THE KID IN ME

Hi, my name is Annie. Yes- Annie. She is me, the kid in me. Every adult should name the kid in them. The professionals refer to that as the 'inner child'. I like, - 'the kid in me'. Now that I have freed her to "be" that part of me is alive and vibrant and strong and loud and rebellious and a trouble maker, playful and a fighter and scared and courageous and cautious and brave and to think I tried to keep the kid in me hidden because she is a wounded kid too. No one can see or know of the wound, the "it", right? Shudder at the thought. Fooey.


I was prompted to think of fathers and play by my brother-in-law. I always liked to play even when I was being wounded. My father never knew of the wounding. No one did but me and the teacher. I played my best soft ball amidst the wounding. My Dad taught me how to pitch. Also, my Dad made me a rope maker out of a spool with four nails through which I could strand a rope of yarn. I made it very long so I could wrap it around myself. I felt that my Dad was holding me after the teacher wounded me. That rope yarn I made were my Dad's arms.

Years later I burned that yarn rope with a priest. We were outside and he lit the thing on fire as I clung to his leg watching it go up in flames - watching my father's arms burn away. That priest saved me. In many ways he saved me. He was a father of sorts. I trusted him and so did Annie. He was the very first person ever to know of one of my "It'S". . He stood on the altar, telling of his childhood trauma. I believed I saw him looking at me. He asked people, stuck in silence to find their voice and to find him. I went to the church when I was sure he wasn't there. I went on Monday's. Who goes to church on Monday. I would sit in the pew and wonder who this 'father' was asking me to tell. How did he know.

I would leave the church and run to my car. One Monday I ran right into the priest, literally ran into him. I hear his voice, "Where are you running to, slow down". I can't look up and I find myself staring at his sandals and his toes and the bottoms of his frayed jeans. His toes began to take on the shape of alien animals and I can't breathe. He introduces himself, "Hi, my name is James". I think, James? Who the fuck is James? I was raised strict catholic Italian and no one I knew ever called a priest by their first name. By now I am almost passing out. Then I hear, "I have seen you here the past few Mondays and I thought I would wait for you to see if you needed anything". "What's your name?" I am thinking, 'seen me here, what?" I try to lift my head up and I swear it weighed 1000 pounds, really, at least 1000 pounds. Eventually I get my head up enough to look at him and I squeak out, "Gail, my name is Gail." He replies, while extending what looked like a catchers mitt for a hand, "Nice to finally meet you, so what's got you all rattled and upset?" My hand in his fit like a tiny wet dish rag and slid out easily. He asks again, "Do you need anything?", I answer, "nah, I'm good". He says something like, "You could of fooled me.". I made a weird squeaky laugh like when someone is really nervous. Then he says, "Why don't you call the church office and ask for me and we will set up a time to talk?" "Sound okay to you?" I answer, "Sure, I'll call, you, definitely", and I slid past him. And so I had another 'father'. And for a time, there was play.
My brother-in-law also spoke of paths and journeys; regardless of how I thought this ended it is a journey. It is where I met Annie. James found her. He dug up the grave I had her buried in. He did. Isn't that what father's do?

More on this as the journey continues. Mean while, name the kid in you and come over and play with Annie.

Gail
Peace to fathers everywhere.