A punch in the face (literally)

Welcoming my teenage self to my inner child circle.

TW: Violence

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I’ve been punched in the face.

I don’t mean this metaphorically.

I’ve been close-fisted, socked in my face, over and over again, on two different occasions, with two different opponents.

Both times, I clearly remember that first crack of a knuckle hitting me and how everything goes dark after that point. I don’t remember pain. I do remember the audiences that encircled us. The sharp clarity around punch two or three that the cheering was not actually for me (or her)—it was just a pack of wild teenager’s calling for us to tear each other apart. For us to entertain them.

Photo by Cori Emmalea Rodriguez

In both fights, I was overpowered within an instant and the consequences stretched well beyond my fractured cheekbones and blackened eyes, including school suspensions and drug testing. The shame was like a weighted blanket that made my already stooped shoulders hang a little heavier than usual, though I never would have let my peers know that.

Despite my lack of skills, I clung to the archetype of fighter. I was “hard.” You can see it in the pictures from that time. My refusal to smile. My death stares at any family member who dared point a camera lens in my direction. The irony now, right?

For a long time, whenever I did inner child meditations, my teenage self never came into mind. She didn’t need me. She didn’t need anyone.

I could easily imagine myself as a toddler and throughout my elementary school years, but this version was so hard to access.

This changed after having children. I quickly saw beyond the facade of hardness. I might have looked angry in every picture, I might have done outrageous things (*quick side note: my self-forgiveness journey was helped immensely when I learned about our front lobe development [or rather, lack thereof in teenagers]), but I was actually far from tough.

I was terrified and I was sad. My mom’s drinking had escalated. She was moments away from hitting her bottom. My dad was ever-absent, traveling often. My siblings were long gone from the house, deep into their adulthoods, most living in faraway cities.

I thought I was ready to be an adult, too. My eyes were painted heavily with black liner and thick mascara. I lived off Marlboro Medium cigarettes and vending machine vanilla lattes.

I thought I wanted the freedom of adulthood.

It took me becoming a mom to see that I was really just a scared little girl desperate to be held.

Today, whenever I do my inner child meditation, teenage Sarah sits sullenly next to me. Chain-smoking and picking at her finger nail polish. She says she doesn’t want to be there, but I know she's grateful to be.

The more I invite her to be apart of this sacred circle of past selves, the less I find myself defaulting to hardness whenever I feel threatened.

The softer we are both becoming.