As much as I hate to admit it, I wasn’t always the well-adjusted (generally), emotionally intelligent (for the most part) therapist and human that I am today. In many ways, I was a pretty normal child, spending most of my time outdoors riding bikes, roller-skating, and making mischief with the other neighborhood kids. I loved to read and draw, go to the movies, and have sleepovers with my friends or at Grandmom’s house. Pretty ordinary stuff, right?
But in other ways, I was the emotional equivalent of a midair lawn dart. When I was “in a mood,” I expressed myself with swift, blindsiding punches, typically accompanied by a verbal mugging or a fiercely hurled sarcastic taunt. Even into my twenties (ok, fine, and even now), I was a bit of a sharp-tongued hussy, but as anyone who knows me now can attest, I’m 90% loving and supportive nurturer, 10% verbally mugging lawn dart. I’m comfortable with that particular ratio.
For the most part, I don’t feel shame for the actions I took as a little kid. I didn’t know any better, and I used the broken tools I had to protect myself and keep others at a safe distance. One of the lessons I learned at home was that aggression evoked terror, because that was how I felt, and in turn, I projected that onto others. The common saying “hurt people hurt people” could not have been more on the nose (foreshadowing pun not intended), but there is one memory from my childhood that I still regret to this day.
So, as one might have already guessed, since I am neither Billy nor the seatbelt buckle of a van, the bully in this story is referring to yours truly. It was me. I did it. I’m the asshole.
When I was in elementary school, my parents forced me and my two younger sisters into an agonizing summer activity known as Vacation Bible School. I absolutely hated it. It was loud, chaotic, crowded, and hot AF, and as an introvert and Highly Sensitive Person – a discovery made in therapy during my mid 20s (God bless you, Dr. Elaine Aron), by the end of each day my nervous system was an arc flash waiting to happen. Because I was just a kid, I didn’t have the language for overwhelm, or any skills to regulate it. All I had was impulse: no flight, freeze, or fawn. Only fight. 100% Id, 0% Superego.
At the end of the week, on the last day, I and about ten other weary passengers were crammed into the church van transporting us home. In the row behind me sat Billy, the unfortunate soul who just so happened to poke this cranky bear at exactly the wrong time. I don’t remember what he said that sparked my fury, but I do remember grabbing the unused seatbelt next to me and flinging it right at him. I never meant to hurt him. I just wanted to give him a fright. But didn’t that goddamn metal buckle bash poor Billy right on the bridge of his nose.
I still remember the look on his face: the shock, the confusion, the pain, followed by a determined expression that said, “I will not cry.” I immediately felt awful, a gut-wrenching, root chakra-rumbling remorse that I can still feel now, recalling what a terrible thing I had just done. The worst part is that I never got to apologize, to tell him how sincerely and profoundly sorry I was that I almost broke his face.
It took years of therapy and excruciating self-work to polish this angry little turd. Certain stretches of my ongoing journey have involved moving from shame (there’s something wrong with me) to guilt (there’s something wrong with what I did), and Billy was part of that. For that, I will always be grateful to him. Growth doesn’t erase harm, but it does change how we hold it, so if you’re out there somewhere, I’M SORRY, BILLY! I hope you eventually became a happy, healthy millionaire.
May you always dodge flying objects and be immeasurably loved.
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