(Previously titled: When the Bones Are Good)
More talk about bones? Yes. Let’s do it! I love this analogy. If you haven’t read Part 1 of this little series I’m creating, go back and take a look. It’ll help you understand what this is all about.
When I was going to school for my certification, one of the presenters read us a quote by Alice Miller. It hit me so deeply that I had it printed, framed, and it sits in my sight across from my desk. It goes like this:
“The truth about our childhood is stored up in our body, and although we can repress it, we can never alter it. Our intellect can be deceived, our feelings manipulated, conceptions confused, and our body tricked with medication. But someday our body will present its bill, for it is as incorruptible as a child, who, still whole in spirit, will accept no compromises or excuses, and it will not stop tormenting us until we stop evading the truth.”
YIKES!!
What does that mean if we break it down? Basically this…We can read books, tell ourselves that everything is fine, ignore it, or take pills. But at some point in our life, our body will let us know it’s done pretending everything is ok. It will demand that we deal with and work through the garbage that happened to us as kids, or, really, at any time in life. But we’re talking about the “bones” of our lives…the beginning part…the foundation. So, as for this post, we’re looking at our childhood.
I’ve known many people who believed very strongly that it’s best to “let it go” when it comes to childhood trauma. I’m not just talking about abuse; I’m talking about the adults in our lives who were supposed to be our protectors, our guides, our examples. I mean those people in the generations ahead of ours who we were to feel completely safe around making degrading, hurtful comments that get engrained into your mind. The inappropriate slapping on the butt, or other uncomfortable places. The relentless teasing. All of these things then rationalized away with the whole, “Oh, he was only joking. Don’t be so sensitive” response if you ever gather up enough courage to speak up about how it made you feel. That one absolutely incenses me! Especially when we’re talking about kids.
Once again I want to ask you to think back to your childhood. What was said to you that still rattles around your brain today? What happened that you just can’t seem to forget about? It might be time to work through it! Forgiveness to the one who hurt you? Yes! That’s important. But, you need to dissect it and see how it influenced what you say to yourself. How do you think about yourself because of what was said or done to you? THIS is where the work comes in. Only you can reprogram that glitch. Search out the truth and begin replacing it. It’s not easy, but it’s possible. Believe me…if I can do it, anybody can!
My second bone…
**********************************************************************************
My memories of being a little girl come in fragments. I can often find one screaming back at me when I hear a song, catch a scent or, obviously, see an old photo. These memory fragments, though, more often than not, replay moments of me noticing what was around me, thinking about it, being aware of everything and everyone. I noticed smells, sounds, and mostly, feelings. If I were to try and put them on a timeline, I would guess that at the beginning, I would be at either of my grandparents’ homes.
Grandma and Grandpa Fields, my dad’s parents - they lived in a two story corner house in Yorba Linda when I was young. I’ve tried to return there once with my kids, to show them this place that holds so many memories for me. But this was before the days of navigation systems and I failed miserably. Anyway, it was on the corner of a busy street and across the street were train tracks. Trains would race by on a regular basis, day and night. I would often spend the night (especially while my dad was living there). Grandma would tuck me into my Aunt Sandi’s four poster bed that was so high off the ground I’d have to run and jump to get on it. She would keep the little glass lamp on the side table turned on to the lowest setting, kiss my forehead, say goodnight & close the door. I’m not sure if this was the beginning of my being afraid of the dark or not. But it’s definitely when my memory of the fear begins. When a train would be headed our way, I’d tuck myself tightly underneath the covers because, as everyone knows, if you’re under the covers, you’re perfectly safe. The train’s whistle would wail hauntingly, first from far away, warning me that it would soon be right across the street. Then louder and more demanding as it approached. When the sun was down, in my young mind, trains were nothing more than giant creatures hoping to derail so that they could catch little girls and carry them away forever. I was terrified of them when nighttime hit. They were big, very loud and the intense power they displayed as they raced by, creating wind that usually only God could make, was too much for me to take in. Luckily for me, those evil night monsters were never able to unhook themselves from the steel tracks. Or, if they did, those covers were strong enough to keep me hidden. Too bad for them! But, to this day, the sound of an oncoming train, that warning whistle that blows long and loud, still sends a chill down my spine. And I prefer to be far, far away from the tracks.
But what I remember the most is that the walls on either side of the staircase were covered in family photographs. Every time I traveled up or down those stairs I would see my family smiling back at me. Grandma and Grandpa in bold flower outfits on one of their trips to Hawaii. Uncle Freddy’s senior photo. Aunt Sandi with the “Beehive” hair. Aunt Robin in her pretty dress the day she married Uncle Cliff. A family photo of Robin, Cliff, Michael and Chad. My dad in his Army uniform. Nonie, Papa, Aunt Teri, Aunt Pat, Uncle Neil. Baby pictures of Michael and Chad and me. There were pictures of me. This was my family. Yet, even as a child, I remember feeling like I didn’t fit with these people. I physically matched them, sure. I loved them and they loved me. But my world was separated from theirs. My cousins had their family photo up there. My mom’s face was nowhere to be found on that wall. My family was broken so I felt broken. I knew my mother was considered a sort of enemy. She wasn’t included. She wasn’t liked. And I was a part of her. It made me feel like I wasn’t completely good enough. There was always this feeling that I needed to work extra hard to be liked. I couldn’t talk about my mom or share anything about my life that happened away from my dad’s side of the family. If they asked about school or friends, I’d make sure to choose my words carefully. There was nothing worse than beginning to tell a story where I’d slip and end up using the words, “then mom and me…” This would bring on the eye rolls and the whispered comments that I couldn’t ever quite make out, but knew they weren’t nice. So began my system of compartmentalizing my life. When I was at Grandma and Grandpa Fields’ house, I would keep my mouth shut about everything not pertaining to them or that side of my family. I had no clue that this was what I was doing beyond telling myself, “Don’t talk about mommy” over and over again. My young brain was incapable of this sort of intentional plan. Instead, it was what naturally began to happen. The desperate need I had to feel as if I “belonged” to my very own family drove me to stifling my thoughts, my stories, my feelings, and, in the end, myself. I would only allow them to know the Kim that I believed they wanted.
I loved my family. I wanted them to love me. I wanted to fit in with them. I wanted to be with my family. And I wanted them to want to be with me. So, I adjusted.
Did you experience divorce? How did your parents handle it? Did they find a way to get along, or was it WWIII? Were you caught in the middle? Were you a pawn in their battle? How did this carry into your adulthood? This would be a fairly large level bone structure right here…I’m talking femur size! I challenge you to explore your thoughts. Think about how you speak to yourself based on whether you were required to compartmentalize yourself in order to keep the peace or feel accepted by those who were meant to give you a sense of security and confidence. Dig in…then rewire that garbage! Because you’re worth it. Your health is worth it. Your body is worth it.
It’s time!!
If you would like to receive Kim’s posts in your email inbox, subscribe above.
Kim Smith is a Certified Integrative Health Coach who lives in the San Gabriel Mountains with her husband of nearly 30 years. She offers health, nutrition, and weight loss coaching, as well as stress management training, and support for autoimmune disease and chronic illness patients. She has released her signature online course, “RESET Your Life”, which provides 12 weeks of intensive digging into all areas of life in order to find balanced health and a renewed sense of joy. Visit her website listed below for more information.
For more information on the programs she offers, visit her website at http://www.resetihs.com
You can also contact her at (951) 634-1100 or email at kim@resetihs.com
The Third Quarter 