I WEEP FOR THE GIRL

This morning I walked to my childhood elementary school, and I wept for the girl who never grew up.

photo by berkley vopnfjörð

Nostalgia is a funny thing. Our memories can be clouded by what others say, pictures that serve to remind us to fill in the spaces, or the simple forgetting of what truly transpired. Due to PTSD from childhood abuse, my memories don’t quite work right. In fact, for the most part, they don’t work at all, leaving me with a big fat blank when I try to recall my past. In the case of Cass, as I discovered this crisp winter’s morn, when physically placed where said events occured, the memories come flooding in; clear as the cold air of day.

I stood atop the rock that the English kids played on, and felt nothing. I was in French, and us Frenchies did not mix with the monolingual ladies and lads. I looked at the school, and into my first grade classroom, and Hello; the waterworks began.

In my heart I embrace of the smallest of me’s,

and I hold her so dear to my chest.

I know that she’s pained, and I know she feels weak,

as if taken too soon from the breast.

I cry for the girl with the strawberry gold,

and the wisest of eyes premature.

Oh I ache for the babe who’s so small yet so old,

who was jaded and stalled by the world.

I breathe once again to the heavens within,

and I cradle the song of my heart.

I stand in my strength, and I call out my sins

So my conscience is clean from the start.

Sobbing deeply I let down my guards to be struck,

and I brace myself fearing the worst.

But the only thing tapping me faintly with love

is my angel unweaving the curse.

I walked down past the spot on the field where I was brutally beat up by a neighbour, hiding my bruises from my mother until the other kids told her what had happened. I walked past the Jungle Gym where my best friend, Rochelle, in the second grade, fell and broke her arm; before she moved away, thus terminating my social life (no hard feelings, doll). I strolled along, recounting the trees where I would perch, waiting desperately for my mother to pick me up and take me away from the home of my hell.

I stood in the middle of the lot where we would play Hide and Go Seek, and nobody would come find me, for they’d forgotten I existed. I strode past the counsellor’s office, a room I knew too well, past the corner where I found a wounded bumblebee, spending all recess nursing it back to flight and protecting it from the kids who wanted to smother it with the soles of their feet. Finally, I ended up at the smaller field, where I was kneed in the back by a boy for stealing the ball away in soccer, because being tiny and female left no license to be athletic.

Through all of this, the parents, the teachers, and the outdoor ‘duties’ turned a blind eye. Where was their courage? Where was their compassion? Where was their humanity? Here I was, being so obviously bullied and ostracized, and yet even those in power, when confronted with the issue by both my mother and myself, threw up their hands in defeat, or sided with the more popular parents and their offspring, in favor of being liked.

Often, we are confronted by situations in which we have the option to take a path of ease, or to climb up a mountain of wildflowers. One is of fear, one is of faith. My mother always told me; choose faith, not fear. Through building this company, I have been met with obstacle after obstacle, and although in the past, I would have chosen fear, thanks to her golden words of wisdom and love, I chose faith. Every. God Damn. Time. Thank you mom, you’re a miracle of a human being, and Courtnae and I are so fucking lucky to have been raised by you. Yes, mother, the cursing WAS necessary. The parents, teachers, and duties were acting out of fear, not faith. I do not blame them, for it is a sticky situation, and it is tough to choose the latter, but baby, I promise, it feels oh so good.

We have two choices; we can react out of pain, or we can respond out of love. We can, as if by magic, weave our lives into a gift of gratitude, or we can allow what conspired to consume us. Ultimately, the pain will become unbearable, and to allow yourself to feel it, and step out of the fog is to heal what will haunt til you do.

I am always hesitant to tell my tale, as I hate to complain and sounding like a victim is not the Funnest of Funs. The truth is that these experiences were just the beginning of a lifelong struggle of being bullied and ostracized by my peers that continue to this day. This has led me to lack the ability to hold comfort in friends, and as a result I tend to find my safety in solitude and isolation. I have even been told that the bullying was all my fault; I was too loud,I was too much; akin to ‘a wild animal, and not in a good way.’

This is a piece of my life’s story, these are true happenings, I can’t keep silent forever, and through the practice of unwavering Honesty comes Freedom and Love.

I say all of this not to pity myself, but to tell my story. It sucked, it hurt like shit, but it made me who I am. Not a bitter sentiment remains, for I can honestly say that I am grateful for it all. I love everything I went through because I love who I have become in response.

In response to my past, I am building an empire of LOVE. I am in the process of finding a way now to help children who are being bullied, and who are bullying, because guess what, they all need love, especially the bullies. They are only bullies because they are either in pain, or have numbed out the pain.

photo taken by berkley vopnfjörð

If you would like to get in touch, to discuss ways we can bring love to children in pain, please contact us. We have ambassadors worldwide, and are eager to help. This is only one branch of the humanitarian work that we are committed to, but it’s an important one. If we get ‘em while they’re young, and nip it in the bud, it’ll be much easier to be a world at peace, not war.