Excavation of a sweet girl.

The work I’m doing right now is like an excavation. I’m digging through the decades of persona I had to cultivate for self-protection. I’m cracking up layers of hardened certainty and sarcasm. I’m reaching into a cave and peering inside, where I find a sweet young soft sad sensitive girl.

This girl whose first memory was of her mother in a medical mask, waving at her in the ICU. This girl who was still wistfully hoping her father would come back to her. This girl who cried when girls called her names, or when boys committed stupid baby physical violence against her because they were scared of girls. This girl who loved her brother and her dog and didn’t have much else going for her. This girl who later learned that drawing and singing well were only impressive to adults. Around children, they made her a target. This girl who believed everything she heard in Mass. This girl who turned her own victimhood into sympathy and extra friendship given to those who were bullied even worse. This girl who gave her coat every recess to another girl whose family was too poor to buy her one. This girl who didn’t understand that soon, the extra love she was giving the bullied boys would be misinterpreted and scorned. This girl whose father never came back to her, and whose mother still seemed to look at her through a mask.

I’m finding that girl, I’m handing her a candle, I’m coaxing her out into the light.

I’m still the hardened skeptic. But I’m also the sad, sensitive, loving little girl. I’m going to find out how to be both at once.