Forgive yourself for all the trauma you didn’t know was trauma at the time.
No one in your community, in your school, in your family, in your home talked about these things.
You were just a kid.
How were you to know? Perhaps, they didn’t know either.
Perhaps, it was the same as they lived through.
Perhaps, they didn’t know how bad it was for you.
Perhaps, they didn’t know how to help so they chose the “don’t talk about it & it’ll be forgotten” route.
Forgotten only for those who are NOT the traumatized little girl.
No one was giving you the tools to protect yourself or to heal.
You were just a kid!
None of the people who were supposed to protect you were doing that job.
No one stepped in.
No one heard your cries.
You knew this wasn’t ok, but you were silenced.
We don’t talk about that.
It’s just the way it is.
Deal with it.
In silence.
So you stopped talking.
We, as the victim left floating out to sea alone, learn to blame ourselves.
It must be our fault. We must be too sensitive.
No one else has these problems or feels this way.
She’s good to everyone else.
It’s just me.
There must be something wrong with me.
Your feelings don’t matter. The things you are enduring don’t matter.
Keeping up appearances does matter. Making sure everyone else is happy does matter.
This quickly internalizes to be “I don’t matter”.
Yes, you do sweet girl. Yes, you do.
Nice girls don’t say no. Nice girls don’t talk about those things – that’s just the way it is here.
Because it just is.
It might put a spotlight on our family.
Or the school.
Or the neighborhood that something isn’t right here.
Being a nice girl is of utmost priority.
Don’t make waves.
What twisted messages to give a young girl.
That is most definitely NOT okay.
Boundaries. No one taught me about boundaries. Likely, no one in my family knew about them.
Children naturally set boundaries. We don’t have to teach them. But we do have to nurture them, to respect them, to guide them, & to not shut down their boundaries.
“No” is one of the first words we learn as toddlers.
NO, I don’t want to hug auntie Frieda. I don’t want her to touch me or to even go near her.
NO, I don’t want to spend time at the neighbor’s house. That creepy guy is visiting. I don’t feel safe there.
NO.
But instead, we place on our children a responsibility for an adult’s emotions. Go give him a hug, you’re making him sad.
NO.
Uncle creep-o can put on his big boy pants & deal with it.
Adults can handle their own emotions.
Be the nice girl. Don’t say no.
“No” is a complete sentence. Respect it no matter who delivers it.
This is what we teach our children. To go against their instincts & their intuition.
I believe we learn the word “no” so early to enable us to set our first boundaries when we are otherwise so defenseless.
Boundaries are there to maintain healthy relationships, to show people how you expect to be treated if they are to be part of your life.
But you need self respect before you can expect respect from others. I had none.
Our anger shows us where we need a boundary. I was very angry.
Boundaries are necessary for a healthy relationship. I again had none.
Boundaries are not walls. They are doors.
Walls keep people out.
Not knowing any better, I build walls on top of walls.
I sat at the base of the well I’d built for myself – alone, afraid, depressed, & feeling worthless. I was so young I don’t even remember when I started constructing it.
“Mommy I really need to talk to someone. A therapist. Can I go to one?” says 9 year old me. Albeit far less confidently, I can guarantee. There was likely a lot of fear & trembling, begging & uncertainty in my voice & undoubtedly in my posture.
I also can guarantee it took me days, weeks, or possibly months to muster up the courage to ask.
I received a hard & swift “NO”.
What will she talk about? Was it because Kristen talks about the things we don’t say aloud?
Or was it the mental health stigma? Was it the 80s? Only the truly disturbed went to a therapist, right?
Umm that’s my hard NO.
Not at all.
Those who are tuned into their needs, do.
Those who understand that they need someone to help them with the coping mechanisms for the life they’ve found themselves in, do.
Those who have no one who will hear their cries or validate their experience, do.
Those who are aware they have lived through trauma – of both the little & big “T” variety – do.
Those looking for nervous system regulation, do.
Those who know what’s happening to them isn’t ok at all, do.
9 year old me – she knew things. She was very intuitively connected. They didn’t talk about mental health in school back then.
Kristen’s daily belly ache & hopes to go home early was never attributed to bullying or fear.
Her selective mutism was never connected either.
And just like that, the little girl who never spoke in school until 6th grade was lost in the shuffle.
And so 9 year old Kristen knew the sadness & worry & fear & insomnia & now anger that she experienced for far too long (at the age of 9…) were not normal parts of this human experience.
She knew there was help out there.
And she was swiftly denied it.
The first deep depression that I can recall was around the age of 11. The onset of puberty – these new hips & my new body. The bullying turned to me being “fat” (I was by no means fat, by the way). No one filled me in on what puberty was or the changes it meant for a girl’s body. In my mind, the bullies were right – my body was not the same, I was suddenly fat.
I sunk into my first bout of depression accompanied by an eating disorder. With everything out of control, at least I could control my supposed fatness.
(Again, I was not fat).
As my light darkened, I hid in my bedroom crying, slimming down to be far-too-skinny.
No one noticed until I was 15 & fainted in health class, of all places.
Until then, no one expressed concern for the invisible child that I had become.
It wasn’t until the age of 19 that I was granted access to a therapist.
This only came following the sudden death of the first man I ever loved. No we weren’t dating at the time, but somehow that pervaded my guilt & my grief even more. Because on the last day I saw him before the accident, we were finally back to us again. The rekindled flame seemed imminent, but left for another day.
That flame’s dampening shattered me beyond repair.
I’m pretty sure my parents thought I was suicidal. I believe this was the only reason I was now allowed to see a therapist.
For the record, I wasn’t. I was just deeply depressed & in a grief like none I have ever known to this day.
But at this stage, after being denied a therapist for so many years, I was disinterested. I sat unspeaking in sessions.
I was furious that I was finally broken enough to get the help I’d so desperately begged for 10 years before.
I was broken back then too. I guess I wasn’t splintered enough. Or I guess the fear of what I’d bring to light outshone how destroyed a girl I was.
Maybe, stitching myself back together would have been easier if I’d been granted the help I sought when I first looked for it.
Maybe, I would have had coping mechanisms in place.
Maybe, I would have had an established connection with a therapist & gone to them for what I couldn’t receive anywhere else.
Maybe, I wouldn’t have sunk so low.
Trauma on top of unresolved trauma.
An entire year of my life is lost in a cloud of blackness.
Like most of my stories, this one took me in a far different direction than I set off to tell. But the story of self destruction needed to come out.
The story of the forgotten little girl & the struggles she endured.
The little girl who knew exactly what she needed & was denied it.
Please hear the cries of those around you, especially the children who are dependent on adults to meet their needs.
Don’t let their light be extinguished, as mine once was.
The abyss I’ve climbed out of to reignite my own flame is one I wish for no one to endure. But it is also the reason I speak openly about these struggles.
Not for my own voice, but for those who don’t have one.
Please let no one else be forgotten while they live beside you.
Let no one else wither as I did.
I love you.
Go out & be a light in this too often dim world.
Namaste,
Unfurled Wings 
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