About a year ago, I was cracking up (not in a good way). I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So I did both. Often. And intensely.
So I went online, googled the name of a wonderful therapist (S.Z.) whom I’d seen for several months in 1989, and amazingly was able to find her! Doing so blew my mind – the bits of it, that is, that remained intact after too much alone time with someone whose mind was also being blown (in a tragically different way) by Alzheimer’s disease.
I won’t go into all the sordid (and joyful) details now. They’re not the subject of this post, but rather of a play, and possibly a book, on which I’m working, and hope to complete before I die; death being the final deadline for pretty much everything earthly.
The word deadline, by the way, was born somewhere between 1855 and 1860. It was the boundary around a military prison beyond which a prisoner could not venture without risk of being shot by the guards.
“Walk past that line buddy, and you’re gonna’ end up deader than a doornail.”
The origin of “deader than a doornail” is less clear; you’ll find a possible explanation here.
One thing for sure, a year ago I was feeling imprisoned in more ways than one. And while there were no guards on the rooftop waiting to kill me should I try to escape, Alzheimer’s and my care-giving role had created a deadline around the perimeter of my mother’s home that was as real to me as that faced by escape-minded prisoners in the 1800s.
Problem was, part of me was dying by choosing to stay; another part would die if I chose to leave. Deadline either way. Rats. I needed some options for living!
Thankfully, S.Z. came galloping onto the scene – flag waving, bugle blaring –
to rescue me to help me rescue myself.
Over a trio of emergency sessions, we talked about the little girl in me (<=that’s her looking at us from all the way back in 1957), how she may have gotten broken, and what I could do to take care of her and heal myself.
My adult job is to see her, hear her, and make a clear boundary when others, particularly my mother, say destructive and hurtful things to me, and thus, by default, to her as well.
S.Z. shared a short list of “good parent messages” (developed by Jack Rosenberg and Beverly Kitaen-MorseIntegrative of the Body Psychotherapy Rosenberg-Kitaen Central Institute Inc.), to help me back to a level of wholeness that would allow me to continue to care for my Mom and myself. (Ah yes! I DO get to the point eventually. Eventually, and no sooner.)
This may all sound a bit hokey, but it made a big impact on me. I wish my parents had said these kinds of things to me when I was a little girl. It would have been helpful, then and now. (On the plus side, they were pretty well versed in these seven powerful secrets for parenting girls.)
However, the good news is I can say the 15 messages to my adult self (and my inner little girl), to help me heal me, and protect her at the same time.
Even better news is you can use them too.
If you are a parent, say them to your children to help them grow up to be healthy, whole, fully functioning adults. If you need healing (like me), say them to yourself, to rebuild your emotional core.
Without further ado, here they are (trigger warning: you may or may not be able to say them to your child or you inner child without becoming deeply emotional):
- I love you.
- I want you.
- You are special to me.
- I see you, and I hear you.
- It is not what you do, but who you are that I love.
- I love you, and I give you permission to be different from me.
- I will take care of you.
- I will be there for you; I will be there even when you die.
- You don’t have to be alone anymore.
- You can trust me.
- You can trust your inner voice.
- Sometimes I will tell you “no.” When I do, it’s because I love you.
- You don’t have to be afraid anymore.
- My love will make you well.
- I welcome and cherish your love.
Share with yourself, your kids, and others.