All-American Victim

Before I became a strong powerful woman with a small potato, I was the All-American Victim. I was terrified to live. So instead, I lived small – just like my tiny mother. Which is to say I barely lived.   


I want to write about it, so I don’t forget.


For most of my life, I have been in prison – a prison of my own making. I never got married, never had children and never had a career. I never stepped out of the box. Too scary. It was always safe in my prison.  


Anytime I tried to get out of prison, I stepped into pain. For as long as I can remember, I’ve awakened to pain, endured pain throughout each day and gone to bed in pain.


Naturally, I did not leave my carefully-constructed cell. 


I knew no other way to live, which is to say I knew no way to love.


It’s understood that we hold the key to our prison. I am no exception. After years of serial ailments, from fibromyalgia to back surgery, my modus operandi was to put myself in enough pain to get the key to kingdom: my meds. My key was my medicine and I knew how to get it.


So strong was my ability to create my world of pain that I once made it so severe that I could not walk. My pain led to my wheelchair which led to my back surgery which again led to the key to the kingdom – my meds. Full circle, courtesy of me!


The surgery had no chance of succeeding because I did it to myself. I was powerful and helpless, which is harder than it looks.


I was never comfortable taking small steps, much less big leaps. Steps and leaps came with anxiety and panic. I woke up each morning and greeted the day – Hello Day! And that is wehen the panic grabbed me by the neck. Steps and leaps and panic attacks, I learned, came with more meds.


Moving into a new house, for example, induced panic and fear. Once frightened, I put myself in pain. Freeze or retreat; those were my options. Always with medication, holding me “together.”


On August 18, 2017, after 72 years in my Charlene-edition prison, I finally dropped the rock and caught the rope. (As will be explained.) A new beginning. A miracle. I’ve experienced several true miracles since I’ve been sober.


I had been a bit of an AA skeptic, but who was I to deny that there is something – some “higher power” or “hp” as we say -- taking care of us?


I woke up that morning in acute pain, per usual. I sat on my bed, sweat dripping down my forehead, limbs aching, wanting to die. 


Instead I got my ass out of bed and went to a meeting.


I did not say a word in that meeting. I sat there, sweat beading above my eyes. And yet I stuck it out. Instead of complaining about my pain, I asked how I could be of service.


As soon as I did – and this is the bit with the miracle – my pain dissolved.


I realize now that I wasn’t alone in that chair. With me – within me – was my inner child. I didn’t banish her that day. I invited her in. I gave her permission to be there and permission to live, pain-free.


She was elated.  She began to dance and sing despite never being allowed to dance or sing. Her pain left her body. It drained out of her. The grown woman in the meeting, namely me, felt something not painful. Something approximating glee. And with it, freedom from prison. No key required.


That day, after 72 years, mini-Char finally had a mommy who would take care of her. Listen to her. Hug her. She had, for what felt like the first time, a mother who would protect her and hold her hand as she stepped out into the world.


The little girl was scared.  What if she reverted back to her old ways? This was new territory for her. She would need help. Lots of help. No one expected her to do this perfectly. Mistakes would be made, she was sure of it. Yet, the little girl embarked on her new life, this time with a mother who assured her she would be there every step of the way.


Thankfully, the little girl didn’t forget to pack her Band-Aids for the journey.
 
 


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