Ugly. Fat. Worthless. Stupid. 

These horrible words make us recoil when our kids hurl them, but why do we level them so easily at ourselves? What is it about the essence of our nature that allows such disrespect? Is it culture? Upbringing? Neurological wiring?

I’ve never really done therapy before. Oh, I’ve still got the referral letter that I braved going to the doctor for after that relentless first year with Hudson, but something else was always more important – more valid than my need to figure out my own mess. So I never made the appointment, never took the step of actually settling down onto that proverbial couch.

I’m not worth the time. 

If one of the kids comes down with something or struggles with their emotions, it isn’t even a question of whether I will be there for them. It is an intuitive, natural step. I love them, so I care for them. So why is it so hard to care for myself?

I’m not worth the effort. 

A couple of weeks ago I made a doctor’s appointment for myself. It had been over a year since my last one and I had collected an adequate amount of issues that needed investigating to prompt the call. I took Harvey along with truckloads of snacks and sat down to wait. We didn’t ever get past the waiting room. A long delay coupled with a screaming toddler made me hightail it out of there, tears making wet tracks down my face the moment we finally broke out of the building.

Putting myself first is selfish. 

The worst part is that sometimes we don’t even realise we are devaluing ourselves. The subconscious narratives we act out of reveal a lack of care or a tendency to punish.

I’ll do better. I’ll be better.

I have just started seeing a Spiritual Director. I’m not exactly sure what I was thinking I would get out of it, other than an awareness that I should probably investigate why I had felt the need to self-medicate with alcohol for so long. We made contact, shared a bit about ourselves and on Thursday night, we dove in.

It was brutal. Within ten minutes I was weeping, snot covering my sleeve as I felt wave after wave of realisations hit me about truths I had been unwilling or unable to see.  Boxes I had been put in, others that I constructed – a tangled web built from ‘shoulds’ and ‘shouldn’ts’, perfection and expectation. Moment after moment came to the surface – times when I physically felt the lid close over, the act of stuffing down my authentic reactions and feelings because they would impact someone else. I shared some recent dreams and dove tentatively back into circumstances to find the message of what that experience was trying to teach me. The night is a blur of ragged breaths and lightness, stunned pauses and sighs of awareness. It was beautiful.

I need to be kind to myself. 

The message underneath it all was simple, but profound. I’m messy, but not broken. Flawed but not defective. To steal a line from a poetic friend – ‘we are complicated, beautiful creatures worthy of love’*. ‘I can’t believe I haven’t seen all this before!’ I exploded at the end of the session, shaking my head in disbelief. Her response was gentle:

‘Sometimes you can’t see your own back.’

Dave was away on VCE camp for a couple of nights this week. Normally this is my cue to flail about, gnashing my teeth and becoming convinced that I’ll screw it up, that the pressure of having to do it all on my own is just too much. Even the prospect of help from family members would send me into a dither of self-criticism, as though I should be able to do it myself and the fact I need help is simply another sign of my lack.

This time, however, was different. Firstly, I accepted help with gratitude. Pat whisked Eli away for a few hours on Monday night and my Dad picked the boys up from school on Tuesday. He became the Funmaster as I whizzed around the house, cleaning up after dinner and setting the scene for a smooth bedtime routine. It worked wonderfully. I also chose not to sabotage myself. Having become more aware of my narratives, I was able to counter them with positive affirmations about my own power and how I have somehow managed to do all this before, countless times.

I am capable. 

With my recent foray into meditation, I have seen firsthand the value of carving out that space – to sit with my thoughts, to honour the silence. I found that whatever I fearfully wondered was lurking underneath the surface of my subconscious was far less ominous when I chose to examine it unflinchingly.

I am enough. 

I’m taking steps on this journey. Monitoring my self-talk and catching when it goes into negative territory. I’m asking myself what I need more often. If I need rest, I take it without lamenting the cost. Allowing the space to process real emotion is messy and hard, and I’m still learning to be comfortable with it. But each time brings with it new insights – that I am not my feelings, that they will soon pass and I will weather the storm and see the morning once again.

So put down the weapons and gaze into the mirror compassionately tonight. You are worth the most wonderful love. You are whole, not broken. Your smile is radiant. There is a divine imprint upon your soul that is utterly unique to you and you alone. Your authenticity and presence are a gift to the universe. You are a child of God.

*Thanks Christina!