There once was a girl…

There once was a girl who had a little curl,
right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good, she was very very good,
but when she was bad she was horrid.

Or so went the rhyme she was told when little, for yes, she’d had a little curl in the middle of her forehead.

From the photos she brought with her, she looked angelic – rather like Shirley Temple in truth – and while no doubt in any way perfect, she struggled to believe she’d been horrid. And yet… she wondered why they kept repeating that rhyme to her. What had she done?

Her younger sister was born when she was just a year old, but all the photographic evidence is of her being a proud and loving big sister. Indeed, there are no family tales of her being anything other… and yet, there it is, that rhyme.

Of course, switching to the adult point of view, we know about first children whose noses are put out of joint when they discover they are no longer the centre of their parent’s universe, especially when there’s another cute little baby whose needs are greater than theirs. And yes, sometimes that can spill into less than ideal behaviour – dependant upon either the way it is handled or the nature of the child.

And that’s why she had come to me. Could she be hypnotised and taken back to those years, to see if there was anything…?

The memories came quickly. They were close the sisters, doing everything together, dressing the same, even treated the same. Well, except for when they got into trouble – that’s when she was told, over and over, in that serious grown-up parent voice, that she was expected to be better…. being older.

All that was clear from the memories is they were the fixed person, one to the other, in a life spent travelling. So on we progressed.

When they got older, the bickering of childhood changed into fighting – not physically, but fierce – for they were so different. Yet still they had each other’s backs; even when they fell out, she remembered that no other person was allowed to upset her little sister – and those that did, got their eye blacked.

For yes, she had a temper. And she was punished for it, being told it wasn’t ladylike, and it wasn’t nice, and that she had to learn to control it. But when what you’re experiencing is red mist… how do you control it? ‘Cos no-one made any practical suggestions about how… and she was only 11 or 12, with hormones going crazy.

As they got older, she remembered taking care her sister, especially when they were travelling alone – all the arranging, the organising, making stuff happen. Surely this was her being a good elder sister? Especially as, even now being mature adults, her sister still turns to her for help.

The recalling of memories complete, we commenced reviewing them from an adult point of view. What was clear is while that rhyme had got stuck in her memory from when she was very little, the knowledge of her temper had caused her to believe there must’ve been something – something dark and horrid that she’d done. But eventually came the acknowledgement that in a family which didn’t hold back in telling you off when you’d done wrong, while never praising what you did right, how could that something dark and horrid not be spoken about?

What we’re left with is the image of that little girl, the one with the curly hair, believing so readily that the words of that rhyme were being said about her. Now all I have to do is help her believe it is long overdue that she put down that burden.

© Debs Carey, 2024