Did you read the title as in wound up, as in something round or did you read wound, as in a painful cut or sore? Each of these would apply in a wound-a-bout way. I'm sure you are you wondering what the heck that means, so let me explain. Growing up I was bullied. Being "disadvantaged" in my formative, tween and teen years had me endure what is considered bullying by any definition. I've experienced it firsthand and I know how it can impact one's life. There is a legacy from childhood trauma that lives on in us that to me, was far more damaging then the actual disadvantages themselves. However, it doesn't have to characterize who we are for the rest of our lives and I know that one can get past the hardships, if we allow ourselves to.
When I started school my teacher was concerned about how I spoke. I had a speech impediment, think Elmer Fudd. I couldn't pronounce the "R" sound and they came out sounding like W's. My Grade 1 teacher contacted my Father, addressed her concerns and he didn't really understand why it was a problem. Dad wasn't wrong, academically I was thriving and I could be clearly understood but, he wanted me to have every advantage so he took it upon himself to teach me how to roll my R's. It went like this:
Dad: (he was from Scotland and spoke with a refined brogue and a mastery of the english language), "Repeat after me, RRRound and RRRound the RRRugged RRRock the RRRagged RRRascal RRRan."
Me: "Wound and Wound the Wugged Wock the Wagged Wascal Wan,"and so it would go. I never mastered the rolling of my RRR's, but if you ask Mom, I had the eye-rolling mastery down pat.
A speech impediment of this type on its own may seem somewhat minor but alas, that was just one cog in my DNA Wheel of Misfortune. I was knock-kneed and pigeon-toed. I mean seriously, how does that even work? Mom spent much of her time telling me to stand up straight or sit up straight, no slumping, point your toes out, (which turned my knees out), keep your head up and on occasion a gentle tap (read slap) on the back would accompany the reminder. I have to give her credit because it made the difference. I do still work on standing tall and sitting up straight but the knees stopped knockin' and the pigeons flew the coop a long time ago.
I had freckles which were considered unattractive and even disfiguring depending on how dark and how many there were. I also had a lazy eye. When I was five both eyes were surgically repaired but my left eye, on occasion, would take a wee wander all on its own. It still happens today when I'm especially tired. The eyelid drops a skosh as well. My children dubbed it my "crazy eye." From them it's endearing but otherwise, it was just another "affliction" to be teased about. At age nine I had to get glasses. Now, in the early 70's the selection for young girls was very limited and even more so as my folks had to work within a very low budget. Ultimately, we, as in my Mom, chose the highly fashionable tortoise shell octagonal shaped beauties... and this is where you get to use your imagination.
At age ten the "girls" were making their debut so I had to wear a bra, much to the pleasure of the boys, snap! Add to the mix the fact that I was taller than everyone, including my Grade 4 teacher and hence, I was always bringing up the rear of every line and stood in the back row of every class photo.
Oh, did I mention my bestie? Ya, she was pretty, talented and beloved by teachers and students alike. I had a reputation of "protecting" her from unwanted cootie boy attention but, really, I was just plain old jealous. She could sing and I couldn't. As an aside, someone once told me I needed to shut my trap, I was a horrid singer. That hurt me deeply and only served to fuel my even deeper desire to sing well. Guess what? I learned to carry a tune. I taught myself to sing. I sang in a choir and even performed some solos. Isn't it amazing how someone's disapproval of you can either cut you down at the knees or propel you to do everything in your power to prove them wrong?
Ok, back to my bestie. She had long, black, thick locks and wore them in pigtails like any cutie patootie would. She would have a pony tail that undulated like Black Beauty's magnificent mane and tail or she would wear it in a thick, lush and shiny braid that slithered down her back. My hair was reddish/auburnish and it was shortish then grew to about shoulder lengthish. It was dullish and boringish. She was petite, I wasn't. She was sweet and nice and I was too much of everything. Few saw past the "faults" that made me ripe for the picking...on, but, thank fully she did. At least I think she did or maybe she just wanted a body guard? Hmmm, not sure about that.
I was the proverbial walking target for any kid who felt compelled to be mean. Even my own siblings would call me KAKA instead of Kiki. It wasn't as damaging coming from them but still...and then there were the adults. My grade 9 teacher nicknamed me MONGO after an NFL player and he got our Volleyball team t-shirts. Yup, mine said MONGO. On the outside I pretended I loved it. Look at me, Captain of the team. Strong like Bull! On the inside I died a thousand little deaths knowing people didn't see me, the girl. The feminine me. The I want to wear dresses and be petite and super slim and have long blonde hair and speak like a normal person and look pretty and be the girl everyone seemed to love, kind of girl.
Then there was my last name, Morren, a.k.a. MoWWen and well, you can guess where that led to, unless you're a Mowon. To be fair my siblings were also teased about our name but, I had the illustrious benefit of the speech impediment added in. Heavy sigh...it was just another tool in the bully arsenal.
I was a Bully's dream, a Bully Buffet if you will. They mocked and mimicked how I spoke. They would sneak up behind me to try to snap my bra strap. They would cross their eyes and walk like apes, knees in and arms hanging, or penguins, waddling about with toes out. They would jump up in front of me so they could be as tall as me and ask me how the weather was up there.They called me MONGO MOWON even though I was smarter than every single one of them, just sayin'. They called me four eyes, nerd girl, geek girl. In class it was, back of the line Mowon or back of the class ________ insert some ignorant reference to the multiple choice issues they had on hand. They either ignored me, used me as the strong man on the dodge ball team or the tall one for basketball or to reach their lunch bags in the cubicles and lockers or they belittled and tormented me. They were relentless in their meanness and ultimately I became relentless in my defensiveness.
I fought back, literally...well, once. I had a physical fight against a very big boy, and yes I "won" by the way. I'm not proud of it, although back then I kind of secretly was. I lost my shite (Scottish for shit) and it wasn't pretty. Ok, I didn't really hurt him too much, just a bloody nose. My usual weapon of choice was harsh words and a stoked temper. I would get so angry and yell at them with nasty names, tell them they were stupid and ugly and all the things that I thought would hurt them back. Did it work? I have no idea. Did it make me feel better? Superficially I suppose but not inside, not in my heart and soul.
For decades I carried that little girl's pain and anger around with me and over time I became a bit of a bully myself I suppose, if I'm being real. I just never realized that the legacy of my trauma manifested into me being intimidating, opinionated, dismissive and controlling. Any kind of constructive criticism didn't land with me, it was always a personal attack. It was me being told I wasn't good enough, there was something wrong with me and I existed in this endless loop that came up, over and over ad nauseam.
So, I sat on that thorny throne, in my fortress, fighting off people even when no one was fighting with me. They were just talking or discussing or giving an opinion but I couldn't have a friendly discussion without being overly intense or insistent that they saw things my way. Some days I'm still like that and trust me, I have to work at recognizing my triggers and give them time to settle instead of reacting on them without breathing and thinking first. Often people would tell me I was so strong and confident and I knew my own mind but it's clear to me now, it was all smoke and mirrors and it couldn't have been further from the truth. For much of my life I hid behind a forcefield of self-righteousness and self-defence. I was never wrong nor apologetic and no one was going to hurt me first ever again.
Then, as life would have it, I experienced some heart-breaking, gut-wrenching events along the journey of adulting that ironically, brought me to a reckoning; I needed to get better and do better and that's the road I've been travelling since. I've cracked myself open, dug deep, faced the devils that were fuelling my fire and figured some things out. I've learned that I have been affected by but should not be defined by my childhood trauma. I became better in myself for myself. I've retired the victim character from my cast, although occasionally they make an unwanted guest appearance. Hey, nobody's perfect, am I right? I began to realize I was relevant, beautiful, intelligent, unique and that I was and am truly blessed to have incredible humans around me who have loved and supported me, even when I was less than the person I should have been. I needed to be better for them as well.
Half a century later I stand in my power, unapologetically. I don't need to "get them" before they get me. I can live as a loving, caring, vulnerable woman with everything to be thankful and grateful for. No shame, no guilt. The scars will always remain and I have them live alongside my real self as a reminder of what made me me, who I am and who I still strive to be. I don't want to be perfect, I just don't want to be less than who I'm supposed to be.
Being abused, bullied, marginalized, hated on, humiliated, they are terrible harms for anyone to carry through life and WE DON'T HAVE TO! We can forgive the bullies because we know they most likely live in a world of hurt themselves and we can forgive ourselves from our own wrongdoing as a result. I know what it is to be a wounded child and I only knew what I knew. Today I know what I know and my experience has taught me this: we are not who others say we are, perceive us to be or want us to be.
There is a beautiful quote from a character in a movie called The Last Black Man in San Francisco:
"Let us give each other the courage to see beyond the stories we were born into."
I believe we are born into this world to live wholly, love deeply, learn constantly, give graciously, konnect authentically and find our place and our purpose. We experience so much as we traverse the landscape that is our life. We drive along feeling fine and fancy free and then we hit potholes that burst our tires wide open and careen us into ditches. We battle storms that suck us into the darkness, whip us around in hurricane force winds, then spit us out onto serene, sandy beaches pocketed with shallow tidal pools where we warm our toes and bask in sunlight. We run out of gas stranded and desolate until our tanks are once again renewed and full of energy. We surf high on waves of hope and excitement until they grow so large they wash over us in despair and grief. We ride this roller coaster and it can be especially scary or fabulously exhilarating depending on what we choose to make it. We can hang on, close our eyes and pray for it to end or we can strap in, eyes wide open, hands up and scream with glee, totally thrilled to be here.
Thankfully, many will never know the pain of bullying but, for those of us who do, know it doesn't ever define you, but it does become a part of what makes you a better you.
Elmer Fudd was a little cartoon character with a big gun and a big speech impediment. He hunted wabbits, was humiliated in every episode he played in and yet, he was beloved. He found his place despite or perhaps because of his impediment. Please, don't ever "be vewwy, vewwy afraid" to live within your uniqueness. It is the best gift you've been given.
Love Kiki
xoxo
"No one heals himself by wounding another." --- St. Ambrose
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