The Ripple Effect by EMILY DICUS
“I lost it.” I close my eyes tightly, then, it comes back to me,
“That it’s my fault.” I open my eyes and tears begin to stream down my face. She leans in, analyzing my body language.
“On a scale of 1-10, how disturbing does that feel to you?”
“10,” I reply without hesitation, my hands trembling. Donna, my psychologist, knows instantly that my nervous system just entered fight or flight.
“What would you rather believe?” she inquires, leaning in.
“That I’m not crazy, and it’s not my fault.” I wipe the tears from my face. She gives me a smirk. After two years of working with her, I knew that smirk means that I’ve hit the nail on the head.
“On a scale of 1-7, how true does that feel?” She leans in again. This time she holds a blank face, indicating she isn’t looking for any particular answer, just my honest truth. My head hangs low, and I begin to hold pressure on my left pinky, a nervous tick of mine.
“One.” I say, weighted by shame, fear, and guilt.
“What would you rather believe?” She smirks again. With a raised eyebrow she slightly tilts her chin down and to her right. She’s prompting me again. I stare at her for a moment, thinking hard, asking myself this question: What will make it go away?
The sun shined bright in the background, and I saw the silhouette of my toddler, Maverick, playing beneath the monkey bars of my old elementary school playground. I could hear his precious giggles and my chest sang with love and admiration. How did I create something so perfect? I looked over to the right, and standing off to the side was a little girl with pigtails about the same size as him. She had her hands clasped together, looking down at the ground nervously moving gravel around with her foot. She caught Maverick’s attention, his cheesy grin fell, and he looked at me with concern. He is incredibly empathetic for a one-year-old, he could sense that something was wrong instantly. I watched with utmost pride as he carefully approached her with arms stretched out, ready to hug her dejection away. I looked around searching for her parents to share the sweet moment he comes to her rescue and transforms her unknown tragedy into a fun day at the park, like every kid deserves. But I don’t see any adults nearby. In fact, I don’t see anyone. The eerie silence turned to concern as I started towards them, the dusty gravel coating my shoes.
“Maverick come here please.” I said over the crunching of the gravel. His head tilted with curiosity as he broke his embrace. Her eyes remained glued to the ground while I approached her. I knelt down to level with the top of her blonde-pigtailed head and gave her a warm smile. Maverick took a step back, but he remained next to her, carefully observing the interaction. “What’s your name hon?” No response. “Who brought you here? Did you lose them?” I looked around one more time. I wondered if the mom was somewhere trying to locate a lost toy, or maybe a sibling left her here. My older sister used to do that to me all the time. She lowered her head further, fixing her gaze on her pink and white checkered shoes in silence.
Abruptly, I heard the inaudible yelling of an angry parent. Ah, there’s the mom. I stood up to flag her down, “She’s over here!” I called out, but I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. I looked back at the little girl. She shrank down to the ground, hiding her face in her lap and cradling her knees. “Are you okay?” I asked, I began to feel alarmed. Her body trembled and she began to cry. The air grew heavy, my heart began to pound. Her terror seeped into my core. The voice was getting louder and louder, closer, and closer. The world around us started closing in. Suddenly, I got the feeling we were being chased. My parental instincts kicked in immediately. I grabbed her arm and pulled her and Maverick into my center, acting as a shield against the unknown threat.
“Let me ask you this, what is the feeling? Guilt, fear, maybe- Shame?” Donna’s voice snaps me out of my trance. Shame. Earlier that day, my grandma had sent my dad a photo of my sister and I when I was Maverick’s age attached to a message, “Maverick is her twin!” It’s almost unsettling. We have the same sandy blonde hair, high cheekbones, and the same almond-shaped eyes. If I threw a pink dress on him, you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. For some odd reason, I felt embarrassed looking at the uncanny similarities. In the photo, I was hanging onto some playground equipment on my sisters' shoulders. My tiny arms stretched up to the yellow handles of the monkey bars. We couldn’t have been older than 3 and 6. I remembered that day on our walk home, we took the dirt trail on the neighborhood's outskirts, and I fell into a huge puddle of mud seconds after my mom yelled at me, “Don’t get dirty!” She had just bought me a brand-new pair of shoes. The pink and white checkered shoes were ruined by the thick black mud that coated my hands and clothes. Shame. “It’s shame!” I exclaim. Donna almost pops out of her chair with excitement.
“Let’s go with that, where do you feel the shame in your body?” I close my eyes, gripping the buzzers in my hands as they begin to vibrate back and forth.
I held on to Maverick and the little girl tightly, shielding them from the rapid fire of swear words and insults, looking at their innocent faces. Their eyes widened with fear and confusion. I couldn’t help but notice how similar they looked. Then, I saw it. A muddy shoe print was stamped across her face. I felt the tears streaming down my cheeks, realizing the little girl was myself. I heard the shattering of empty beer bottles collecting in the trash. How ashamed I was, at the age of three.
The vibrations stop. I open my eyes, bursting into tears. Donna hands me a bottle of water, and for a moment we sit together in silence. “Take a deep breath, what did you notice?” Donna’s eyes well up, she’s holding back tears.
“I just wanted- “my voice broke, and I sob even harder, “clean clothes,” I gasp, “I didn’t mean to.” Donna swallows hard. I can barely see through my tears, just her blurry figure sitting there, motionless, holding the buzzer in her lap. “It was an accident. I was just playing and being a normal kid getting dirty.” I say, dabbing away tears with a tissue. Finally, I’m able to take a long deep breath. My shoulders drop and my arms go limp, it feels like I’ve been holding a massive boulder over my head the entire session.
“Do you believe you deserved that?” she asks.
“No. I deserved a safe parent. I deserved to wear clean clothes to bed.” Her concern turns into a comforting smile.
“Let’s go with that.” she says gently. “Focus on the feeling of safety, and you deserve to have safe relationships. You were acting like a normal child. Think about your son, how would you react to Maverick falling in some mud?” I close my eyes, and the buzzers begin to vibrate back and forth once more. “Focus.” I think to myself. “Self-love. Self-compassion. Forgiveness.” I take a deep breath.
Bravely, I stood up tall. Shoulders back, chin up. With a loud, booming voice, I yelled; “STOP!” The sound of the clanking glass bottles came to a halt. The profanities hushed, silenced by a peaceful wave of self-love. I knelt before that hurt little girl and put my hand on one shoulder. I wiped the mud off her face with my sleeve and whispered,
"They can’t hurt you anymore. I will protect you.” I pulled her into a tight embrace. I watched her as she evolved into a lost 19-year-old girl, holding her bleeding heart in a puddle of tears. “Don’t give up. You did it, everything you are begging God and the Universe and anything that will listen to happen, will happen.” I whispered to her. “You’re free, you are finally free. Keep going.” The broken me became a mirror. As I gazed into my reflection, I finally felt safe.
The vibrations stop. A smile spreads across my face and I take a long, deep breath.
“What are you noticing?” Donna asks. I open my eyes.
“I deserve healthy and loving relationships,” I say. “I am safe now.” The tears stop.
“On a scale of 1-7, how true does that feel?” Donna beams.
“7,” I laugh.
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- CREATIVE WORKS: FICTION & PROSE University of Alaska Anchorage Department of English