I wonder how that started…

There once was this little girl who use to write letters to her dad. Letters of love but also trying to express how much he hurt her.  This little girl that tried to think of all the things he wanted and needed so she could do them in advance. She tried to think of the right things to like. The right music to be be into. The right sport to play. The right view and opinions to have. This little girl who spent so much time trying to work out what he was thinking.

All in hope of being seen, being acknowledged. Being loved.

Only there is no once was. That little girl lives on. She lives in me.

I know these now as bids. Reaching for connection.

I know these now to be normal and ok. I know this now to be beautiful.

And I still fucking feel it.

And unfortunately for me the story that I was told when I didn’t get the connection back was that there was something wrong with me. That I was broke or defective.

But

We are beings of meaning. Especially as children; as we are trying to put the puzzle of life together. We will ascribe meaning. We do it without even knowing.

-And in addition-

I forgive this little girl.

I forgive her for reaching the conclusions she made. It makes sense why she would think that. When that was all she had, she made what she had of what she could.

There is no shame in that.

Only love towards the innocence, the yearning, the eagerness of this little one.

The little girl that sees the good in everyone.