Little Girl, Cherish Yourself

A few minutes ago, I was writing a little epistle for the invitations of my 16th birthday party for the guests (even though I'm not handing them out for another month...I'm just so excited). The theme of my party is going to be "Goin' Back", and reliving childhood. I decided to include a picture of myself when I was seven, when I was the happiest and most care-free I have ever been. I went into my mom's closet where she keeps photo albums and flipped through them, one by one.

As I did, I thought, "Little girl, you're almost sixteen. No, you don't love Barney anymore, though you promised you always would...but you have found other loves. And you know the world for what it is. That's a good thing, I suppose - but sometimes you will wish to go back, because people take children's voices seriously. Now that you actually have something to say to the world as a whole...nobody wants to hear of it." I also reviewed documents and discovered things about myself I never really knew or remembered: I was born at 10:48 AM for instance, and made honour roll in grade school. I was baptized into the Catholic faith on December 5th, 1992, when I was only six months old. With the certificate of baptism, there was a note from, I suppose, the priests who did it. It said that I was blessed that my parents wanted to share with me their "greatest gift": their faith. I would grow to know and love Jesus Christ...God loves me...etc. etc.

And because I'm such an emotional little crybaby (without the tears), I closed my eyes and held it close, because I felt bad. It wasn't like a, "Oh boy, I was baptized, so of course God exists," sort of thing, since I still think the whole idea of God is bogus and unrealistic. I just felt bad. Because those men expected me to be like them, but I strayed from their ideal. Not that it's a bad thing (it's a very good thing). They just had no idea. I was only a baby. That's why you should only baptise people when they understand what's going on and why: if you don't, you'll face disappointment when they look back and shrug.

Once I was finished looking at all those ancient documents, I returned to my room and lay on my bed. And I thought.

Often, I write letters to my younger self. But actually looking at pictures of her, I find it astonishing that such a beautiful little girl would one day grow up and hate herself (I don't anymore, but I did) and want to blend in, and then want to stand out, and loathe it both ways. She would hate her skin, she wouldn't live in the moment, she would never experience that dreamy naivety of children again. From all that happiness would only come misery and disappointment. The typical pains of adolescence. Where was the carefree little girl now? How did her little girl spirit die? Where was it now?

The little girl was tucked away in one of the hundreds of filing cabinets in my mind, lost in all the chaos of my scattered brain. She was asleep, and took all her happiness with her.

But then, she stirred and opened an eye. She rubbed her eyes and sat up, looking around. The world was sharper than she remembered. Her body had changed and so had her surroundings. People talked to her differently. She had different interests. She was slightly more sophisticated. But she still viewed the world with the same profoundedness, living in the present and smiling at it. She pouted her lips and waggled a little finger at the monstrous misery that had consumed the mind. It was time-out for that naughty child. Time-out forever. It was the best punishment she could imagine, like peppermint ice cream, or jumping off swings, or playing Red Rover with her friends. It wasn't a punishment. It was an embrace of the self.

And now my mind, once dominated by dark thoughts and the lack of a will to live, has resurrected the little girl kept hidden so long. She's free. She's happy. She's spins and plays with her new friends every day at lunch, and laughs at silly things and tells immature jokes. And she's almost sixteen years old.

I can sense that people resent my happiness and my love for life. They both hate it since their little girl or boy is lost, and admire it because it's possible to find the child again. They glare at me and flip their hair over their shoulders, stunned at how dorky and childish I behave. But everyone knows it's better than an existence fretting in front of the mirror, social-climbing, and putting on a mask just to impress people - even though the people they want to impress feel the same way.

Where's your little girl, reader? If you can't find her, cherish yourself anyway, and life will be better.