Those of us who were raised by narcissists are the Bonsai Children.
The seed that was us was just as whole and full of glorious potential as every other seed. We had the wondrous vibrant audacious potential to grow deep roots to embrace the earth and spread exuberant branches to hug the sky. But we were not planted into freedom, into rich earth, with room for our roots to firmly claim our share of the earth, and to anchor ourselves solidly, and from there to grow upwards, strong and sturdy, reaching for the sky, branching out, green and vivid and hearty.
No.
We were planted into a tiny pot. It might even have been a pretty pot, a ceramic pot with cute round feet and curlicues and swathes. It might have been an ugly pot, cracked and broken terracotta. But it was for sure a constraining, limiting, shackling pot. Our roots were limited, growing only a miniscule distance before they reached the cold hard uncaring limits of the pot. And so they had no choice, these roots, but to remain tiny puny things with only a tenuous hold on the tiny parcel of earth they had been allocated.
And some of us were watered well in that pot, and fed well. We were still stunted though by the inherent limits of the pot. Others of us were not even given enough of our basic needs with inconsistent watering and very little food, so the stunting came from many angles.
With our roots so limited, and possibly our needs barely met, how could we grow tall and strong and solid? We could not.
But just to be sure we did not grow to our potential our twigling shoots were ruthlessly clipped and pruned to keep us small. Our tiny hopeful branches were wrapped in tight coils of harsh cold metal which were then twisted and manipulated to make them grow in the shape desired by our creator. This desired shape being an imitation and a mockery of how we would look as adults, if left to grow freely. The desired shape of another, to whom our very existence, our very shape, our reality, was a matter for their whim and preference over our own true needs.
From the thin artificial soil of our pots we could see other trees. We saw how boldly and unapologetically they grew. But even as we looked in awe and envy at the real trees, we did not realise that that was our birthright too, stolen from us. We did not even realise we could aspire to grow as robustly. We thought that such strength and beauty was for other trees, better trees. And so, we were small and weak and stunted and hobbled, and we blamed ourselves for it. A double pain. To be so less-than, and to be at fault for that. So many layers of shame.
And indeed our creator blamed us too, if we dared to question it. You were fit for nothing but to be a Bonsai Child, they’d sneer. You’re lucky we kept you at all. You’re lucky we watered you when other trees access their own water. You’re lucky we fed you when other trees work for their own nutrients. You are pathetic and you dare to question us who have given you everything?? And it seems true; it seems plausible, so our meagre branches bow lower, and our tiny leaves quiver in the heat of the breath and spittle of their anger. This is what it means to be a Bonsai Child.
The biggest leap we’ll ever take is the mental leap of knowing that the pot is not our true home, the metal binds not our true clothing. After that there’s the physical leap to leave the pot and claim our birthright. But we carry the years of stunting with us, struggling to recover, to grow as strong and tall as the other trees do effortlessly. And maybe blaming ourselves for that struggle, not realizing that it’s the grotesque legacy of being one of the Bonsai Children and none of our doing at all.
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