I still remember that day vividly, like flipping through an old photo album in my mind. I was just a child, caught up in the world of swings and slides on the playground. The air was filled with laughter and the distant sounds of children at play. That was until I stumbled, an arm meeting the rough ground with a fiery collision. Tears welled up in my eyes, not so much from the pain but from the shock of it all. Yet, I looked around, and all I could see was Mom, lost in conversation on her phone, her attention consumed by distant words. I tried to call out, but my small voice seemed to drown in the sea of chatter. Or maybe it was me who couldn’t speak loud enough. It felt like an eternity, a little universe contained in those moments when I was hurt and unnoticed. The world had reduced to that tiny pain in my elbow and the growing feeling of insignificance.
Finally, when we got home, her eyes met mine, and the scene unfolded again. She took my pullover off, saw the scrape on my arm, and her face shifted from distant to concerned. In that childhood memory, the playground was more than just a place of play; it was where the first chords of understanding were struck, a glimpse into the way her attention could be scattered like leaves in the wind. The lesson learned was etched deep: sometimes, the hurt goes beyond the scrape, and it’s not always about the fall itself, but the quiet aftermath of being unseen. In the shadow of Mom’s constant emotional tides, I learned early on that my identity was to be an ever-shifting canvas, painted by her desires and expectations. The fractured reflection in her eyes became my fragmented reflection of self.
I’ve often felt like I’m made of pieces held together by her strings. It’s like she had this picture of who I should be, and I had to constantly shape-shift into that image just to earn a moment of her approval. I started losing track of where I ended and where her expectations began. There were times when she’d shower me with affection, and I’d feel like the center of her world. But then, out of nowhere, she’d withdraw, leaving me grasping for the warmth that had just slipped through my fingers. It’s like I was this puzzle she enjoyed rearranging, without caring if the pieces fit or not. I yearned to see myself as a person, with my own thoughts, dreams, and quirks. As I got older, I realized that I needed to piece myself back together.
She was the first person I was supposed to trust, and she was the first person to teach me what it feels like when your trust is being abused.
For years and years, I didn’t understand the structure, the calculation of her actions.
For years, I have been trying to piece the puzzle back together in a way that makes sense. In a way that makes me feel accomplished, and at peace. It’s going to be a long road, and I’ve been making baby steps. But I can see that they are working. After all, I’m just a girl. A girl who likes iced coffee, and rainy fall evenings. A girl who churns out novels and relates to Holden Caulfield. A girl who is romantic and daydreams. A girl who is idealistic and wants to matter to someone. A girl who watches Netflix series as a way of coping with reality. A girl who had a childhood no child should have, but also a girl who is determined to make the rest of her life worthwhile.
© Frida-Victoria Tillian 2023-08-23