Triggers

I received a “Save the Date” card the other day. The betrothed is my adoptive father’s brother. No, he is not my uncle. Nor is he my family or friend. This is a man who, as a boy, bullied, taunted, and abused me to the point where I wanted to either be invisible or dead. I suffered relentless humiliation and defeat at the hands of this boy. He could do no wrong, and there was no protection from it, not from his witnessing friends who jeered alongside him, or from the adults who should have put a stop to it. Some of them even laughed with him, and the others did nothing to stop it.

Hate is a strong word. It means to feel hostility or animosity toward; to detest; to feel dislike or distaste. Do I hate this person? I am ashamed to say that I do. Hating him only hurts me, and only proves that he can continue to hurt me. That door on that family has been shut for many years, but thinking about it still gives me unpleasant physical reactions. Do I hate his mother for not stopping it? Yes. She saw it happening. She saw him hit, humiliate, tease, bully. And she laughed. She was clear in expressing that I was not family to her and that I didn’t count. So yes, I hate her.

Most of the time, I am indifferent toward these people. But sometimes things, like a save-the-date (which I immediately trashed by the way) or hypocritical holiday greeting card, trigger the old feelings. Thinking about these people makes me feel bad. Being around them makes me feel bad. Thinking about the past makes me feel bad. So I have spent a lot of time trying to heal from this painful part of my childhood. I don’t understand why the mother has to send me Christmas cards wishing me a happy holiday season. Does she think I don’t remember? That she blamed me for making him hit me? That she detested me for not being white? I’ve never sent her a card back, and when I receive something from her I just throw it away. I don’t need to read her newsletter, or know anything about her. I just wish she would leave me alone.

I’m an adult now, but I still check on my inner child. A couple of years ago I saw her as a homeless child, dressed in rags and huddling under the seats in a subway station. People spat on her, ignored her, pushed her around, ignored her outstretched arms beseeching help. But she’s been poking her head out and on many occasions has wandered aboveground in an effort to become part of a world that's forgotten about her. Her defenses are still up, but she’s come a long way from hiding under those seats.

Things that happen to us affect who we are – some for the good, some for the bad. I hope that someday the little girl will be able to shake it off and run free in a field of grass and daisies in a pretty dress. I will take her by the hand, hug and kiss her, and protect her. She will pick flowers, sing, and dance. And dance. And dance.