From a grownup’s point of view, things are always so complicated and they begin to shape in childhood. Long before we can talk or walk or anything other than just lying somewhere.
We read pages and pages on theories of psychology, psychotherapy and other psycho somethings and are amazed everyday at the things that someone said more than a century before our time. We try to analyze our childhood, reviewing, revising again and again the list of our many complexes and conflicts which are supposedly the result of the many things we’ve gone through back then as a child.
If while we were shouting and crying for attention or of a physical pain, our shouts have been answered by a warm, loving embrace; whether they’ve given us what we have asked for when we have asked for it or eventually even. Whether there are any lacks in the area of figures: be it father, mother, whatnot! Whether we have—as a child—cried ourselves to sleep on lonely nights with a single parent doing the same in the other room; whether our many early sorrows and heartaches have ever been replaced with a minimum dose of joy and laughter; if even a trivial smile; a loving smile so far.
Many years, many phases pass us by and apparently make us what we are today and we only look back at them, thinking of them as things of the past; as bygones which are now only bygones; and those of us who think they are more powerful, stronger, more open-minded seek therapy for maintaining a better self. To cleanse ourselves of all those less-than-perfect childhood years which have left a mark forever on our hearts.
Then you take a look into the mirror and see once more a broken, wounded heart which is still in the process of breaking and not healing; you see eyes full of sorrow; you see no smile where there should be one; you see no real smile. You see tears coming down so silently like a silent winter snow coming down slowly at dusk. Then you can hear cries in deafening silence filling your head. You cry and you know for a fact that there’s no one near to hear you out. You shout with your lips sealed inside and you know there’s no one near; still no one!
And you see the little child once more; so deprived of love and attention; so lonely, so left unhappy with not a single trace of hope; heartbroken and dead inside. And now you only cry for the little child; the little child who is crying for himself; that poor little child who has never known of love and moving on; that little child who is not a child anymore but neither is he a grownup now. He’s still a little child, wishing for a warm embrace full of love; that little child is sitting right there, crying silently in his loneliness and he’s growing up.