2024 Author: Harry Day | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-17 15:43
Those who are now 30
It so happened that I now have to hear a lot of advice from people of the older generation on how to handle a child. And if you can just score on "dill water", then instructions in the spirit of "do not rock you", "do not get used to hands" and "put in bed and move away" lead me to bitter thoughts about how shitty it was to be us babies. We are those who are now 30.
This post is not a lament for what was lost and not an attempt to accuse our parents of being "not given enough." (Because "… they gave everything they could - what they didn't give, they couldn't." - Ekaterina Mikhailova) But only when I became a mother, I realized that all these “not” in the instructions that are so generously distributed now are all those “not” that later emerge in adult life. Suddenly, suddenly and, as a rule, sideways.
So what happens: we are those who were not "rocked" and "were not accustomed to the hands"? Who was put in the cold of the bed sheets of a crib to fall asleep on their own, and not near the warm mother's body, from birth, but in fact - from the unconscious still from the neonatal period - "Educating" the ability to "cope on your own"?
That is, these are not some abstract advice that are presented to us as the truth, but techniques pumped over on real children.
And these children are not some abstract hypothetical children, spherical wooden horses in a vacuum, but … we?
Independent from birth, "somehow grown up - and nothing." Not disliked, no - but underwhelmed, not in the hands of my father, not listening to my mother's heartbeat.
Maybe this is the reason why my generation is so hungry for hugs? Such, in fact, not spoiled by them - "mother, scratch your back" is carried through life as a holy artifact, a precious "secret" of childhood. It was only later that they stroked us on the head, when we were good and comfortable - favorites in the kindergarten, the best in school, on a budget.
And then, when love was needed unconditional (the words are not yet known, the picture is blurred), how could we understand that we are loved?
Maybe that's where this population of social introverts comes from - please don't touch me; and what - is it necessary to hug?
The stupidest thing is that we are the first to want this - to hug, and stroke gently, and let us cry on our shoulder, and lull us to sleep in our arms. We are looking for ordinary tactile kindness, we yearn for it. They only shout: sex, sex, but in reality - hug me, please, don't bury me behind the plinth …
Therefore, now, through my son, I am refining myself. And my husband. And their parents. And there is that strong girl who so desperately wants warmth, but who puts up such shields and barriers that she can't get through. And that boy who never allows himself to cry, who is “all by himself,” is so cold, so independent, and if you accidentally touch the fontanel of the heart, you cannot calm it down.
I look into the still cosmic, like all babies, eyes of my child and repeat like a mantra: "Whatever happens, I want you to know: you are loved."
I want this to be deposited in his subconscious, so that this knowledge becomes skin. I am writing to him about this in letters "for growth" so that he, the future 30-year-old, at the psychoanalyst's reception has nothing to talk about. Unless: you know, doctor, I trust this life, I don’t know why, but I trust; from birth to now -
I accept it as a gift
and myself in it - like a miracle.
You have tired eyes, doctor.
Hug you?
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