George, Where Are You?

“She held herself until the sobs of the child inside subsided entirely. I love you, she told herself. It will all be okay.” H. Raven Rose

Every child has a very best friend. A friend who knows all her secrets, even the ones not spoken. Some friends are red, yellow, green, purple, orange, some are even patch worked. Some are soft, some are fuzzy, some are smooth, some are scratchy.

My very best friend was two shades of brown. The darker on his arms and legs and around his head, and the lighter on this feet and hands, and his cute monkey face. His skin was terry cloth like perfect for wiping tears. His clothing simple. A red felt shirt and matching hat.

After a few years I made him a burgundy super-monkey cape, because George was the best stuffed monkey confidant and pal any girl could ever ask for. I also had to perform minor surgury to help my friend when one of his sensitive felt eyes were lost after years of watching after me and crying with me.

George was truly the best. He and I became instant pals when my parents gave him to me when I was three. Everywhere I went, so did George. Absolutely inseparable.

I remember a story my Granny told me about one night while I was sleeping with her. She awoke to an awful pain in her shoulder. That is when she realized George had wandered under her shoulder during the night. That silly, silly monkey, he earned his name Curious George alright.

Days even in my teens, when times would get tough, I would reach for my worn friend, he would quietly smile and listen and then more tear stains would be added to his collection. When I decided to move from home at age 19 and spread my wings, George came with me. He continued to smile. My silent friend and confidant. I think he was happy not to be left behind.

After our westward trek, he listened to the ups and the downs and my exciting adventures as he sat patiently on my shelf. Every once in a while, I would go over to that shelf, pull him off and bring him to bed with me. I would tell him more of my secrets and he would remind me of home. Tenderly holding my tears.

When the time came to move back home, George was not to be forgotten. Each step of the way he has been with me, through thick and thin.

Married now, with a new confidant, I had George on a shelf at home year or so ago, and when I came back to find him he was not there. I do not know if he has been packed in a box or lost, but every day lately I wonder about George. I ache for him. I need him.

I realize he is a stuffed animal, but he represents so much more.

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About Hope

I am forty year old survivor and a five year old victim of sexual abuse. I live with severe depression and anxiety, and in 2013 was diagnosed with DID and PTSD. My journey is to reintegrate my alter and the adult me into a whole person, healthy person, and one that can empathize with others.

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