Nursery Rhymes

There once was a little 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.
I can’t forget the sound of my own voice echoing out, “I’m not a little girl, I don’t have a little curl.” Of course, only being but a young child, I didn’t realise that my innocent and stubborn defiance was more like a chant warding off a cruel curse. My mum could never have known that her playful descriptions of the soft kiss curls that framed my face could yield such a devastating metaphor that was to come.
The light hearted childhood rhyme may convey a story about a moody and untameable child, but to me dictates the struggle underfoot through my life. When I am good, no power on this earth can stop me. However, the horrid, oh the horrid that can be so blissfully put to the far reaches of my mind can come crashing back. The horrid comes like the simple exhale venturing forth to extinguish my candle. I am left wretched and bruised. Void of light except for a glowing ember and the smoke curling away from a flame once bright.
The fear that rocks me the most is that of the untameable, the unimaginable and the chronic. I have become accustomed to that once unnameable foe, but fear can never be completely vanquished. Having a poor memory does help quell it some, but the fragments bringing forth tormenting snippets still remains. However horrid these pieces of me, I don’t think I would change if I was lucky enough to be offered the choice. Even if some divine being were to present itself to me in this very moment and push the proverbial reset button, I would not abide. For who I am has been devised and crafted this way, through many trials and tribulations of the soul. Thus, on the back of fear what rides closely is the strength in who I am.