Internalizing messages from my childhood. I am bad.

In a writing workshop a few months ago, the facilitator had us write a scene from our life.  The instruction was to think of a turning point in our life.  Write about something that changed our life in a some small or large way.  At first, nothing came to mind.  Then I thought of a day when I was five years old.  I was just weeks into my kindergarten year.  The following is a slightly edited and fleshed out version of the scene I wrote that day in workshop.

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As I sit in the back seat of the car with Billy, Bob (our babysitter) stops at 7-11 for something.  As he gets out of the car, he snaps at us, "Don't fight.  Don't touch each other or you're gonna get it."   Billy is a year younger than I am, only 4.  We often fight like brother and sister.  

Just moments after Bob goes inside, Billy's foot eeks across the hot vinyl seat and nudges me.  I kick him back, "Stop it!" I say, "you're gonna get us in trouble." 


"No, you stop it," as he says as he pushes me. Before I realize it we are bickering and hitting.


A huge hand swoops in out of nowhere and backhands both of us in one fell swoop.  "I SAID NO FIGHTING," he roars.  Billy and I freeze in pure terror.  We look at each other, now comrades with a common enemy, and know we are are in deep, deep trouble.  We also blame each other for getting us there.

I have never had such physical fear in my life.  My family is loving and not violent.  I've been spanked, but I knew this was different. The next hours pass in a blur of fear and snaps of leather on bare skin.  By the end of the afternoon, both Billy and I were black and blue from mid-back to the back of our knees.


I was a bad girl.  How dare I defy the grown-up in charge of me, and I had BETTER not tell my parents about today.  If I tell the them about the spanking, they might punish me further.  They will know what a horrible, vile little girl I *really* am.

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This  was the first time that I ever internalized the message that there was something wrong with me.  This was the first time I *knew* I was not ok... I was bad, and deserved to be punished.

Prodigal daughter returns

Where, oh where, has little Kimmie gone?  When we last saw our Heroine, it was November, and she was contemplating food and weight.  Then came December, full of the hustle and bustle of the holiday season.  Too many parties and birthdays and stuff and I just didn't have time to write.

But in late December I went on vacation.  I even had some down time that would have been perfect for writing, but I felt "dried up" and didn't know what to write.  Now, January is almost gone, it's been a full two months since I posted, and I have to take a hard look at WHY I have not written.

I think a lot of it has to do with the subject of my last post... weight.  I think since I am still holding onto this extra weight, I have had a negative voice telling me I am a failure and a bunch of other BS.  Additionally, I have been having a bit of the winter doldrums.  While I don't feel significantly depressed, I just notice a bit of apathy, which I can only associate with it being winter.  December and January have historically been "bad times" for me, so it's just my life following it's usual cycles.

But this blog, my book, and my life are not about how much I weigh.  My journey and the story I have to share is about love and compassion.  It's about the love and compassion I have for myself.  It means I forgive myself for not being perfect, for letting some weight creep on, and I love myself to make some changes to nip the problem in the bud before it becomes/seems insurmountable (again.)

I have a number of blog ideas peculating in my head, so I hope have a more active presence here over the coming days and weeks.  I am committed to doing *some* kind of writing every day.  My current goal is to write a minimum of 15 minutes a day on the scenes/stories for my memoir.  Additionally I want to post here once or twice a week.

Determined and excited once again.