Where the wound began
Where the Wound Began
Trigger warning: child endangerment.
In the summer of 1979, my parents were living in separate homes, all six of us with my mom. My mom took the weekend to go away and we had a teenage babysitter.
I was happily playing alone when my dad suddenly appeared.
He asked me, “Where is the baby?”
I stared up at my father’s face and replied, “She is taking a nap in mommy's room.”
I followed him upstairs to their room. Standing at the doorway while he bent over the crib. I watched him pack her clothes in a bag, gingerly stroking her beautiful blonde curls as he picked her up to cradle her. My sister was an angel to all who looked at her. She had a gentle nature, a beautiful complexion, and a giggle that made everyone smile.
As my dad left the room I trailed after him, not sure where we were going or really caring at that point. My daddy was here, and he was going to spend time with us. My 5-year-old self was simply overjoyed.
As we descended the stairs to the first floor, he paused at the front door. I realized at that point I didn’t have a bag, my sweater, or my prized stuffed walrus.
I remember saying “But daddy, I don’t have my bag.”
I turned to go get my things when I heard, “ I am not taking you with me. I only came for the baby.”
What my 5-year-old self heard was “You’re not worth taking; you are not important to me.”
I can still feel the sting of tears as they welled in my eyes. The ultimate rejection.
That day was the day my father kidnapped my sister. The police were sent to find my mother. My brothers went to my dad’s apartment. They had punched a massive hole in the wall as if doing so would get our baby back.
The hole would stay a reminder for years to come.
So, where does my unworthiness wound come from? It came from a place of fear, anger, resentment, and witnessing someone’s desire to hurt another so deeply that they would put a child at risk.
That wound was not my fault, not my doing, and most certainly not in my control. However, healing from it is my responsibility.
I owe that beautiful shy little girl forgiveness. You see, I always blamed myself for my sister being kidnapped.
I told my dad where she was after all.
I didn’t alert the babysitter. I didn’t yell for help.
I associate that incident with my blame rather than my wound.
So this morning as I lay in bed, the wound came up and showed me what it truly was. It was rejection at the most basic level. It was being told I wasn’t good enough to take or be saved.
Well, guess what little girl–you are worth more than anything trinket, currency, or item. Excuse me while I go shower my inner child with love and devotion.