These are things we never talk about. These are things we try not to think about. These are things we’d rather die than share with the world. These are the things that have most tainted the we we could have been.
We are not the people our selfies show. At work, at parties, the us that our friends see is just a shade of a much deeper color. A color painted by an abusive aunt’s screams, a naughty cousin’s finger, a drunken father’s belt…many many years ago. Our darkest secrets and heaviest weights date back to when we were so naïve, so vulnerable, so innocent. The thing that triggered the full-blown battles we have in our closets was so innocuous when it first said hello to us.
Those who grew up in rich homes and those from poor homes have their own sets of scars. It may have been a mum who spoke all kinds of poison in her rage, or an overly stern father who beat his idea of perfection into you. It could have been the loose zip of an uncle who was supposed to look out for you or the promised adventure Kofi promised when he told you it was okay for one boy to kiss another boy.
It could’ve been in that bathroom, when slimy soap felt better than it normally should and stiffened things that should have stayed flaccid. It could’ve been that justifiable act of picking dad’s coins, since he never gave enough money. It could’ve been in JSS, when you felt the need to paint a picture of a lifestyle your parents could never afford that has trapped you behind bars of pretense and misplaced identity. It could’ve been many other things. But it’s done. The harm has been caused. You’re now a full grown adult who has to shave every now and then.
The scars remain; they’ve stained your expectation of life and your faith in people. They have sowed deep seeds of anger and bitterness. They have turned you into a hermit when you could have been so outgoing, or into a seemingly happy-go-lucky person, when you are so empty inside. What are you going to do about it? Wear it like some stylish tattoo?
I can’t show you all my scars, but I can share this one; I’m a southpaw. My syto schoolteacher didn’t understand why I preferred to write with my left. She took it upon herself to cast out the demon of left-handedness. I tried hard indeed but writing with my right hand never felt right. So I had an ugly handwriting. She kept forcing me to run with my right when I could fly with my left. I endured many ruler assaults so to date, I see a ruler more as a weapon of mass destruction than a drawing tool. Lol
But I am blessed. We moved from Osu so I had to change schools and Miss Annor was so much more understanding. In class four when I was allowed to write with my left again, I had to learn how to write all over again. Fortunately my first crush; Clara Lamptey had a writing so pure it was proof of her virginity(she’s married now). I’d take her notes home and write my ‘a’ like she did hers, curve my ‘y’s like she curved hers. I guess my heart beating for her made the self-tutoring much easier. My writing is great now, but when I see the cursive skills of my dear Morning Star cousin, I know that that syto school teacher did me in paah. God bless her.
Fam, you have to let it go. It may be easy for me to say because I don’t know how messed up your story is, but lets not turn this into a ‘whose story is messiest?’ contest, that solves nothing. You may have exhausted a lifetime of energy trying to get over it and given up now. You’ve resigned to living with it for ever…perhaps you deserved it? You think? Oo o shaaame! Just like that? You wont try again? Twenty-something, thirty-something and you’ll let the thing you had no control over when you were little shape and control your future? Have things gotten that bad? Have you forgotten who you are and WHOSE you are?
It’s not your job to ask God where He was when all that pain was being inflicted, can the clay pot ask the potter why he used red clay and not white clay? Can the yam fufu ask the chef why he wasn’t rather used to make Yam chips to be had with Exeter corned beef? Since when? That approach will do you more harm than good. Do a little of it, yes. Use your tiny mortal fists to beat his infinite chest in rage, then break into His arms and allow Him to console you. Let Him speak sweet nothings to you through His Psalms and step aside for him to gradually repair the hurt and the pain.
Be ready to let it go and mean it when you ask for His help. Recognize the limitations of being just one human dealing with such a heavy weight from your past. Believe that He is able to repair and restore and then cling to Him. SHUT THAT MIND OF YOURS UP!! Shut it up with the energy you’ll use to kill a mosquito bloated with your blood and snoozing on your thigh. Don’t let its logical reasoning rob you of a relief only His Spirit can give. Be like a child. Trust Him.
And when the healing is underway and you start your own family, do everything to make sure your kids don’t fall into the same quagmire. Be more watchful when the cousins come over. Reassure her of her beauty and rare value before she even learns to walk. Create the kind of relationship that will make it impossible for your children to keep their personal struggles from you their whole life!
Don’t embarrass them at school, don’t easily believe your friend over them. Don’t make the same mistakes yours made! Do all you possibly can so your kids never grow up with the scars you are masquerading as tattoos. Will you try? Pretty please?
PS: Don’t keep! Share…& then subscribe, okay :-(?