The Good Little Girl

 I started having issues with my bladder about a year ago.

At first, I wasn’t even sure if the problem was my bladder or my pelvic area. We tried different medications and even steroid injections, but the discomfort continued to worsen.

It was uncomfortable, but it wasn’t unbearable.

That changed when I agreed to have bladder instillations.

A catheter was inserted into my bladder and medication was placed directly inside.

What I didn’t understand at the time was how deeply those visits would affect me.

They were traumatic.

Not simply because of the physical discomfort.

Something much deeper was being stirred.

I began to recognize feelings that seemed older than the procedure itself.

Fear.

Helplessness.

The feeling that I had to be still.

That I had to cooperate.

That I had to be a good little girl.

And suddenly, I began to wonder if my body was remembering something my conscious mind could not fully remember.

I had spent my childhood learning how to be good.

Good meant obeying.

Good meant not making trouble.

Good meant doing what I was told.

Good meant tolerating things that frightened me.

Good meant staying quiet.

And perhaps that little girl never really learned that she was allowed to say:

No.

She never learned that she could protect herself.

She never learned that her discomfort mattered.

So when I found myself in that doctor’s office, vulnerable and unable to control what was happening to my body, something inside me felt very small again.

The good little girl was back.

And maybe this is part of what I am being asked to understand now:

She doesn’t have to be good anymore.

She doesn’t have to endure everything.

She doesn’t have to obey fear.

She doesn’t have to stay quiet.

She can speak.

She can say no.

And most importantly—

she has me now.