Processing Friendship: Labels & Hiding

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To start from the beginning, click here. 

I was around 9 years old. My mom had a daycare, and asked her ("the swimmer") to come and supervise the daycare for a bit while my mom went to an appointment. 

As my mom left, she arrived but she didn't come into the house. She made her way into our backyard where we had a pool. She got into the pool. 

I was in the house with several babies and a few toddlers. 

I remember watching her get into the pool and being confused. She was supposed to be there to take care of these kids while my mom was gone. Honestly, maybe my mom coaxed her to come by telling her that I would do the work but that, for legal purposes, there had to be an adult present. I don't know what the arrangement was. 

What I know is that 9 year old me felt overwhelmed by the responsibility. At some point a couple of the babies began crying. As I was trying to attend to the babies, the phone rang. The swimmer yelled from the pool for me to answer the phone. I didn't feel capable of answering the phone while caring for the crying babies. 

Eventually the swimmer came into the house and demanded to know why I hadn't answered the phone. I responded curtly. 

I later learned that the swimmer had told others how "snotty" I am. I'm not defending the way I spoke to her, but it's understandable that a nine-year-old trying to hold two crying babies, care for a third baby, and watch several toddlers -- might feel overwhelmed, abandoned and angry while the adult responsible for them takes a swim and yells demands from the pool.

Snotty is a label I've worn. I thought it was mine. It was applied to me frequently. Boys in my vicinity were allowed to bully, abuse and torture me, but if I responded in any way I was labeled as "snotty" or some other name to indicate I was the problem.

Throughout my life I've worn many labels. Some have been true, and some, I have come to understand, were never mine to wear. I wasn't snotty. I wasn't the problem. I was a sweet little girl who felt overwhelmed, abandoned and worthless - and sometimes acted and spoke out of those feelings. 

As I grew, I realized that if things were going to change, I had to change them (because I was the problem, remember?). I did this by quieting myself, by making myself smaller, by conforming myself to who my labelers thought I should be. At first, I thought I was safe out of the sight and hearing of my labelers, but eventually realized that nowhere was safe.  

It was a magnificent disappearing act. I maintained the form on the outside, but all of the beautiful, colorful and spirited parts of me receded into the darkest recesses of my body. What was left was a shell, a form, an ogre whose purpose was to keep me safe, but ultimately held me prisoner.