Our Inner Kangaroo Court

Sometimes, our inner system looks like this:

Our strategies stop working.  The ways we had once earned belonging seem to have become less effective.   We perceive that people aren’t responding positively to us.

We panic.  “What’s going wrong?”  Our protective parts scramble to make adjustments so we no longer feel that dreaded sense of potentially not belonging.  It might feel like we’re about to fall off a cliff, and our protectors grab whatever at they can to prevent it.

If that doesn’t work, our inner critic rises up and makes a pronouncement – some version of, “You are unworthy,” which makes the protectors feel like they’ve failed and touches into a core wound.

The inner critic is a protector wearing the robes of a judge, and there are other protectors acting as the team of defense attorneys, filing briefs, gathering evidence of worthiness.  The one on trial is the young one who, as a child, was desperate to be accepted, to get their needs met, to feel that sense of belonging that all humans are neurologically wired to need.

We can imagine the inner child on the stand, looking to their team of lawyers, hoping the proof of their worthiness will be adequate.  That has happened before, many times. 
“This other person actually included us.”
“We accomplished something other people value.”
Many times, the defense team has offered proof that the judge has had to grudgingly accept. 

The problem is that the trial is never over.  Though there are recesses, this child part must be put back in the courtroom again and again, accused of the crime of not being good enough.

But what if the trial itself is a sham?  What if it’s a false construct, created as theater to mitigate some underlying corruption?  As very young children, when our needs aren’t met, we have a few conclusions we can come to as to why that is happening:
“My caregivers are unavailable, overwhelmed, limited, frightening, or unreliable.”
or…
“I am unworthy.”

For a child, “My caregivers can’t or won’t meet my needs” is so scary and sad, it’s overwhelming; we have no idea what to do with it. 
“I am unworthy,” on the other hand, feels a bit safer because we think that perhaps we can change that.  “Maybe,” we think, “I can make myself worthy.”

And our protectors seek out and then take on roles that will help us prove our worthiness. 
“I’ll try harder.”
“I’ll be better.”
“I’ll figure out what they want and give them that.”
“I’ll make myself stand out from the crowd.”
“I’ll be smart enough to figure this out.”
“I’ll be the one who understands them.”

And the inner critic takes on the role of judge – scanning always for signs that our worthiness is in question.

Someone who loves us might say, “You don’t need to do anything to be loved, you are fine just as you are.”

That might feel good to the protective parts, but that young exiled part who felt the pain of disconnection wonders,
“Then why didn’t my earliest caregivers see me?”
“Why wasn’t I cherished?”
“Why did I not feel I belonged?”

That is grief.  That’s what the whole system has been avoiding: the grief of not feeling loved.  (Of course, that’s different from not being loved.  We can talk about that.  But not feeling loved is an injury too, even if it was unintended.)

So, when a protector reacts to the judge’s verdict of “You’re not good enough” with panicked scrambling to make us good enough again, we can interrupt the cycle.

When the defense team jumps into, “I’ve got to prove I’m worthy of belonging,” we can take a breath and say,
“I see why you are panicking.  For a long time, your efforts to make us worthy did make us feel safer.  You developed us in some very important ways, and your efforts are much appreciated.  I’m not asking you to stop caring that we belong.  I’m asking you to let me be with the one you’re protecting before you launch into your strategies again.”

And when the defense team pauses, we can look at the defendant, this little one who only wanted to belong, and say,
“I am here with you.”
“I do not accept the verdict that you were unworthy.”
“The fact that you felt unseen or unloved did not mean you were defective.”
“When you felt unloved, you made that mean something about you.  I understand why.  Something happened to you.  Something was missing.  Something hurt.  And you were worthy in the midst of all of that.”
“Let’s pause together.  I’ll be here with you.”

The young one does not have to prove her worthiness.  The young one needs us to stop putting her on trial.

Because even if the defense wins the argument (for now), the courtroom is not where healing happens.

The healing move is taking the child’s hand and getting them out of the courtroom altogether.