursion. What an exhiliarating time! I had a blast at the event, learned a lot, and returned home elated and filled with enthsiasm. My dad brought me home from the bus station, and as I bounded through the door, my mother's sour face and words stopped me short: "My God, you've gotten fat!" My happiness bubble popped, and I deflated, actually feeling like something heavy had crashed into my chest.
The second painful memory came during my freshman year in high school. When I entered high school, I was feeling the freedom that came with the more mature environment, and I signed up for a one-semester art course. I knew I wasn't good at drawing and painting, but I was hoping I could learn, and I wanted to do something "daring." I got a B in that course. When my dad saw my grades, he skipped over all the A's and focused on the sole B, telling me I had to bring that grade up. I was crushed. The class was over, so there was no chance to pull it up, and it was the last time I was "daring" in high school, ensuring that B was my only one.
What is interesting is that I keep burying these memories until something specific, like today's Daily Spark blog, triggers them. Unfortunately, when I bury painful memories, the good ones go with them, so perhaps that's why I have so few memories at all of my childhood. ELIZRN has also written blogs that have brought memories to the surface, so I feel as if the Universe is trying to tell me I need to take these black things out of their hiding places, examine them in the light of day, and forgive my parents (who probably never realized the impact of their words). It may be the only way to get my memories back.
Finally, you may be wondering why I'm writing this in a blog instead of in the pseudo-privacy of a journal. I feel the need to be public with the struggle, and SP so far has been a relatively safe place to share difficulties. So thanks if you've read all the way to the end. Just sharing means a lot.