Every evening at 8:30, my phone dings. Actually, now my watch dings too. I love living in the future.
Anyway, the things ding and I look at whichever one I feel like looking at and read the following words.
“I am worthy of healing.”
I just opened the app to see when I set that reminder. Apparently my technology has been reminding me that I am worthy of healing every evening since December… 2016. For over a year, I’ve picked up my phone and swiped aside the reminder.
I am worthy of healing. Swipe.
I am worthy of heal…swipe.
I am worthy of…swipe.
I am worthy…swipe.
I am worth…swipe.
I am w…swipe.
Some nights, I’m deep in the thick of getting the boys off to bed. In between snacks and “go take your shower” and laying out clothes and filling diffusers and tripping over dogs and waving a towel at the smoke detector that goes off when they forget to close the bathroom door while showering, my watch dings.
I look at it, however briefly, and I go back to the momming.
I don’t have time to consider healing most days. I’m lucky to deal with the laundry and the dogs and dinner and homework and caregiving and the ten-hour writing job I took on to help fill the financial gaps since having to leave the business. I’m making a concerted effort to maintain daily self-care because when I don’t, things go poorly.
Things meaning my mind.
Some nights, I am just sitting down on the couch. Maybe it’s a weekend. Maybe we’re on Snow Day Eleven Billion and the boys don’t have to get to bed before 9. Maybe it’s a miracle. But I hear the ding and I sigh.
These words seem exceptionally hard and extremely far away. What do they even mean? What does healing even look like? My therapist keeps asking me the same thing, over and over.
What does forgiving yourself look like? What does forgiving yourself feel like?
I don’t know. That’s why I’m in therapy. Duh.
I don’t know, though. I don’t know what it feels like to wake up and go through an entire day without telling myself that it’s all my fault. What, exactly? Everything. If I had done this or that or anything or everything differently, we wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t hate myself. I wouldn’t doubt every step.
And worthy? That feels like a hard concept to grasp, too.
You see, I can’t begin to consider being worthy because I don’t know how to forgive myself which would initiate the whole healing process. This is my carousel of self-loathing, spinning me round and round for all eternity. I don’t even know which one needs to come first at this point because all feecl equally impossible. I’m not worthy. I’m never going to heal. This is my life.
Some nights, those random evenings in between, I’m caught off guard. I know it’s coming, but it will ding and I’ll be like, “What?” I’ll look and, right before I swipe, I’ll feel something.
Something washes over me, my finger hovering over my device. For a second, I believe these words are a possibility, an inevitability even. I breathe and feel them somewhere deep inside. They’re tucked in deep, wedged beneath memories and hurt, behind fear and anger at myself, at the system, at the things I didn’t know. In that one breath though, I know that someday I’ll know what forgiving myself looks like, what it feels like.
And it’s going to feel so beautiful.