Never too late to have a happy childhood - my relationship with my inner child
Then it hit me
I once pulled over on the highway to help a dog hit by a car. Walking closer I saw a tentative
tail-wag and thought thank goodness it cannot be that bad. I was wrong. What faced me
was blood, jutting bone and guts ripped apart. There was a once-dog face with desperation
in its eyes, enduring torture it had no capacity to end by itself. It was pleading, it’s tail
wagging and I just stood. It watched me and I remember wondering how this animal could
still be wagging its tail. Then it hit me. Its tail was the only thing it had control over – it was
literally the only action it had the ability to perform. It was, in fact, a twisted scream, not a
wag.
Rites of boyhood
Growing up in South Africa in the 70’s and 80’s everything seemed cool. The country had just
gotten television, we were in a bubble, we had Abba, later Madonna, all was well. Having
nothing to compare my childhood and teens against, everything just was the way it was.
What else could it be?
In later years we learned that ours was one of the more conservative, conformist,
masculine-oriented societies at the time; but we were young, riding the wave, totally
oblivious. I had it made: I was white, I was Afrikaans, I was male. In those days white males
were the shit, so I was fine. My secret was my own.
You know where this is going. I’ll tone down the dramatics but for the purpose of this
journey I must shortly sketch the deeper truth about my boyhood.
This is me Dad!
Put mildly, I was an awkward boy. Sensitive, slightly neurotic, even dramatic. Not sporty, not
masculine, not into hunting, not devil-may-care... For boys like me, your sensitivity and
slightly dramatised sense of being and expression are the tools with which you navigate
boyhood to manhood. Here you go, these are your coping skills, good luck and happy
hunting! You venture forth and find yourself surrounded by towering, strong and forceful
male role models. Role models you can never aspire to please no matter how hard you try -
you literally do not have what it takes, this is a one-way street. So these towers of manhood
glare down at you disapprovingly, you see your failure reflected in their eyes. And you
cringe as you see your dad cringing. Some blows are not physical.
How do you deal with this? If your secret is your own, you are on your own. Even though it is the root of your failure, you have this one basic way of being, your God-given skill set – to be sensitive, to be neurotic and, in a pinch, dramatic. It’s a circle of life - all you can be is more of what they disapprove of, earning more disgust. This is me Dad! See me wagging my tail. Look Dad! I’ve been hit by a car.
Okay. Toning down the drama, you get the picture.
Fast forward 30- to 40-odd years and I am a relatively well-adjusted suburban gay man. Both
South Africa and I are finally out of the closet. We still have Abba and Madonna, but there are new voices too. Fresh voices who represent a new age and new freedoms. In an ironic twist my dad and I have a genuinely loving relationship, with him being the boy and me the adult. With the wisdom of hindsight I have woven my past into the tapestry of who I am. I dealt with the ghosts, I have a ceasefire with my skeletons but, most importantly, I am not that awkward, neurotic, sensitive boy anymore. My balls have dropped, my skin has thickened. I am finally a man and I am fine.
Then it hit me
It took some uneasy interactions with an ex-childhood friend to rip the lamé off the gilt
mirror. Why does he irritate you so much? asks the coach. Because he is neurotic and
emotional I reply. Mirror mirror…
You do realise, says the coach, that is exactly how you feel about your inner child?
Uneasy silence…
O fok
And so it comes tumbling down, my shattered reality. My bravado and proclaimed sense of
wisdom, hard-earned from hindsight, were exposed for what it were and the illusion of my
carefully woven life-tapestry started unravelling.
In that breathless moment I realised that I have painted an illusion of happiness over my
relationship with myself. In another twist of irony, this time cruel, I have grown into the
tormentors from my youth. I had a sick relationship with my young self. I have adopted that
same judgemental and darkly towering disapproval towards the memory of that vulnerable
boy that ripped me open when that boy was me. I was disgusted by the thought of the young me, and by extension by my inner child. I cringed at the memory of a hopeless young boy crying at inopportune times, unfit to ever be called a man.
Wow. Oh, how the thick-skinned mighty have fallen. It was indeed the circle of life - I have
become you Dad, and this time it was all my own doing.
Coming full circle
Thank god for the illusion of hindsight. I should never again claim wisdom, at best maybe
moments of clarity, but looking soberly at my journey I am learning a few things. I am
learning to be gentle with myself. Me, this me, me now. And the young me. I am learning to
cradle the young me in my arms before I go to sleep and say how’re you doing dude? You
know I think you are cool? And in the mornings I take a moment to cradle me in my arms
and I say how are you dude? You know I think you are cool? And I’m starting to like it - to
like me.
Sometimes I steal a moment for uneasy, healing honesty. In those gentle cradlings I had to
‘come out’ to my inner child. I had to say dude I owe you an apology. I used to think your
vulnerability was a weakness, something to despise. I now know it is the most beautiful and
powerful gift you could ever have given me. I now know that in our time before this life you
agreed to face this life as a defenceless, awkward and neurotic boy, all so that I could
become me. You had my back and took the knife on my behalf, repeatedly. You faced that pain for me and that is the bravest thing that anybody has ever done for me. I am forever in your debt. One day I will be as strong as you. You, young man, are my hero.
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