Emotional Alignment

Christopher Robin: “There’s a place right here, And it’s really rather small. But this rather small place Knows the grandest thing of all…”

— Winnie the Pooh: A Valentine for You

Image Credit: Tapestry Tiles by artist Charlotte Salt, commissioned by The Shop Floor Project

I love this song. It’s from my childhood. It brings tears to my eyes every time I sing it—Christopher Robin singing to Winnie the Pooh. It’s a story of friendship I have always wanted for myself. It’s between a boy and his bear in the Hundred Acre Wood. Why does it bring me such sadness?

I had been a lonely child, even though I had siblings. They were all younger than me, but I was forced to share everything with them—especially my sister, who I was coupled with for so long that it’s hard for people to tell us apart. She is married now and has her life and career. I am still here, suffering. I always projected onto her the life I have wanted. She was oblivious and doesn’t care to empathize with my pain, with how my mother hurt me. She never understood why I never liked her or why I was the way I was. But I remember her always trying to be in every space I was, always in my face—because that’s all she knew. I was her older sister; what was mine was hers too.

As I grew older—dissociative—she was thriving, learning everything. My parents rarely paid attention to her, and she grew up seeking their approval, while I was raging, fighting, and screaming, looking for something missing. I never knew what was happening, nor did my parents care to see.

I was a lost child, needing someone to hold me. I daydreamed about princes and magic—but also death. Imagining loss, depressive and catastrophic events. I took my torment out on everybody within reach of me.

I learned my parents’ teaching style and absorbed it as my own. I was a wretched child, crying and scornful, always mean and bullying my much younger siblings—continuing the cycle of child mental disabilities. I bear that responsibility now, although I had no idea what I was doing was damaging to my naïve younger siblings, especially my brother, whom I tortured endlessly. I hurt him. I regret it so deeply.

My poor brother, who has looked up to me—I didn’t know then that I was also just a child, looking for my parents’ love and affection. I saw how they treated everyone, but never how they treated me. I was blind to them, but I saw everything. I heard and complained, always raging about something. My siblings had to hide when I was on my path of vengeance. Everyone tiptoes, making sure I don’t know anything. They hide from me—I feel it. I am a sensitive child with hyperawareness, surveilling, making sure nobody outperforms me. I had a raw talent for catching my prey. They were not susceptible or equipped to withstand my assault.

My father’s tenderness toward my younger sister was something I had envied all my life. At first, it was my brother—my father taking him out on rides and spending time with him. Then it was my younger sister, sitting her near him. I don’t remember any of this care for me. Have I forgotten? Is it still there? I can’t recall. I have tried to see if I had been loved at all. Please believe me.

My mother would tell me that when I was a baby, my father would buy the best clothes from America and send them to her. From the expensive department stores—suitcases full! she said. An envy among the other children. But I was a baby—how could I feel that? I only felt my mother. I was her unwanted burden.

I have seen my pictures as a baby, on my father’s lap in his Mercedes-Benz. So then where am I truly? Have I imagined my pain? Please tell me. I have never seen a shrink. I think I am crazy.

You could say I had it better than most—it is true. So then, am I just a girl in delusion? Why would I act this way if I had been loved the right way? Being in my father’s lap, cruising? I don’t remember any of it—just what he said to me in third grade. Why? He yells. Why are you like this? Why are you failing? What have I done to deserve this? I don’t know how to respond. I am scared. I was only young. He was intimidating, always a calm before a storm, his anger and aggravation simmering beneath the surface. Confused by my academic negligence.

I never repeated a grade, you see. He made sure of that. But I had been to summer school. I never wanted to go. I was terrified of school—a foreign place I had never been emotionally accustomed to. I was a sensitive child. I hated school, and now, as a failing student, I had to go in the summer too. An endless torture. I couldn’t accept it. I never did.

I rejected everything my parents did. My parents, trying to reconcile my lack of mental aptitude, never helped. Yelling at me. Insulting me. Hurting me physically. It took a toll on my soul subconsciously.

I didn’t have it as bad as some kids—those who were punched and kicked or made to starve. I had a home and a bed, with food on the table always.

So then, what gives? Why am I like this? Why am I not like my siblings, who never took anything seriously? He’s our father, and she’s my mother—why am I complaining and being an endless bother? They have done everything for me, sacrificed their old life for a fee to the American Dream.

The answer isn’t simple. I am unaware of this mystery.

Physically, I am fine. Emotionally?

Um… well, God willing, it aligns.