time spent offline

Growing up was easy.

By 15, I bury the child, declare independence— to no one in particular, and I split.

I ran for thirteen years: In circles, up and down, back and forth; sideways.

There were the men, the drugs, the alcohol, of course. And when I got scared of the chaos, the vultures, there was the career, the marriage, and, and, and of course, my most cherished escape of all time, of all, the internet! The perfect low-consequential numbing agent.

And whenever I dared to slow down, put down the phone, catch my breath, there was that dreadful sensation of drowning— Buried alive— and so I’d keep on scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. Until one day, after one too many tequila shots, I look in the mirror and the child, buried but still alive, looks me dead on and says, Let me out or I’m taking you down with me.

And I understand then.

Buried alive: Drowning, drowning, drowning.

By 28, I abandon the adult, declare custody of my inner child— To myself in particular, and I surrender.

“So, how are you?” she says.

She’s warm, friendly, beautiful.

I’m drowning— “I’m fine,” I say and I pause.

I forget every time I pay her so I can talk; she keeps smiling expectantly. Oh— I begin and she begins taking notes on her iPad.

I wonder what she’s writing down; Divorced, addiction, childhood trauma.

I try to ignore the discomfort of opening up to a stranger, try not to notice her eagerness for irrelevant details, her body shifting when the story gets a bit too… I forgive her; She, too, is human after all.

One day she asks if I want to do inner child work. “Do you know what that is?” She says while noting something on her iPad. “No,” I say; I’m buying time. It bothers me endlessly to be on the receiving end of these silly therapy tools: I said I’m fine!

She tells me to pick the side of the couch I want my inner child to sit at; I’m supposed to talk to her— The invisible inner child. I think, how humiliating to talk to yourself while a woman takes notes on her iPad.

But I have no choice, I’m drowning.

I pick a side and the woman with the iPad tells me to let the child speak first. I shift uncomfortably. The child begins, says she was so scared and alone; buried alive, abandoned. She speaks clearly, concisely. As if she’s been rehearsing all of thirteen years, waiting for this moment, for someone to say— Tell me, baby girl, tell me what happened to you?

When it’s my turn to speak, I don’t know what to say so I tell the truth. I’m sorry, I begin, I was afraid if I acknowledged the pain, if I admitted I was scared and alone, weak, the world would swallow me whole so I buried you and I ran to save myself.

The child simply nods in understanding.

This surprises me. That’s it?????????? The pain just wants to be acknowledged, don’t you know it, and all that running ain’t for free anyway.

The woman with the iPad tells me to tell the child that I’m an adult now, that we are both safe, and I do as I’m told.

Afterwards, I go shopping— eyes bloodshot, delighted, and I buy myself a beautiful vase to remember the day I returned home, back to myself.

And I take my new role, of reparenting myself, very seriously.

I start small.

I commit to checking in with myself before I pick up the device, the pack; say yes to an invite that could barely fit in my schedule. I simply ask: Am I running away from myself?

I commit to routines and structures to rage appropriately: On $3 journals in the wee hours of the morning, 50 minutes on the mat swinging heavy dumbbells, a device free bedroom— Weeping, weeping, weeping.

I make ample time to play too, and this I take the most serious.

And the adults, God bless their hearts, they did the best they can; I forgive them. When the rage subsides, when I feel stronger, I ask them what they were like at 15, at 23, and when she’s done talking, he’s done explaining, I understand where I get my strength from, my iron-clad will to keep on going; to survive.

This soothes the child like nothing else.

Some days though, I, too, fail at my role.

I can’t stand another night of watching the child drowning, gasping for air, and so I ignore her as I carefully apply my mascara, put on my heels, and split. I run to him, to her; to whoever will have my company.

But when I return home, I carefully set my bag down, kick off my heels, and I find the child: Thrashing, rummaging through the debris, setting herself on fire. I watch in silence: No social media, no TV. Don’t you know it; the pain just wants to be witnessed, and all that running ain’t for free anyway.

I’m so sorry, I’m here now, I whisper.

When the rage subsides, I find the book from the night before, and in-between paragraphs I recall to the child the smile from the stranger on the subway earlier that day, and the compliment from the instructor on my form during HIIT class, strolling through the used bookstore with Annie— giggling like school girls, and the adults calling to say there is some fruits and vegetables I could take when I visit next time; Soon.

And I sleep like a baby.