To My Six-Year-Old Self

Age 6, small yellow pad and pencil in hand, observing and writing.

Age six, small yellow pad and pencil in hand, observing and reporting.

This is your golden year, girl. You began writing because it surprised you how little adults remembered about their lives. Grandpa reveled nothing about growing up in Iowa. In fact you believed he was from Mesa and Colorado because those are the places you knew him to live. Life was in the present and you wanted to remember every moment. You reigned as resident princess mermaid in your backyard. You lived your life in moments. Good and bad would quickly fade. A jump in the pool solved all your problems. Self-assured and self-involved, others actions had yet to affect you.

Your stoned and violent brother was the norm, as was your drunk and belligerent mother. But these incidents happened in moments, ones you did not write down so you thought the memory of them would disappear. The memories remained. You should have kept writing.

In two years something awful will happen. Your innocence will be taken from you. It will change you from an outgoing child to a broken spirit; actions will not be taken to make you whole until 30 some years later. Everyone will act like it never happened. You will act like it never happened. It will happen, my dear six-year-old. You should have kept writing.

You will find other outlets as solutions to your problems. You will stop observing. At six you don’t know what an alcoholic is, you just know your mom slurs her words, walks funny and is mean to you and your sister sometimes. You know your brother can punch holes in bathroom doors when your mom buys the wrong type of soda. You don’t know why. You just avoid them when they are like this. You just keep writing.

Six will become your favorite number. It will take you years to figure out why. Once you do, you will keep writing.

Blogging 101 Today’s Assignment: publish a post for your dream reader, and include a new-to-you element in it.


23 thoughts on “To My Six-Year-Old Self

  1. Oh, it’s taken me years to just admit it happened, yet alone talk about it. I have a wonderful therapist (by which I mean one that pokes and prods at me until I litererally want to slap her in the face). She makes me dive deep, and I resurface much healthier.

    Liked by 1 person

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