The Christian Adult Child

As a daughter of an alcoholic, at an early age I took it upon myself to “rescue” my father – when I realized that wasn’t possible and not in my control, I took what was in my control, which was to “rescue” our family name -this meant becoming perfect, of course. It didn’t help that I was the Golden Child in our narcissistic family system. All of the rules gave me a sense of security, importance and direction – things totally absent in my “home”. School was a safe place for me. I got validation and teachers didn’t make comments like “what happened to the other 6 points?” when I got a 94 on an exam, like my father did. Eventually, my efforts to be perfect blossomed into full-blown perfectionism, the cruelest of masters. Not only did I have the critical parent on the outside, but now, my own voice of criticism that drove me to high-achieving, perfectionism heights was inside of me. I had become the environment I was trying to avoid. Perfectionism has no benefits. I fully believe all of the same “productivity” can be achieved with the Loving Parent in the drivers seat.

At any rate, I was reflecting on how I (my True Self/inner child) felt scared in this new place between “having rules” and having no rules (which feels like no direction to me and triggers feelings of my home-life). It’s hard for me to find that healthy balance. I was interrogating, I mean questioning, myself as to why it was so hard for me to approach life in a balanced way or create healthy guidelines for myself. Then it dawned on me, that in the wake of my father’s addiction and the myriad of health issues with my mother, I felt I was left to parent myself. This meant being as agreeable and least “burdensome” as possible. At this time I thought my mom was my friend through this – I told her one day that she was my friend and she retorted “I’m not your friend – I’m your mother”. She always demanded a type and level of respect over me, that wasn’t reciprocated. I remember growing up feeling like I needed her, but didn’t want to do something to make her upset. She seemed vulnerable and fragile yet strong and intimidating.

Who I became in the process of growing up in that system is not an identity I can continue to carry with me into the future. Today, I grieve who I was then. I grieve the beautiful little girl that I was, who smiled when she wanted to cry, to sit when she wanted to run away, to be pleasant when she wanted to scream, who was silent when she wanted to defend herself. I grieve that perfect porcelain girl, who doesn’t have to hide her broken heart behind a shiny exterior. I don’t have to smile for anyone today. For the first time, I’m allowed to not be okay – without fearing that my sadness is encroaching upon the fixed supply of compassion in our “home” – without fearing that me having my own reality or feelings would be distorted into a way I was being “selfish”. This poem is for you, beautiful girl. I’m excited to get to know who you are.

Perfect Porcelain Girl

Perfect porcelain girl

A smile painted on her face

Hands by her side

She knows her place

Perfect porcelain girl

Positively scintillating

No one can see

Her heart is broken – in pieces

Behind the shiny exterior

Perfect porcelain girl

So well-behaved

Tiny cracks, invisible lines

Visibly whole but just a montage of pieces

Perfect porcelain girl

Knows the words to say

Knows the parts she plays

In this house of cards, called family,

Where everyone says they’re okay –

When everything is falling apart.

Perfect porcelain girl

She doesn’t run away

She does what she does and porcelain girls stay 

and waits until things become okay

Because that’s the part that porcelain girls play

And they never say

That they’re not okay

Because if they open their mouth

They shift the pieces, then –

Shattered to a million fragments

To expose, that the perfect porcelain girl, is just a shell

And inside, is a beating, broken heart