She always parked too close to the curb. Never failed, really. The narrower the street, the higher the probability that she would leave a black smear where tires gently, slowly, kissed the curb, caressing it with the accustomed touch a lifetime lover might share with the spouse of their youth. When there were witnesses, she would cringe a little when her tires touched curb, imagining at least rolled eyes at her bad parking job, if not a little mocking laughter. Learned lessons, though, amplified by years of habit and a small dollop of anxiety, meant she usually ended with wheels against the curb, cringing out of her driver’s side door, pulling herself inward, living just like she parked — attempting to be as small and inconspicuous as possible.
She had spent her childhood wanting to get it over with, frustrated with adults with capricious, often changing rules, the most dangerous probably being, “You made your bed, now you have to lie in it.” Instead of being a deterrent to bad decision making, it became a kind of prison that she carried with her, locking her in poor decisions and carrying their consequences, rather than simply changing her mind and setting herself free. Each bad choice and lived consequence took a little more from her even as she retreated inward, doing her best to be smaller, less visible. Unobtrusive.
Nothing to see here.
Adolescence blessed her with the kind of judgment only made by someone who had made no real mistakes yet. She watched a dangerous, thoughtless world and wondered why “do as you would be done to” was such an impossible standard for so many. Still, for all her moral rage and frustration, her presence didn’t grow, but continued to shrink, crumpling her condemnation and judgment of others to an unkind voice in her head that bathed her constantly in awareness of her own hypocrisy. Every mistake brought more reflection, and her spirit withered further with each perceived failure. Remaining in bad bed purgatory drained her spirit further, every bad choice magnifying the loss from the previous one.
She swore she would not raise her children the way she had been, just like so many new parents do. She would always be consistent, make the rules simple, and make them make sense. She would never tell her children to endure in a miserable decision when changing their mind might make their lives better. Her children would know they were loved and important. Mistakes would be learning experiences instead of curses.
The world is hard, and rarely just or kind. As she loved and raised her children, a new voice began whispering between judgmental tirades. Every unfairness confronting her children set the new voice to whispering again. You cannot remake a world shrinking from it. You cannot keep the darkness at bay being small. You cannot protect your children or prepare them for what is to come while waiting in your own mistakes wondering when your prison will set you free.
The new voice began to sing alongside the critical voice, growing in confidence and volume, no longer content to echo inside a prison built with the consequences of forgotten bad decisions long ago made because of inexperience and good intentions. The longer the song sang, the sweeter its melody, the more compelling its words.
The song filled her, stretching a crumpled and twisted soul to something more resembling its intended shape. With it came the key to her prison: you can choose to be free.
Thank you for reading! Please consider subscribing to support my work. Free and paid plans available.