I opened my 10th-grade report card with shaky hands and a wave of nausea in my stomach.
I had struggled with Geometry for the first part of the school year, and now it was time for the reckoning: report cards.
I skipped over all the “A’s” and honed in on the B grade.
Three hours a night, five days a week, four hundred and forty-three sheets of paper, six pencils, two big erasers, and waves of anxiety. This was what I spent on earning a B in Geometry.
I was relieved and excited because I was in the C & D range for a few months, and I knew that was unacceptable. Whew. I made it.
I couldn’t wait to show my Dad.
He always told me that as long as I did my best and tried my hardest, he would never get upset with me regarding my report card.
After he got home from work, I pulled the report card out of the manila envelope and pushed it in front of him.
“Look!” I said with a tint of guarded happiness.
I stood there for what seemed like forever. In the background, I could hear the M*A*S*H theme song playing on the TV and the clickety-clack of dishes in the kitchen.
“You got a B in Geometry?” he asked.
“Yes! I worked hard for it, too.”
“I think you can do better,” he said as he handed me back the report card.
“If you were able to get A’s in all of your other classes, I know you can get an A in Geometry, too.”
“But Dad, you know how hard math is for me.”
“Stop making excuses, Kim.”
I felt like my guts had been punched and the air sucked out of my body.
I was confused. A bit mad. A bit sad, too.
But I should have been used to that combination of feelings.
After my freshman year in high school, I spent the summer with relatives who were in a totally different socioeconomic class (i.e., we were broke and they had money).
They lived in a gorgeous two-story home with a Persian cat, five different types of cereal on top of the fridge, and a pantry full of snacks.
We lived in an apartment on the railroad tracks, had one or two healthy cereals, and seldom had snacks in the house.
It was like going from the desert to the oasis.
“Eat whatever you’d like, Kim. There are no food rules here.”
I was in heaven. I swam in their pool, played with my younger relatives, drank gallons of Kool-Aid, ate Twinkies and Cheetos, and made s’mores by their fire pit.
I laughed and laughed and went to places my family couldn’t afford.
It was a summer where great memories were made and a brief respite from poverty.
When I got back home, the first thing my dad said to me was, “You got fat.”
He did not say, “I’m glad to see you, I missed you, or How was your trip?”
He said, “You got fat.”
I was immediately embarrassed, and I could feel the blood drain from my head.
I felt shame. I felt sad. I felt mad. Again.
“I had a good time. What did I do wrong?” I thought to myself as I flopped down on my bed.
Wasn’t it just last year that my dad said to me, “Kim, I’ll love you no matter what you weigh?”
So on Monday, I started a starvation diet.
After those ten pounds were gone, my dad looked at me and said, “You look much better, Kim, but it wouldn’t hurt you to lose another few pounds.”
Gut punch.
When my dad had me run errands for him, I was always “too slow” or “You didn’t get what was on my list.”
“Thank you, Kim, but….(this is wrong, this isn’t right, this isn’t what I asked for).
The laundry was never white enough.
My room was never clean enough.
My grades were never good enough.
When I made new friends, it was because they wanted something from me. Especially boys.
“But I thought I was likable, Dad?”
I was a kid who just wanted her Dad’s approval.
Her Dad’s love.
Some verbal acknowledgment that I was trying my best.
Instead, I spent my childhood walking on eggshells. I was never sure what would get me in trouble or what I’d be chastised for.
I wasn’t even certain that my Dad loved me.
By the age of nineteen, so many unresolved, dysfunctional patterns from my childhood started pushing through my psyche. I was anxious and depressed.
Yes, even suicidal.
Somehow, I had the common sense to seek out therapy. The better part of me wanted to live.
Therapy changed my life in so many different ways.
I used to call my therapist “an angel on earth.” She was kind, patient, smart, and empathetic.
She was one of the reasons I decided to become a therapist myself.
Towards the end of a session where I had spent fifty minutes discussing my childhood, my therapist said she had something important to tell me.
Of course, I braced for the worst, but here’s what she said:
Kim, those days of walking on eggshells are over. Sweep them up. You are no longer that parent-pleasing child tip-toeing around a dysfunction minefield.
You are safe here and no one is mad at you for what you did or didn’t do.
That tension and stress and hypervigilance you’re feeling from your childhood? Take a deep breath and let it go.
You are safe right here, right now and no one is judging you.
No one expects perfection from you.
You are not that scared kid any longer. You are an adult, independent of your parents.
Take another deep breath. The eggshells are in the trash.
Now, how does your body feel?
The sobbing I emitted was wild, loud, and forceful. It was visceral and raw, and draining.
But when it was done, when the tears stopped flowing, I was the calmest and happiest I’ve ever been.
So whether your parents are alive or deceased, or you grew up in foster care or left home at an early age, take a deep breath.
Let go of the tension, stress, and hypervigilance you’ve been carrying since your childhood.
You are safe, and you are no longer that scared kid.
You do not have to be your father’s daughter or your mother’s son.
Note: Before my father died in 2020, we resolved many issues, but we were unable to reach a consensus on this one. Don’t worry. Your girl is alright. <3 Kim
Thank you for sharing this story.
I look forward to these posts each week. Thank you for the moments of mindfulness!