Today my aunt had a yard sale, and I told her a couple days ago that I’d “think” about being there early this morning to help out. However, we didn’t touch base about it yesterday, so when I went to bed at 4:30 this morning after blogging, I sent her a message that I wouldn’t be there until later in the day. I thought, I’m exhausted, I just can’t. When I woke up at 10:30, I knew I’d made the right decision–maybe not for anyone else, but for me. Still, my inner people pleaser was worried. I kept thinking, What if my aunt (or my dad) is upset with me? While making breakfast, I pushed that thought away and instead focused on all the reasons it was okay for me to–I don’t know–take care of myself.

But then somewhere between scrambling eggs and making a cup of coffee, I stopped and decided to try a technique my therapist reminded me of earlier this week–having compassion for my thoughts, not pushing them away. So right there at the kitchen sink I had this dialogue with what I’m assuming was my inner child. (This was all in my head, by the way, not out loud.)

“Baby, what are you so worried about?”

“We have to be ‘nice’ to people.”

“Do we, do we really? There’s just no way we could have been helpful with only an hour’s worth of sleep.”

“But if we’re not nice to people, they won’t take care of us.”

This is where I almost started crying. Immediately I thought of two things–one being spanked as a child, and two having to write a thank-you letter to the private school I attended my senior year because they extended me a scholarship since my family couldn’t afford the tuition. Having chewed on these memories off and on today, they make total sense. First, I clearly got the message as a child that acting out or doing my own thing were punishable offenses (at least sometimes). Second, I don’t think I really wanted to write that thank-you letter. Not because it wasn’t the proper thing to do, but because I was embarrassed about having to do it. My dad was in prison. We were poor. As far as I know, my friends weren’t on scholarship.

Who would want to acknowledge that?

What wows me about these two memories and the dialogue I had with myself this morning is this–clearly there is a very frightened part of me that got the message during my formative years that sacrificing what I want in favor of what other people want is necessary for survival. If we’re not nice to people, they won’t take care of us. So all day I’ve been telling my inner child, “Sweetheart, it’s okay. I’M taking care of us now.”

Incidentally, I spent all day (well, all afternoon) at the yard sale. (I took the above picture with a wig I found there.) And whereas my dad and aunt did give me passive-aggressive shit about not being there this morning, it didn’t last long, and I still don’t feel bad about it. (Down with shame. Down with guilt.) Also, after initial comments, the entire day went really well.

This evening I had dinner with my friend Bonnie, and she gifted me a pair of funky sunglasses she found at a junk store this afternoon. They’re so cool. They have little yellow visors (awnings) that protrude over each eye. Way dorky, but totally up my alley. And get this shit. I used to have a pair EXACTLY like them. (Bonnie didn’t know this until I told her.) I wore them in high school on our senior trip to Cancun and again when I gave my speech at graduation. (I was a dork then too.) I swear, I loved those things but put them in a yard sale maybe ten years ago. I remember thinking, I can’t hold on to everything forever.

Bonnie and I discussed the possibility that the sunglasses she gave me today were the ACTUAL pair I gave up so may years ago. I mean, who knows? It’s possible. Either way, I’m in awe. What are the chances she’d pick out a pair of vintage (1989) sunglasses like the ones I used to own?

When I think back on some of the things that child I spoke to this morning endured as he was growing up, it’s no wonder he’s scared, no wonder he wants to make the whole world happy and avoid further trauma. So often when I think about that kid, it feels like I’ve lost something, a piece of me I’ll never get back–my innocence, my authentic self, my own damn opinion. But I’m taking this morning’s conversation and the return of my funky sunglasses as reminders from the universe that nothing and certainly no one is ever truly lost–that just as much as the voices inside us want to be heard, all our scattered pieces want to come home again.