be gentle

Warning: This post contains graphic material that may be triggering.

The last few days were rough for me. I fell into a pit of depression, bad vibes and the week long rainy-day-blues, combined with a little PMS probably, just a storm of negativity and anxiety and self-loathing. It’s so gross. But I’m trying to be easy on myself. No one has good days every day, no matter how perfect things are. Sometimes we need to be sad. To cry. To spiral into a black hole of guilt and regret. Well, maybe we don’t need that. But it happens, regardless. It allowed me to dive into myself though... to reflect on how much I’ve grown in my lifetime. And it led to all of these trains of thought to explore and share (as I’m typing this... maybe share.) 

Five years ago, I shared “A Note About Anxiety”, a piece I wrote about depression and anxiety and self-mutilation. It’s graphic. But I feel like it’s a good prequel to where I am now.  

One of the things I dove into thinking about was my perspective of how I’ve handled myself in moments of anxiety through the years, recognizing that my perspective of things is very much subject to debate in its accuracy. I remember my first job waiting tables, crying in the bathroom but feeling like I was doing a pretty good job of game-facing in front of the customers. In my more recent occupations, I’ve had to leave work and even lost a job because I couldn’t keep it together. I wear everything on my sleeve (like it or not). My anxiety expresses itself through tears. Panicky, hysterical, hyper-ventilating tears. Like I said, my perspective and poor memory are probably a big part of the equation here, but I think it’s fair to say that my coping mechanisms also play a big role. I probably was more stoic back then.... because I would go into the bathroom and cut myself with the dull-as-fuck steak knife that I kept hidden under the sink. (Notes: yes- under the public restaurant bathroom sink, gross, I know; no- do not cut yourself, especially with a dull steak knife.) 

I don’t talk about cutting often. People don’t want to hear it. Even in the year 2020, it’s taboo. I started when I was a freshman in high school, 13 years old. It was my escape, my release, my survival. It made everything numb, which was better than pain, so I chased that. The same way any addict chases his next fix.  

Now I’m in my 30’s. I have three incredible kids graciously accepting me to be a part of their lives, and I feel so unworthy sometimes. I have over 15 years' worth of scars to remind me of my battles, and to hide from them. That’s a puzzle in my life right now... we preach honesty above all things, and I have to lie to them... because their little brains aren’t ready for that much pain. But one day, when they are, and they’re battling their own pain... they’ll know that I understand, and that they can survive, too.  

Enough of that for now. 

I’m not going to dive into the details, but another black hole I spiraled down into was about guilt. I carry a lot of guilt around with me. I wasn’t a good person, for a while. I was lost. I was a fucking wreck. The hardest person to forgive is yourself. I’m still figuring that part out.  

I read this on a friend’s page and it gave me some light in my dark moment. 

“Be gentle. You are meeting parts of yourself you have been at war with.” 

That’s so powerful. Be gentle. 

I am so very thankful that in my present life, the pits usually aren’t that deep. Scott and the kids help pull me out quick. I don’t sink so far. I can see the light. And my bad days don’t have to feel like a failure, but a chance to learn more about myself. To be gentle with myself.