Inner Child, Part Two

           I appear in the pink-painted bedroom with a pop sound just as a girl is closing up her jewelry Caboodle and pushing it away.

As expected, we lock gazes, allowing me to see very familiar features – eyes that seem to be a combination of blue, green and grey with a thin ring of yellow around the pupils, framed by long lashes. I’ve always thought of that nose as cute, too.

Within minutes, the crayons and colored pencils are out and we’re storytelling together, drawing scenes, trading ideas and dialogue, coloring in the details. One thing I’ve always been is a storyteller. My right knee aches suddenly, briefly, and, as is my current habit, I unfold my legs.

“Okay,” I say to the little girl. “Where am I? Do I take notes on the meeting?”

“No, you’re helping, we’re talking.”

I chuckle in surprised amusement. “You got it.”

“My dress is sparkly.”

“Ooh, is it gold?”

            “Um, yeah,” Little me thinks for a moment. “Gold and silver. And I have high heels.”

            She doodles for a minute straight, churning out idea after idea, narrating all along. The image of herself on paper is in a dress that reaches the simply designed low heels on her feet. Up top there are big hoop earrings and a feather boa. I wonder if the cartoon girl should have a large stone on her right hand, shining like a disco ball.

A short while later, she stares at my head, specifically at the mint green tresses with very dark roots. I’ve known for years that the things I’ve encouraged stylist Kim Niggel to do to my hair would make my inner child quite happy, and that alone is more than half the reason why I don’t blink at the price tag of my hair investment. Little me fantasized about having a long rainbow mane and this is as close as I get. She is pressed against my side, taking comfort from it, and I blink down at the dark hair that her mother blow-dried straight.

I wonder if I could convince my younger self to change her fear-based, deep-seated belief that she cannot trust other people, whether that kid was six or twelve or seventeen, even if my attempt to bring about that revelation involved adult me appearing before six-year-old Shannon in an incredible, bizarre moment. For all I know, even something that life altering might not have jarred me out of the specific bad habits I used to push people away, not just in elementary or middle school but my twenties, as well. I say that just because all I can do is speculate and send the girl Reiki. It wouldn’t do any good to get the little one’s attention and bring up something I learned from philosopher Alan Watts that today – literally, today – I’ve been hungrily chewing on in relieved fascination, which is, “I wonder, I wonder what you would do if you had the power to dream at night, any dream that you wanted to…and slip, say, 75 objective years of time into eight hours of sleep..."

because although little Shannon laughed a lot, had a wonderful childhood and wanted to intellectually study love, that girl grew to be six or seven years old and somehow developed a belief that the only people she could trust to deeply respect her and keep her secrets were her parents and herself. What’s worse than that painfully influential belief is the fact that I have clung to it so fiercely for decades. Emotionally, I am a soldier and this fear of bonding is my shield.

I want to retire from being that soldier. As I’m sure you know, driving people away doesn’t do much [if anything] to them, but has done damage to the quality of my experiences, which is why I only just started working on my distrust issue last year. When I explained it to my friend Jamie, her response was, “You’re reducing the size of your baggage”, making me laugh because it was so apt, so perfect.

            There are some great quotes from Rupaul Charles on this topic. Not only have I mentioned in a previous post this year, but I’m currently writing a piece about him for a book of essays – a piece in which I detail how he has specifically inspired me. Today’s quote is the following, “The people who are able die a thousand deaths and become reborn a thousand times are the real shot-callers in this life”.

            I look at this cute little kid and think, ‘I’m gonna do right by you now. By the time this life is over, you’ll be proud of us. You’ll be happy.’

            That gets a something – some noticeably different beating sensation – around my heart, though whether it may be that very organ I don’t want to assume, and because it might be a response to that saddening quote about making this child proud, I open my mouth and say it: “I’ve grown a lot, gotten to know some cool people, but there’s so much more ahead. I’ll make you proud”, to which she looks up at me with an expression that seems to be both relaxed and earnest, something I’ve been intent on maintaining all these years, and she says something like, “You’re doing a good job”. She grins and goes back to her efforts.

            We move on to playing a game until suddenly, I feel a tugging within that’s only recently familiar.

            I meet my own eyes again. “’Bye! Oh, hey, if you use manifestation and meditation, life'll be easier! I love you!” The tugging grows more insistent. "And when you put on semi-permanent dye, wear gloves or for a while, it’ll look like your bare hands strangled a Smurf!”

            Pop.

If I'd given you a photo of me at 6, it wouldn't be this silly. You're welcome.