Words

Words stay. I can remember things told to me when I was a small child. I thought everyone could. I know a lot of my challenges (issues) stem from things said to me as a child. I heard them, trusted they were true because of who said them and then internalized them. I absorbed them, believed them...lived them.

"You know, Daddy might not come home." 

"Your Mom is very sick and can die if she eats sweets too much."

"You're too emotional. Too sensitive. Too nice."

"This summer you're either going to lose weight or stop sucking your thumb. You choose."

"Jesus is the only one that truly loves you."

"You're not good enough."

"You can't cut your hair! You'd be so ugly with short hair!"

"I don't want to be with you. You're fat, you don't drive and you don't have enough experience in bed."

"You'd be pretty if you weren't so fat."

"You're fake."

Words hurt. When they're repeatedly spoken or actions are made that reflect those words...the hurt gets inside and stays. I've carried it inside for so long, adding layers of painful words like nesting dolls that I didn't even notice that the words became who I was for a time. 

Words aren't always the worst part. I saw the sneers, leers or looks of disgust. And I saw the sympathy when harsh words or situations were overheard.  I felt all of it. 

It started to change. I began to learn otherwise, began to heal. Some of the words I've started to forget. Some I never will.

Recently I spent some time with a group of women and the conversation turned to discussing our fears. We were sitting around a fire pit so naturally, we recognized that nearly all of us had grown up with, "No don't touch! That's hot! or a variation of the warning. It led us to realize that a learned behavior absolutely can start with words. One woman shared that her child's first word was 'hot' because she'd had a wood fire stove in their home and wanted to make sure the babe didn't touch.

As I sat there, listening to these women share their stories, I thought about a conversation I'd with my dad. I'd told him that when I was little, having everyone tell me that he might die wasn't exactly comforting. It led me to have a near constant fear of loss and abandonment.

 I also told him that despite the fear it created, I appreciated the honesty. My parents have always told me the truth. About what might happen, about what did happen, about sex and religion and all the conversation topics that I imagine parents don't easily navigate. That kind of open dialogue has allowed me to do the same as an adult. I say things how I believe they are and if I'm wrong, I'll be the first to admit it. I listen to other opinions and ideas openly, even excitedly.

I wanted to share this with the group of women around the fire. I wanted to share that although words can form us, hurt us, scare us, affect us for our entire lives....they can also teach us and help us develop positively.

But when I opened my mouth, another story came out.

My dad's job had him on the rough Alaskan waters for months at a time. I was reminded often that his life was in danger while he was away.  The ocean became an entity that I could respect, fear and even fall in love with a little.   I absorbed all stories about the ocean. Hans Christian Anderson's story of The Little Mermaid impacted me immensely and I begged to hear it over and over again. I remember watching Splash for the first time...That silly little 80s movie with Tom Hanks and Daryl Hannah convinced me I could breathe under the waves. Maybe I was a mermaid too and just didn't know yet. If I was a mermaid, I could protect my dad. 

"You need to learn how to swim." My grandmother stood over me while I splashed in the shallow end of the community pool. I liked going to the pool and playing with the other 'summer kids'--grandchildren of my grandmother's friends. I didn't care that I didn't know how to swim. I was never going to do what dad did, so why did I need to learn? I already knew the ocean was scary and I had no desire to do anything but admire it from afar. My grandmother felt differently.

"Your dad works on a boat. You need to learn how to swim." And then she threw me into the deep end of the pool. Not a mermaid. 

I hadn't remembered much about this story until I started telling it to that group of strangers around a fire. They gasped when I repeated her reasoning. I didn't understand why at first. I mean, that was just grandma. But then they asked questions.

"Oh my god, did she jump in after you?" No. She yelled at the lifeguard that was on duty to help.
"Did you lose consciousness?" I think so. I remember waking up in the locker room with a lifeguard above me. 
"Did you go back into the pool?" No. We went home. Grandma was angry that it took so long for me to be 'saved'.  

As I talked, I realized I was angry. Her decision to teach me how to swim was not hers to make. And the way she did it was wrong. But as a child, I didn't know that. She was grandma and an adult so I did was I was told. I 'learned to swim'.

The conversation around the fire eventually shifted and I was allowed to sit with my story a bit. I hadn't remembered before that she'd been angry at the lifeguard's response.  Or that I'd woken with the lifeguard standing above me on a bench in the locker room. Or that we rode home in silence, me shivering in a towel on the car's leather seat. I suddenly saw all of it and sat quietly, staring into the fire.

After a while, one of the women turned to me and said, "I just wanted you to know...I heard you. I heard your story.  And I'm sorry that happened."

 Other women piped in. They chose words that were kind and assuring. They held me with those words in a soft embrace. Strangers. Even now as I type it, I can hear the gentleness in their voices. I felt comforted and supported and...heard. I felt validated.

How unfortunate that words from someone we love can mold our very selves, creating situations and even lifestyles that reflect their unkindness. 

And how wonderful that a voice from someone we've just met can bring such comfort. That they can reach into a part of you maybe you'd forgotten was there and touch it just very gently, carefully letting you feel.

Words stay. Good and bad.