Face to Face

(TW: Religious trauma, child abuse)
She sits in the pew, praying fervently, Face screwed up with distress. Her big brown eyes look up at me From a small, freckled face As I take the place on her left.
"What were you praying about?" I ask. A nosey question, I know, But the girl looks relieved.
"Preacher said all humans are sinful and bad," She explains, brow furrowed seriously. "That means I'm sinful and bad, So I'm asking Jesus to make me good."
I bite my lip, forming my response. "Sweetheart, that's not true." I add at her confused little face, "It's something they say to scare you, So you'll believe like they do. Because if you think for yourself, They can't control you."
The girl stares at the floor, Taking in my words, Before frowning at me. She takes a breath, as if to speak, But seems to think better of it. I know she has learned by now That too many questions lead To annoyed and angry adults.
"It's okay," I urge. "You can ask me. I promise I won't be mad."
She gives me a suspicious glare But takes another breath. "Mommy and Daddy were there When Preacher said people are bad. Daddy nodded like he agreed, And Mommy looked sad and guilty. Why would they believe it, Let Preacher teach me it, If it isn't true?"
"Because mommies and daddies don't know everything. They were taught this, too. You'll learn as you get older What they say and do isn't always right."
I let her sit with her bewilderment Until I notice her lip quivering And tears in her eyes. I pull the girl into my lap, and she clings to me Like a lifeline As I stroke her dirty-blond hair.
This little girl in my arms Is not old enough to understand The abuse she has endured. She only knows things at home are bad No matter how hard she tries to be good.
Preacher gave her an easy answer: She can't be good enough, No matter how hard she tries. But he promised Jesus can fix it, Fix her, And so she's prayed And pled And cried.
In a few moments, I've given her a truth That took me another decade to find: There is no easy answer. No amount of prayer will change her parents Or the hell that she lives through.
"I know you've never gotten What you need from our parents," I whisper, holding back tears of my own. "But I'm here now. I can take care of us."
The little girl looks up at me, Relief on her face so palpable It hits me
Like a brick.
--
I raise my hand to my therapist, Signaling to end this round of EMDR. Gentle tears rolling down my face, I relay to them the conversation And the realization that came.
I knew already that I didn't receive The emotional support I needed from my parents. But in that moment, When a second-grade version of myself looked at me With wide-eyed relief, I finally Truly felt it.

Inner child work always seemed a little Hippie-woo-woo, even to me. But when my mind brought into view The little girl I once was, It seemed only natural To sit beside her And offer what comfort I could.
We weren't even working on religious trauma, Though it is on the list. Like mind and heart, I separate my wounds Into neat categories To be prioritized: • Abuse: verbal and emotional, Divided further into childhood and adult • Trauma: religious • Anxiety • Depression • Intrusive suicidal ideation
An orderly list to be checked off, Attacking just one thread at a time.
Yet I've come to realize it all overlaps: A twisted tangle of emotional scars, And at its core Is a sad, confused little girl In need of a grown-up Who will actually give her the unconditional love She so desperately deserves.
So that maybe Finally We can heal.