My earliest memory is one of being alone...of course. I never really thought much about it, but a friend once shared with me her earliest memory of being a toddler. She was approaching a swimming pool and she was unafraid because she knew her mother and grandmother were behind her and wouldn't let anything happen to her.
When she shared this with me, my first memory hit me in the face like a cold, wet and somewhat dirty sock. I was also a toddler. My mother had brought me to the farm. She wanted to visit her mother to unburden her heart. Marriage and motherhood weren't living up to her expectations. She and Grandma wanted time to be together and I was in the way. The way I remember it was that Mom was not prepared for the cold snap and I didn't have anything to wear that was suitable for outside. Grandma had something from another child that had visited and left it behind, so I was dressed in a hand-me-down snowsuit to go outside to play. The snowsuit was a shiny fabric that was reddish purple and quilted...funny how those kind of details can stick in your memory.
I was told to go to the barnyard. The ground was frozen and rock hard. Ice was skimming the top of puddles. For some reason, I was given a balloon that was tied to my wrist. It was not filled with helium, so it just dragged along the ground behind me as I stomped out to the barnyard to see if Grandpa was there. I hadn't gone very far when a sharp rock introduced itself to my balloon and there was a loud 'pop' behind me. I turned and stared at the colorful shreds of rubber at the end of my string. I wanted to cry but then I remembered that no one would comfort me. As a two-year-old, I made a conscious decision to not seek solace. I knew – I already knew as a toddler – that I was utterly alone. I turned and continued to trudge to the barnyard.
Internalizing that moment at such a tender age has deeply affected me in ways that even more than 50 years later I can't completely comprehend. Believing that I'm not cared for means that I often just do things on my own because I don't think I can find anyone who cares enough to help. I confess that sometimes, I conclude that's why my husband appreciates me so much – I'm very low maintenance. There have been times I have asked for help or fellowship from friends or family and none has been forthcoming, which only reinforces the feeling that I am truly alone.
But apparently, that is not the face I present to the world. When sharing with an artist friend one time that I often felt lonely, she laughed in disbelief and said that I was a one person party. Her view of me was of a good time girl, because in the circle that we were in (artists that joined together weekly to paint from a model) I was confident and amusing. Confidence in a craft or having a sense of humor, though, does not mean a person does not have deeper feelings of pain. That particular interaction made me feel that, once again, I was truly on my own.
So how does one break that sort of emotional bondage? I can only answer that question from a base of faith. I really don't know how someone who doesn't know the love of a very personal God heals from that. It has been through the context of faith that I have found healing. Emotional, spiritual and physical healing. That is the context that I operate out of and that I can speak from. It starts with a prayer. And here's the thing...it doesn't have to be a prayer of faith. It starts with just calling out to the One Who can help. It can be an angry prayer, a doubtful prayer, a passionate prayer or a quiet prayer. It doesn't have to be long, it doesn't have to follow a formula. It can simply be one word. Help. But it's enough to start the journey into wholeness.