I was a sweet kid – tender-hearted and easily bruised. I adored my Dad – whenever he traveled (often and for long periods), I would wait for his return and let him know how much I missed him. Wanting love and attention, I went out of my way to be helpful to my mom and sister – which made me a pushover for whatever they thought they needed. I did tasks, chores, favors (I remember one time, my sis called me to her room so I could hand her a glass of water a few feet away from where she was sitting. What? I did as she asked.) . . . all in the name of wanting to feel loved.
That all ended when I hit my teens.
Living in London, my folks left me behind when my sister married back in the states. I thought she hung the moon, and I was devastated at being left out. I was so sad and hurt by that.
I stayed with my parent’s friends, who had a girl my age visiting from the states, Maryanne. Well, Maryanne was a hoot. Funny, irreverent, full of life and mischief – I’d never met anyone like her, and we hit it off. One day we went shopping together in the Soho district of London – my first time shopping without my mom. I bought a pair of purple earrings to go with my favorite purple outfit. I was stoked!
After my parents returned, we decided to go out for dinner at a fine restaurant – one of our favorite things to do together. Here’s how that went – written from my Dad’s point of view . . .
There she was – finally emerging from the bathroom, ready to go to dinner with her mother and me. She wore a deep purple mini skirt and a rib knit sweater to match – one of her favorite outfits. She was looking kind of grown up – classy and elegant.
I looked to meet her eyes but was immediately distracted by some god-awful bauble hanging from her ears, practically touching her shoulders. Where did those come from?
No matter, they have to go
“What is that you’ve got on your ears?”
“Earrings – they match my outfit.”
I stepped closer to take a look, reached up, and held the round bauble – they matched. They were about the size of a quarter, hanging from her ear on a thin silver chain, very shiny with a glint like a glass eye. Without looking very hard, you could see the seam from the mold that had formed this treasure. Truly – hideous.
As our eyes met, her look was pure defiance, daring me to a challenge.
“Take them off.”
“Why?”
“They look cheap.”
“No, they don’t; they’re cute.”
“They are not cute. They just look cheap. They make you look cheap. Take them off.”
“No, if I can’t wear them, I’m not going to dinner.”
“Yes, you are. We’re going as a family. Take them off.”
I could feel my blood boil – a familiar and unpleasant place. I don’t like to lose control, but I was on the edge. I could feel my face contorting from the effort to gain control. Both my girls love to talk about what happens to my face when I’m angry. With gales of laughter, they go to great lengths to get their face to do what mine does in these tense moments. They liken it to the most incoherent Picasso, the face distorted with all the parts in the wrong place. This was the sign that they’d gone too far, “Dad’s coming unglued. Quick, run away! Don’t let him catch you!!”
I could feel that in my face now, from the inside out. I was losing my battle with Picasso.
She saw that face. I know because her eyes widened as she turned quickly away and headed for the bathroom tossing the earrings on the counter.
Oh good, this is over. I breathed a sigh of relief.
But then, I heard her mutter, “God Damn Son of a Bitch!”
Whoa! What? Are you kidding me? Where did that come from? What has happened to my sweet young daughter? How does she even know that language?
No matter – she can’t get away with that.
I moved quickly toward her, catching the bathroom door before she could slam it in my face, and gave her a solid swat on her behind.
Mission accomplished. The earrings are gone – some semblance of my loving daughter has re-emerged, ready to be with her family. She still looks defiant, but there is something else in her eyes – hard and soft at the same time.
My face is returning to normal. Picasso has left the building.
At that moment, that exact moment, the rebel was born – he (yes, it was a he) took up residence and began to show me the way of truth, autonomy, and freedom. This rebel saved my life. I had so deeply wanted to feel loved, accepted, cared for, nurtured; I’d do anything! I’d be whatever you wanted me to be! All of that ended when I felt the power of the rebel to stand firm, seemingly unphased by external influence. It was a salve for the ache in my heart.
The rebel sparked a fierce independence in me. And, in some ways, I misused that energy to close my heart, to protect me from caring too much. I became a bit ruthless and sometimes careless.
Untangling the misuse, that elaborate defense system that seemingly hardened my heart has taken years of devoted practice to reclaim what never really left but was distorted and obscured.
The rebel has evolved. I no longer misuse that powerful force. I’ve softened. And I still have an edge. I remain fiercely independent, slightly irreverent, unorthodox in my ideology, and not easily influenced by spiritual dogma – integrated treasures of rebel wisdom.
Tender-heartedly edgy. I can live with that.
from my heart, Carol
“Even a taste of freedom
can turn us in a new direction.”
Yongey Mingyur Rinpoche