Inner Child Meltdowns
- Anika Yuzak
- Feb 29, 2024
- 2 min read
She can't be over 4 feet tall and loves red jelly shoes. Feathers of any kind always catch her eye, which she likes to make into bookmarks for all her friends. She can spend hours away in her room drawing pictures of Garfield but feels best around people, making them laugh.
She's sensitive, too, maybe because she's the product of the '80s. She was born into a family where emotional availability wasn't even a thing, a latchkey kid—raised by a single mother who was busy with adventuring and work. As a result, she can be theatrical in her worries.
Often she shows up pulling at my psyche just when I'm starting to work or get some momentum going. I can almost always sense her presence just as I'm about to take an essential creative risk. What will people think? Will we be judged? Cast aside and arrested by the police for bad ideas?
I've become more familiar with her these days. And when an inevitable meltdown comes, I sit her down, listen to her wail, cry, and flop around. I entertain her histrionic worst-case scenarios and catastrophic fears for a little bit. Then I make a metaphorical basket filled with soft blankets for her. I tuck her in and stroke her imaginary hair. I tell her, "It's ok; they are just feelings. It's ok to be afraid, depressed, sad and even angry. I'm here, and I'll deal with it. It's going to be fine."
I set the basket by my feet or in the other room on the bed, and it doesn't take long before she falls asleep, and I can be back to the page or the script, where the ideas quickly come in the stillness.
