Don’t Pity the Survivor
Sometimes I catch myself feeling sorry for child Melissa.
I reflect back on all the awful trauma she went through, seeing her as though she’s some other child I feel terrible for.
But then I remind myself:
Child Melissa SURVIVED.
She came up with ways to block out what was too tough to endure.
She came up with ways to distract herself from dark thoughts.
Child Melissa figured out vices to lean on so she could get through the day.
And she found a way to live in a world that was unkind, unfair, and unloving.
From a very early age I developed an insanely vivid imagination. I lived through storytelling and make-believe.
Some days I was a princess locked in a tower, waiting for her prince (I was an 80s Disney kid—many of my “realities” stemmed from those stories); some days I was a magical witch, casting spells or curses on the people around me; and some days I played “House”, where I’d make believe I had babies and a house to clean and supper to get on the table.
But in my “house” my babies had no trauma or neglect, only love and nurturing. I was the fiercest, most protective 7-year old mother to those little plastic babies and stuffies. I remember telling them I would never let any bad men hurt them. And I meant it.
I also started reading heavily at an early age. I remember reading pre-teen novels from age 7, and completely losing myself in them. My mom had a strict lights-out rule at bedtime, so I’d lie on the floor with my book pressed into the small stream of light coming from under the door and read for hours.
I started writing poetry at age 11, right after my brother died. Another outlet for me to pour my grief into. Reading them back now they’re actually not bad, and I seemed far wiser than my little self should have been at that age.
On the playground I would tell the other kids outlandish stories about my life, passing off fiction as truth, and relish in their shocked reactions. Which, of course, fueled more fibs and tales.
I would tell them I was left in an orphanage because my mother was a beautiful, famous Hollywood actress who couldn’t raise a child if she wanted to be in movies. But she loved me so very much and thought about me every day. And I had to keep her identity a secret, but “you’d totally recognize her”.
So when I find myself feeling any kind of pity—even for a second—for the child who lived through the unimaginable, I quickly remind myself that she was a survivor.
We are spending way too much time stuck in the past: ruminating on all the things that shouldn’t or should have happened, feeling wronged and resentful and ashamed. But when we only look backwards, there can be no forward.
And forward is where growth is, where beauty, forgiveness, peace, joy, and happiness is.
We need to release ourselves from the duty of righting a long ago wrong, and recognize that sometimes we need peace more than anything else. We need room to breathe, to explore, to love, and to live. And there is no room for anything beautiful in that narrow tunnel behind us.
Today I’m a different kind of storyteller. I tell real stories aimed at helping others feel less alone and more empowered. I share my past as a means to shed light on the power of choosing to be a survivor.
And I’m still an avid reader—anything and everything that can help me become stronger, wiser, better. I read books about health, overcoming hardships, mental wellness, and anything that helps me be a better coach; and I still lose myself in some good ‘ole fiction. It can’t be ALL work and no play.
I’m taking a page from child Melissa’s Survivor's Guide and turning it into a healthier, adult version. Because while she was busy surviving, she was also busy creating some of the best parts of who I am now. My imagination, my creativity, and my desire to help others. And my resilience to take on any challenge.
There are amazing parts of you, too, that were created by the very person you’re feeling sorry for. Your child self doesn’t need your pity; they need you to honor the hardship by moving forward and living your best life.
You can do it.