We Were Heroes All Along
“What do you think she needs to hear?” My therapist prods. “Little Michele. What would you tell her, if you were in the room with her?” I squirm in my seat, my knee bobbing in time with the ticking of the wall clock. It is hard to remember her. I’d worked to hard to hide the pain she’d experienced.
I chewed at the skin on the corner of my thumbnail. My therapist continued, “Your homework this week is to think about her. Think about what she needed to hear and find at least one moment and comfort her.” She looks at the clock and folds up her notebook. “We can talk more about it next week.”
Therapy is hard. Picking at scabbed-over wounds to let out the festering pus feels counterintuitive. It hurts to heal—it’s easier to remain numb. I’d spent twenty years adapting to my surroundings in order to survive, remaining numb to my circumstances an early armor well-honed over time. How could I be safe letting it go?
Heading to my car, I tap out a cigarette from my pack and bring it to my lips. Sitting back in my seat, I unroll the window and hold my lighter to the end, the first drag pulling deep into my lungs. Eyes closed, I exhale and relax as the nicotine rush rolls over me and I remind myself why I am in therapy.
My son. Period. How am I supposed to raise a healthy child as a single parent when I have all these hidden demons? How am I supposed to be a good parent who regulates her emotions with a toddler, when I can’t even identify my own feelings? How am I supposed to break the generational cycles of abuse and abandonment if I don’t heal?
I pick the first moment I think of:
There she is, Little Michele, in a dark corner. She’s holding Christopher’s hand, protecting him. She looks upset because she’d told a lie. It wasn’t a small lie, it was a big one about who started the fight when her step-dad was beating her mom. Even at 4, she knew what she had to do to protect herself and, perhaps more important, her baby brother.
I imagine my grown-up self stepping into that violent space and walk toward the two children huddled in the dark corner. “Oh, sweeties.” I squat down and whisper. “It’s going to be okay.” The fear in their eyes raises the hair on my arms as I reach to pull them in, my mother instinct in gear. “Come here, you are such a good girl.”
She raises her eyes to me, hopeful. She wants to be a good girl. Always a good girl. Tears fill my eyes as the knowledge of how much that desire will shape her life stings the back of my throat. I clear the lump forming to be sure she can hear my words. “None of this was your fault. You did what you needed to do.” She trusts me with this knowledge and holds on tighter. “And you took care of your baby brother. You are amazing.”
Sobs erupt from me, breaking me out of my vision revisiting the past. I press out my cigarette and search for a napkin to wipe my nose. The pain I’d ignored for so long trickles its way back into into my heart and soul, waking up what had died long ago. It is almost too much to bear.
It’s almost thirty years later, and I’ve had many moments over the years of picking at the scarred wounds in order to truly heal from the repressed pain. I revisited Little Michele many times, giving her the words she’d needed to hear.
But only recently, I figured out that Little Michele wasn’t just a victim.
Little Michele did what she was told to do.
Little Michele always tried to do what was right.
Little Michele took care of her baby brother.
Little Michele read books and memorized versus and always tried to be good.
Little Michele studied hard in school.
Little Michele chose not to hurt others.
Little Michele survived in all the ways she needed to survive in order for me, Big Michele, to be who I am today. Wasn’t she amazing?
Little Michele was my goddamn hero.
Have you ever considered that little you, the you of your past, is also a hero? That you made it this far because of you?
I am not saying that what happened to you was good in any way. What I am saying is that you figured out how to survive it. LITTLE YOU helped BIG YOU get to where you are today. You are your hero, too.
I repeat:
You are your goddamn hero, too.
I’d like to take some space to thank my visual designer and artist friend, Scott Thigpen, AKA
.His work is amazing and, if you don’t already subscribe to his weekly entertaining Zine, you should (below).
When the epiphany hit that Little Michele was my Hero, I decided I needed a visual reminder of Hero Michele to replace my lifelong vision of Victim Michele. I commissioned him to create an illustration for me—something I can reference and be empowered by as I continue to work on my coming of age memoir.
I love her so much. Thank you,
.
Friends!
I will be doing an Instagram Live with
as part of her “Where I’m From” project on Saturday, March 1 at 10 am PST. I will be chatting with Alyson and reading my version of George Ella Lyon’s poem. If you can’t make the Live, it will be posted on her YouTube channel afterwards.I hope to see you there.
♥ Michele
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I love this reframing of our little selves. We are heroes. 100000000%