My Words to the Wounded Little Boy Living Inside Me

It’s safe to reenter the world and play once again

That’s my fourth-grade school picture, which makes me 9 years old if my calculation is correct.

That sweet smile would appear to indicate I was a happy little boy, but that was far from the case.

My childhood memories reveal a very different story.

When I scroll up again to the photo, this time allowing my eyes to linger long enough to read beneath the surface of my smile, I no longer see a happy child.

Rather, I see a little boy who longed to be happy but wasn’t. A child who desperately wanted to feel cherished and to trust that the world was a loving and safe place, yet all too often found it frightening and unpredictable.

A humiliating childhood memory just flashed before my eyes. I recall the taunts echoing in my ears as if it was yesterday …

“Get yay ball, get yay ball, get yay ball,” accompanied by my “friends” laughter and glee. It seemed the more upset I got, the wider the smiles upon their faces.

You see, little Arty had a speech impediment, and when I would try to say “get the ball,” it came out of my mouth as “get yay ball.”

I wasn’t teased every day, but I never knew when it would pop up out of the blue. It would take no more than a couple of my friends getting bored with punch ball or whatever game we were playing, and it was time to move on to a more entertaining activity.

One they could definitely count on for a few laughs — making fun of me. I was such an easy victim.

No wonder I was an anxious, distrustful child.

It gets even worse.

In the face of vicious teasing, most kids would flee the scene as quickly as their little legs could carry them and go running home to their mommy, knowing that love and safety were only a hug away.

But not me. I didn’t budge an inch. I just stood there taking it — legs frozen in place, tears streaming down my cheeks, feeling like a worthless piece of garbage. Just praying my “friends” would get bored sooner than later and move on to some other diversion.

Why did I keep my pain to myself rather than run off into my mother’s arms? I don’t know for sure as I’m not a child psychologist, but I suspect …

Little Arty chose to suffer in silence as an act of self-preservation.

Somehow, I knew in my gut that if I went running to my mother for comfort, I’d only end up feeling more rejected, that I would not get that special mommy-hug that would convey to me everything would be ok. That I was ok.

At best, I’d get an empty hug, devoid of the compassion and reassurance I so desperately needed. I’d feel abandoned by my mommy when I needed her most.

That would have been too much for me to bear. That much I knew.

So I kept my pain to myself — a wise choice at the time, as it helped me survive. On the flip side, it left me with wounds I carry with me to this day.

You can see the symbolism of those wounds in my fourth-grade photo.

When I came across it, my first thought was, “Shit, I can’t use it. The picture’s damaged. It looks like a shard of glass is penetrating the left side of my head.” And then I realized that it was the perfect picture to use, as the shard of glass was symbolic of the damage I had already incurred by such a tender age.

I was teased well into my teenage years. I can’t recall what it was about. The details don’t really matter. As, in essence, it was just different spins of the “get yay ball” theme — friends suddenly turning on me, my standing around taking it, praying for the torment to end sooner than later, and in the aftermath, never sharing a lick of my pain with my mother. Or with my father, for that matter.

I’m Making Really Good Progress, But I Still Bear the Childhood Scars

I’m no longer that cute 8-year-old boy, as you can see from the picture above. That’s what six decades will do for you.

Thank god I’m a lot more self-confident than I was back then. Most days, I feel good about myself. I know I’m a likable guy with a lot to offer the world. Of course, I have my flaws, but I’m willing to work on them. And that makes all the difference.

These changes did not miraculously happen. Nor were they merely a product of the passage of time.

Rather, they happened because of the effort I’ve put into learning to live my life as the authentic Arty I was always meant to be.

Adult me has self-growth tools and puts them to good use.

My toolkit includes psychotherapy and participating in 12-step meetings geared towards helping men and women with similar childhood experiences recover from wounds that came about from being raised by emotionally dysfunctional parents.

Yet despite all my progress …

Little wounded Arty is ever-present within 69-year-old me.

And, though it happens less often, he is still frequently triggered to come out. These are the habits he falls back into …

Little wounded Arty is constantly on the lookout for any potential sign of rejection.

His antennae are fine-tuned to detect even the subtlest trace of disapproval, whether communicated via facial expression, tone of voice, or a comment that could be interpreted as even the mildest of criticisms.

Little wounded Arty is a master of giving himself a hard time.

If anything goes wrong, his first instinct is to find fault in himself. His self-dialog goes something like this, ad nauseam … I screwed up again. Shit! What’s wrong with me. Why didn’t I do the right thing in the first place? I should have known better.

Little wounded Arty personalizes everything.

Somebody looks at me the wrong way — what did I do now? Somebody criticizes something I said — that was a stupid thing for me to say! Somebody looks distracted when I’m talking to them — I’m such a boring person!

Little wounded Arty is always comparing himself to others and focusing on where he falls short.

My friend R***** is so handy — why am I such a klutz? (Never mind all the things that I can do better than R*****. They don’t count.)

I wish I could take away all of his pain in an instant. Unfortunately, I can’t. But I can and will be there for him. He will never again feel alone and unsupported.

Becoming My Own Loving Parent — My Path to Healing

I have two distinct voices inside my head. And no, that’s not indicative of mental illness.

One voice is that of little wounded Arty — insecure and afraid of the world.

Then there’s the other voice in my head. This one is relatively new — it’s only been around for the last couple of years.

It’s the voice of my inner loving parent. He has only one job, but it’s a big one — to be there for little wounded Arty. To take care of him in the way his biological parents never did.

My inner loving parent is available to little wounded Arty around the clock. He’s there to listen anytime he wants to talk — about anything that’s troubling him. Nothing is too small.

If my inner loving parent hasn’t heard from little wounded Arty for a while, he checks in with him to see how he’s doing. Just to make sure all is OK — that he’s not falling back into old habits of keeping his troubles to himself and attacking himself in the process.

Here’s what little wounded Arty’s inner loving parent told him the first time they met a couple of years ago …

I love you, my precious one. I will always be there for you. You’ll never be alone again.

You can talk to me about anything, and I’ll be there to listen. I will never judge you or shame you. I may not have all the answers, but if I don’t, then I’ll get the help I need to figure it out.

If you don’t feel like talking, and you just want a hug, you got it— there’s no need to explain.

You don’t need to be perfect. I love you exactly as you are. If you make mistakes, it’s no big deal. I’ll help you learn from them. We’re a team.

Trust in yourself. You’re a good person, and a smart one too. Not to mention kind. If somebody doesn’t want to be your friend, it’s their loss.

And here’s the most important thing I want you to know — what I want for you most of all …

To reenter the world and play once again, as you did before your world became a frightening place.

Dance, jump into puddles, giggle, make silly faces, pretend. You deserve that joy.

If anybody ever bothers you, just let me know and we’ll talk. I’ve got your back.

Now get out there now, and have a blast. I’ll be home waiting for you.

Oops, I almost forgot — I love you!