My daughter is a tornado. A rock'n'roll princess who never takes off her rollerblades. Its plunging bob and bangs perfectly outline a thin face that asserts a powerful and volcanic character. Her bedroom is the reflection of this chaotic transition between childhood and adolescence. This period, she tackles it awkwardly, like a monkey bridge that makes her tag, wobble, twirl. And when the entry into adolescence is done on skates, the waltz is all the more unlikely. In my daughter's eyes, I see the ardor and tenderness but so many questions, doubts and darkness. My daughter has created a world that reassures her, made of things she knows, people she loves, her damn candy that she hides everywhere and her rollerblades.
My daughter has since a young age a mysterious little bag, which she takes everywhere and which she categorically refuses to tell us about, even if it means getting into dark anger transforming the beautiful princess on wheels into a dark young girl. This little bag which was his blanket, his confidant, his imaginary friend, his punching bag in case of great anger then more recently his diary or a fashion accessory has ended up existing among us. But over the years, she put more and more things into it, never wanting to tell us which ones. I could see it just by the way this bag was getting bigger, wearing out the colorful tulle straps a little more every day.
All my suggestions for making a new bag have come to nothing. The more her life vacillated, the more she seemed immersed in dizzying sadness.
And that day has arrived. I put away his rollerblades, put his headphones on his desk, letting his music roar in the background. I lay down in the dark, on her bed next to her. I told him: "you are everything in my eyes, but I can't see in your eyes anymore, what makes you so sad, what makes you angry, with me. I know you don't want me speak, then write to me ".
This time, she was not summoned to explain, to say, but the proposal to send this email, with the promise not to comment, not to have to justify herself, without ever coming back to it, this idea pleased this almost adolescent.
She wrote me an email, a single short sentence, which still echoes in my head. "Mom, I blame you because of my illness."
Maybe she put down the weight of her anger or threw the guilt that was allotted to me at my feet. Maybe that day the little girl got closer to the teenager or finished crossing the monkey bridge, maybe the wave has passed. But since this very small sentence, her bag has never grown, she added nothing, as if it was finally complete, without needing to be reassured.
In my daughter's eyes, I saw appeasement. Nothing is won, nor quite simple, but something can finally change.
The small bag
