“Dear Sean, your column yesterday about embracing my inner child and childhood was inaccurate. I’m 67 with more life experience than you… And my childhood wasn’t idyllic like yours obviously was…
“I choose NOT to remember childhood. I was abused and don’t want anything to do with my inner child. From reading comments on yesterday’s post many others feel like I do and prefer not to approach childhood memories which I think is best.
“…No offense, but you’re not a psychologist. How about leaving therapy to professionals?”
Good idea. You’re absolutely right. Please allow me to apologize. I’m no professional. In fact, I have a longstanding habit of talking out of my rearmost orifice.
I will, however, point out that your email contains a few misconceptions about me.
My childhood was anything but happy. I won’t go into detail, I’ve written entire books on this subject. But I grew up beneath the weight of abuse. My “idyllic” youth was peppered with abuse, fear, depression, panic attacks, eating disorders, attempted murder, gun violence, suicide, and all manner of other “idyllic” things you regularly see featured in Lifetime Channel movies.
To make matters worse, during those years, the University of Alabama football team was undergoing a major “suck” era.
So, I began therapy as an adult. I still undergo therapy. I believe in therapy.
Speaking of therapy, friend. If you’ve ever been to therapy, you know that the first thing you’ll end up talking about ain’t the weather.
It’s childhood.
Nevertheless, I’ll stop here, since I am, I think we can all agree, a blowhard. Instead, I’d like to finish this column by telling you about a friend.
I’ll call her Lori. She was midforties. She had the quintessential American suburban life. Successful husband. Nice house. Two-point-five children. Luxury SUV with crappy gas mileage.
One day, Lori developed a hardcore case of asthma. Soon, she was seeing several doctors. She started taking meds, undergoing treatments, and trying everything. Nothing worked.
So she tried therapy. It took six years of talking to a therapist before she finally admitted that she had been raped. The incident happened when she was a child. By a family member. And it happened many times.
As a therapeutic exercise, she wrote a letter to her abuser. She never intended on actually sending the letter. This was simply for healing.
But one afternoon, for no explainable reason, Lori took things one step further and visited her abuser’s home to deliver the letter by hand.
When her tormentor opened the door, he found a beautiful, middle-aged mother on his stoop, with a letter in her hand, suffering from a full-blown asthma attack.
Lori hurriedly presented this man with the letter. Then, she used three words. “I forgive you.” Lori then sprinted away, in tears. Gasping for air.
But wait. There’s more.
A few years later, her abuser became very ill. He was dying. He had no health insurance, so hospice was not an option. Thus, Lori began caring for him.
She stayed at his house, organized sitters, and personally nursed him. She bathed him, clutching his limp body in her arms, scrubbing him, as she stood clothed in the shower. She emptied his bedpan. She addressed his bedsores. In fact, Lori remained at his bedside during his final hours.
After he died, it was Lori who read the eulogy at his funeral. And it was also Lori who placed a letter of forgiveness she wrote, squarely into his casket.
And since, as stated earlier, I am not a professional, I think it is only best to give Lori the last word of this column:
“I have been asthma free for 22 years.”
Questions: SeanDietrich@gmail.com
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Originally published on Sean’s website. Republished here with permission.
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