I’ve done my best to make peace with my past. And I abandoned this story sometime in 2019 because it hurt too much to try to finish. As much as I wish I could say I’ve completely forgiven myself for my past, I haven’t. Some days are better than others. I am a better version of myself with each passing day. I recently started praying again, for the first time in many years. I read every book on mindfulness and acceptance that I can get my hands on. I practice acceptance.
And I suck at it. But I keep trying. The key to mastery is to keep going, right? That’s what I tell myself anyway.
I want to be happy and at peace with myself. To see myself the way I see my children. I see them. And I see their mistakes, intentional and not. I see their little hearts and see how broken they are when they mess up. Sometimes they are angry and prideful and spiteful. They get jealous, retaliate, and lie. But they are also kindhearted, generous, and thoughtful. Regardless, I never hold their mistakes against them. I aim to help them learn their lessons; I try hard to instruct rather than punish them severely.
I’ve watched as they beat themselves up. And speak to themselves in the same way the voice in my head often speaks to me. Nothing has ever broken me so quickly as to watch this.
Recently, my oldest son and I were both having a bad day. I had worked all day and the kids were crazy once I came home from work. After dinner, my son kept backtalking me and was being combative when I asked him to help me clean. Eventually, he yelled at me. I was so taken aback that I yelled back at him and sent him crying to his room. It was one of my worst moments as a mom. Later I went to his room to talk to him. He was in tears. He told me how sorry he was. I acknowledged his mistake and apologized for mine. Wrapping him in my arms, I told him how sweet and kind he was and that it had made me sad to hear him yell at me and say ugly things. But I made sure that he knew his mistake did not change his worth.
Later that night, I was still emotionally high strung as I was staring as myself brushing my teeth. It dawned on me that what I had told my son about his mistakes having no bearing on his worth, was exactly what I wished I could believe about myself. That pain was acute. With my toothbrush hanging out of my mouth, I put my elbows on the counter and put my face in my hands and cried. The knot in my throat felt like it was going to choke me. My chest felt hollow. Maybe that’s what I needed was for someone to wrap me in their arms and tell me that my mistakes had no bearing on my worth. But I knew it wouldn’t matter. I needed to believe it myself.
I’ve tried the visual exercises where I visualize putting 5 year old me in my lap and telling her how much she is loved and how much she is worth. And it’s a painful realization and exercise that always ends in tears when I realize I want so much to love and forgive myself the way I would give 5 year old me whatever she needed. But still I am paralyzed, unable to release myself from this guilt and shame. It is strange. It’s all I want. And I get closer to my goal every year. An acceptance of this person I am. But it’s still not enough.
This is the root of why I started writing this story almost 7 years ago, I just didn’t realize it at the time. I thought it was important to write everything down, to be able to let the past go. But this really always was an attempt at redemption. And I see it now. I’m on a search for a piece of myself that I lost a long time ago in this story. And I have come to finish what I started.
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