Heartfelt

Those two words bring up a lot of distress for me. Mostly because I can’t. Memory is selective, and the memories I draw on most are of being the peacemaker. Had you seen me as a tween, you would have deduced that I was happy-go-lucky. The “Baruch Hashemer,” if you will.

My mantras included: “Great! Great!” It was always great. And: “AMAAAZING!” It was always amazing. And the all-time favorite: “No Worries.” Except it wasn’t great, nor amazing, and there were many, many worries.

As a kid, negative feelings were a no-no. “Ach, why are you upset? Snap out of it.” And, “Stop being mad, make shalom.”

I could have cried very easily, because many things made me sad: Someone making fun of me (I was the epitome of “your mother dressed you funny” — apparently even the saleslady at Alexanders department store couldn’t convince my mother that the mauve paisley blouse didn’t go with a red-and-white checked skirt); being left out (I was only chosen for things like dodgeball because my small size made it harder to hit me); and mostly, being misunderstood.