The Girl That Never Left

(Mental health, mentions of bullying/emotional abuse, freezing response, condescending behavior and unwanted physical affection to a child).

The ten year old curled up in the corner of her mom’s reading nook in the first grade classroom. Loud, familiar voices echoed through the hallways getting closer, like dogs (bitches) on a trail with nothing better to do. Without even glancing the little girl’s way who was now hiding her face behind the book, desperate to shut out the danger by escaping into the story, the mother stood up and strode to the door of the classroom, blocking the danger. Try as she might to ignore it, the child could hear their scratching voices, could see in her minds eye how they towered over her, with too-wide sneers twisting their faces. They called out to her, wanting to spend time with her they say.

Spend time bruising her like violets, making her bleed like roses with their words and laughter.

Pretending she didn’t exist until she finally vanished in midair, even though. She. Was. Right. There.

Growling like a wolf protecting her young, the mom sent them away. Finally. Finally, the voices retreated, and with it the tightening in her chest loosened though never completely. Her wings had been clipped months ago, and she was trapped halfway through a grave.

Having worked in the same place for years, the woman tuned everything out with practiced ease as she went through the motions of her job. Acquaintances with most, knowing the names of some, liking a few. She didn’t bother anyone, and no one bothered her. Get through work and go home. Home

is comfort,

is safe,

is familiar.

Retreat to the sanctuary of the bedroom, take warmth under the covers, and shut out the outside. Parents and siblings are enough. Any friend you make doesn’t last, you try to remember to stay connected, but always you’re the one starting a conversation. You go weeks, months, years, without connection. You don’t need more, you have enough. You have a family and a home and your stories. Home

is suffocating,

is closing in,

is a cage.

Tighter and tighter you tuck in. You disappear just like they wanted. But you’re used to it. You’re okay, you need to be okay. This was over a decade ago, you’re not a child anymore. But if you’re not okay, then how can you be okay, when you’re used to going without?

Scarlet Claws pinch your cheeks, a sugary voice talking down to you while praising you. The child’s body freezes, eyes wide like a deer in headlights.

“Such a beautiful child. A clever child, much better than my daughter.”

The mind has gone blank, the body turned to stone.

Don’t touch.

Don’t touch.

Don’t. Touch. ME!

Scarlet Claws leaves and the child can breathe again, her mind turning back on. The child gets locked out of the classroom. Every time she makes eye contact, she’s met with glares. No friendly pats, or handshakes, or hugs. Only pinches, kicks, and being tripped through the hallway. Another group project. No one wants the child, no one chooses her. Awkwardly, the teacher plops the girl into a random group. No one makes eye contact. No one speaks to her. They do the group project without her. She’s not there, not really. She might as well be dead already, nothing but a ghost.

Looking back, the woman wishes she could have bitten the harpie’s hands, sink into the skin until blood pooled matching those awful fake claws. She already knew what it was like. Years ago, listening to the mother wolf, the little girl (littler then) pounced over a seat and tackled a girl to the floor of the bus, pounding away. The little girl deserved it. She made the girl’s younger sister cry, every day for months. The mean twig of a girl didn’t stop. The school did nothing. The mama wolf had enough.

The woman had never been in a fight since. And yet, she’d been fighting all her life. Fighting just to get through the day, fighting to get through school, fighting expectations, and beating against her own walls.

The girl forgave the bully long ago, at least the she has her family. The bully didn’t have that. Even so, the girl still went through hell, and the struggle doesn’t go away. The woman is still littered with the scars and bruises that never faded.

The girl was wild and free. Running, jumping, climbing. She could and would not be stopped, she was a storm and a fresh breeze rolled in one. A child of sunlight, rain, sky, and earth. A small stubborn creature who did as she pleased and would speak her mind. She was quiet when she wanted to be quiet (or knew to be quiet), she went up to speak to someone when she wanted to. If she wanted to swim or go on the field trip, she did.

The girl wanted to go on an adventure, an adventure with home as the destination without the bus. She was lost, then found, and everything was okay. She was courageous and worthy. She was going to be a hero like in the stories.

And then fifth grade happened. She broke her leg and was confined to a wheelchair. She befriended someone who turned the school against her. She was isolated, mocked, and hated upon. She cried every night for a month, the mama wolf held her close stroking her hair and wiping tears from her eyes. The baba wolf told her to ignore them they weren’t worth it, go to your books. That was all the girl had for a year, family and stories. Aside from home, the library and her mom’s classroom was a sanctuary.

The woman was docile and bound. Work, school, home, work, school, home. The same cycle for years. Careful not to make waves or noise. She hadn’t seen the sun and rain in years. A small, stubborn creature who remained hidden within her shell clinging to it like a soul afraid to be released from its body upon death. She was always quiet, only in the safety of her home or in the company of her siblings did she feel safe.

“You’re courageous. You’re clever, you’re worthy.” Says the mama wolf.

“I know. I know. I know.” The girl says, knowing the mother wouldn’t lie, but is unable to connect to it. Often forgetting her accomplishments and only seeing the failures. She wants to be a hero like in the stories still, but where is a hero for her?

How do you go the you that was lost years ago? Was she ever lost, or just buried? Sometimes the woman looks in the mirror deep inside and sees her younger self curled in a ball and looking up with tears in her eyes. Bruises and blood cover her body, but still she’s quiet.

I’m here.

I’m here.

I’m here.

The woman wants and needs in equal measure. Unbound her wings and take to the sky once more. So many are like her, so many reach out only to be burned, to be cut, to be bruised. The woman knows what it’s like, knows she wants to reach out to those hands. But first, she needs to be her own hero. She needs to reconnect. The woman breaks the glass and holds her younger self tight.

The girl never went anywhere.