The Rules were mysterious when I was little. They were not stated, not written aloud, not static or really set in any way.
They were planted, little seeds that were experiences and observations. They grew into a wide system of logic meant to shade, to shield me, preemptively from the multi-layered violence on each side of tiny me.
No one told me that I would be killed (or worse) if I did not fall in line, as soon as or before it was laid down. But I knew just like my siblings and my cousins. We all knew. We each made are own way, mine was diligent and earnest.
I became attentive to a certain kind of detail that was coupled with an inherited belief system whose motivators were distrust, scarcity and defense. Back then it was protection, today it is a liability. The tree is so great that I can’t see the Sun. At least, I think that is true, but then how long has it been since I looked up?
In retrospect I was not hurt less because of this growing compulsion. Instead I found relief when I could put my own frame around some kind of devastation. I would make it appear to my heart that I had made the horrible thing happen and that meant I could control whether it ever happened again.
The halls of my past are covered in these sad scared pictures.
The frames are old.
They are falling apart.
And it seems unfair, all that work I did….just to have these aweful things free floating again. floating with no story that makes it alright.
No frame that makes it tolerable how some babies panic as they try to clean their own sheets, and some don’t know that anyone loves them and some babies don’t learn slowly how to not be babies anymore, and some have to keep going back over and over again looking for something and not knowing what it is.