What determines who you are?
What determines your character?
The answer, it seems to me, is that my entire personality—all my values, and opinions about how to get on in the world, succeed, or be happy, can be traced directly back to the shadowy, forgotten world of my childhood, where my character was forged by all the things I learned to conform to; or even rebel against—but was nonetheless defined by.
It took me a long time to realize this. When I was young, I resisted thinking about my childhood, or my character, for that matter. Perhaps that’s not surprising. My therapist once told me that all traumatized children, and the adults they become, tend to focus exclusively on the outside world. A kind of hypervigilance, I suppose. We look outward, not inward—scanning the world for danger signs—is it safe or not? We grow up so terrified of incurring anger, for instance, or contempt, that now, as adults, if we glimpse a stifled yawn while talking to someone, a look of boredom or irritation in their eyes, we feel a horrible, frightening disintegration inside—like a frayed fabric being ripped apart—and swiftly redouble our efforts to entertain and please.
The real tragedy is, of course, by always looking outward, by focusing so intently on the other person’s experience, we lose touch with our own. It’s as if we live our entire life pretending to be ourselves, as impostors impersonating ourselves, rather than feeling this is really me, this is who I am.
That’s why, these days, I repeatedly force myself to return to my own experience: not are they enjoying themselves? But am I? Not do they like me? But do I like them?
So in that spirit, I ask the question: Do I like you?
Of course, I do. You’re a little quiet—but a great listener. And we all love a good listener, don’t we? God knows, we spend our whole lives not being heard.
* * *
I started having therapy in my midthirties. By then, I felt that I had enough distance from my past for me to begin to safely glance at it; to squint at it through my fingers. I chose group therapy not just because it was cheaper but, truthfully, because I like watching people. I’ve been so bloody lonely my whole life; I enjoy being around others, and seeing them interact—in a safe space, I hasten to add.
My therapist was called Mariana. She had inquisitive dark eyes, long, wavy dark hair—I think she might have been Greek, or half-Greek. She was wise and very kind, for the most part. But she could be brutal, too.
I remember once she said something chilling—it messed up my head for a long time. Looking back, I think it changed my entire life.
“When we are young,” Mariana said, “and afraid—when we are shamed, and humiliated—something happens. Time stops. It freezes, in that moment. A version of us is trapped, at that age—forever.”
“Trapped where?” asked Liz, one of the group.
“Trapped here.” Mariana tapped the side of her head. “A frightened child is hiding in your mind—still unsafe; still unheard and unloved. And the sooner you get in touch with that child and learn to communicate with them, the more harmonious your life will be.”
I must have looked dubious because Mariana delivered the killer blow directly to me:
“After all, that’s what he grew you for, isn’t it, Elliot? A strong adult body, to look after him and his interests? To take care of him, protect him? You were meant to liberate him—but ended up becoming his jailer.”
Strange, that. Hearing a truth you’ve always known, in your heart, but never put into words. Then one day, someone comes along and spells it out for you—This is your life—here it is, take a look. Whether you hear it is up to you.
But I heard it. I heard it loud and clear.
A terrified child trapped inside my mind. A child who won’t go away.
Suddenly it all made sense. All the uneasy feelings I experienced on the street, or in social situations, or if I had to disagree with someone, or assert myself—the queasiness in my stomach, fear of eye contact—this had nothing to do with me, nothing to do with the here and now. They were old feelings that were displaced in time. They belonged to a little boy long ago, who was once so afraid, under attack, and unable to defend himself.
I thought I had left him behind me, years ago. I thought I was running my life. But I was wrong. I was still being run by a frightened child. A child who couldn’t tell the difference between the present and the past—and, like an unwitting time traveler, was forever stumbling between them.
Mariana was right: I had better take the kid out of my head—and sit him on my lap, instead.