It Doesn't Hurt Me: Why Do We Endure

2024 Author: Harry Day | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-17 15:43

Towards the age of forty, I found the origins of many psychological attitudes in childhood. One of them: "It doesn't hurt me." Over the course of her life, she repeatedly hit me on the head with the demand to admit the opposite. Stepping into childhood memories, I realized that all the heroism that I was so proud of was not at all from strength of character, but from the fear of appearing weak. And a number of stories from childhood very convincingly confirm this.

I remember myself well from the age of five, apart from fragmentary memories of an earlier age. By this time, she was already practically an established personality, like any average five-year-old child. Yes Yes exactly. The experience of my children's centers has shown that at the age of five we see a fully formed character with our own reactions, preferences and, alas, complexes. And what is inherent in the child by this period, so he will go further, if you do not correct some nuances.

The painful divorce of my parents and the principles of Soviet upbringing convinced me by the age of five in one thing: the pain must be endured and hidden. You cannot show weakness to anyone, you cannot create inconveniences and make those around you worry. The first memorable stories, lived according to this principle, are kindergarten stories.

In order not to upset the teachers, I silently, without a single sound, endured all kinds of manipulations

One of them is pretty funny. At the age of five, on an evening walk, I suddenly wanted to know if my head would fit into the circular pattern of the iron lattice gazebo. I got in. But I didn't get out. I was on one side of the grate, and my head was sticking out on the other. With all the attempts of the frightened educators to return the curious head to the side of the body, it hurt and scared me.

But I remembered that you can't show pain and fear. And, in order not to upset the educators, silently, without a single sound, without a single tear, she endured all kinds of manipulations to remove the head. Salvation was a bucket of water that performed a miracle. And the mother, who was following me at that moment, was given her daughter wet, but safe and sound.

Another incident (although far from the only one) happened at the age of seven, in the summer before school. I broke my arm, again out of curiosity trying to walk from end to end on a scale swing. Having reached almost the finish line, I suddenly took off and landed … A brave girl who jumped to the other edge helped to carry out this trick. As a result, I fell, woke up - a plaster cast.

True, in my case, it did not come to plaster so quickly. In the ambulance, the teacher worried about me all the way and cried. In the hospital, she kept sobbing, asking every five minutes: "Alla, does it hurt?" “It doesn't hurt,” I answered courageously, holding back tears, to calm her down. But after my words, the teacher for some reason cried harder.

Many times in my life it happened “I didn’t hurt” when it hurt, when both the body suffered and the soul. It became a kind of programming pattern for me not to allow myself to admit weakness and not to show this weakness to others.

I realized the horror of the problem when my daughter was admitted to the infectious diseases hospital at the age of five. The situation was dire. She was given six shots a day with several antibiotics for all suspected infections. And never once, as before during such procedures, did she utter not a sound, which delighted all the medical staff and other mothers.

I gave my daughter a program of patience and shame from admitting pain.

I exclaimed with admiration: “How strong you are, my girl! How brave! I'm proud of you! And on the tenth day, already before discharge, after the final injection, as soon as the nurse left the ward, she cried so desperately:

- Mom, it hurts so much! All these injections are so painful! I can not stand it any longer!

- Why didn't you tell me about it? Why didn't you cry if it hurt? I asked in shock.

- You are so happy that all the children are crying, but I am not. I thought you loved me more for this, and you would be ashamed if I paid, - as if apologizing, answered the daughter.

Words cannot express how my heart ached at that moment and stirred up a lot of emotions, from guilt to the curses of my stupidity and even cruelty towards my own child! Children are our reflection. I gave my daughter a program of patience and shame from admitting pain. Ridiculous encouragement and praise for patience and courage made her imagine that for this I love her more than if she cried like all children.

At 42, I finally allowed myself, without shame, to say: "It hurts"

And I told her something that still works, three years later: “Never endure pain, no pain! If it hurts, talk about it. Don't be ashamed to admit that you are in pain. Don't be afraid to be weak. I love you differently, because you are my girl!"

I was happy that I heard my child and was able to turn off this program, introduced by its own virus, in time. My personal reboot took place only at 42, when I finally allowed myself to say without shame: "It hurts" if it hurts. And this is not weakness, as I thought before, this is a necessary reaction to save myself from even more pain and mental wounds.

This experience taught me how important it is to hear the inner child, once crushed long ago by adult attitudes and resentments. This allows you to understand and hear your child in the future, to save you from having to go through a long path of healing.