Forcing the Fairy Tale

One of the more memorable children I have encountered was a young woman who had a strong affinity for cosmetics.  Much of our time together was spent discussing the pitfalls of my eyeliner, or the decorations on her nails.  She enjoyed experimenting, and was quite skilled with her materials.  This type of rapport building was necessary, as this adorable and likable child was incredibly insecure.  She had been raised in poverty and neglect.  Described as "the neighborhood child," she spent much of her childhood providing for herself as her ailing caregiver slowly perished in front of her.  As a young child, she tended for the one adult she had to love, and fed herself by journeying to the houses of unsuspecting neighbors who took pity on her.

Image found here

When this phase of her life regrettably came to a close, she was transported in the middle of the night to a family friend's house where she was told she had to stay with no explanation of why or what had happened.  She then lived in transition, without acceptance and space for her grief.  She was shuttled repeatedly between households of adults who believed her to be a burden and treated her as such.  Forgetting her lack of proper parenting, and refusing to acknowledge her own emotional reaction to loss, disruption, and distress, she was forced to abide by rigid and irrelevant rules.

While in my care, she lamented the world around her.  Expressing that adults, well intended and not, had instructed her to believe that the world was an awful place.  She'd been coached to radically accept that life sucks, and it never gets better.  She was in a pivotal place in her life in which she was attempting to construct her own independence within a framework of dismay and artificial hope.

She sought my guidance often about what to expect for the future.  I joined with her in frustration for the "supports" she'd been given, and attempted to convince her that it didn't have to be that way.  I spent hours being real with her, telling her that life gets better, while admitting that it always remains hard.  She listened attentively.  It was a nice story that she liked to hear.  She wanted me to tell it over and over again, but for her that's all it was. It was a fairy tale that I was desperately wanting her to buy into. 

We parted some time ago.  I sent her on her way, set up with as much as I could give her, but knowing it was not enough to fill the unhealed wound that was her childhood.  Though I would continue to think about her, I had to accept that it was likely the last time I'd see her.

Until I recently re-encountered her in a circumstance I cannot fully explain, except to say that there was a stage and an open mic.  I had seen her early on, sitting in the crowd by herself; her hair hanging in perfectly curled ringlets that covered her face.  Near the end of the event, she got up quietly and made her way to the stage.  While up there, she caught my eye and we exchanged amused expressions.  She seated herself cautiously, gripping the mic with a shaking hand, and sang a melancholic version of Payphone by Adam Levine.

I found myself misty eyed as I watched this young woman nervously sing. As she crooned the following words, I was transported to visions of that poor little girl extracted from a situation without explanation and given to people who would not allow her to process her loss.

"I know its hard to remember the people we used to be. Its even harder to picture, that your not here next to me.  You say its too late to make it, but is it too late to try, and in that time that you wasted all of our bridges burnt down. I've wasted my nights.  You turned out the lights.  Now, I'm paralyzed. Still stuck in that time when we called it love, but even the sun sets in paradise.  I'm at a payphone trying to call home.  All of my change,  I spent on you. Where have the times gone? Baby it's all wrong.  Where are the plans we made for two?  If happy ever after did exist, I would still be holding you like this.  All of those fairy tales are full of it."

When she finished, she smiled bashfully at the crowd and returned to her seat.  As she passed me by, I couldn't help but reach out and touch her shoulder.  She startled and turned toward me.

"That was beautiful," I whispered.

She widened her eyes, reached out both of her arms, and crashed into my shoulder.  For just a moment, I gave a tight squeeze back.  When she released, we exchanged bittersweet smiles before going our separate ways.