Today’s prompt: It’s all well and good to draw on the love of others, to continue because they love you. I wonder if you’ve found that same fierce love for yourself. I wonder if that gaze or intention to love can be turned back to you: you, stepping outside of yourself for a moment, to see your own self as love sees you:
“That me I was, the one in the water that day, the me who lived – I keep one hand on her heart. I send love letters back to her, that self back there in time. The one who survived when she did not want to. Maybe the person I am now is what helped her survive – my own love for myself was my anchor.” – Megan Devine, excerpted from my collected journals
For all you have lived, for all you have been asked to live, can you offer yourself love? Can you offer yourself kindness? Can you come to your own doorstep with love and blessing and comfort? What would it be like to live this loss on your own terms, because you love yourself so well? Because you deserve to be so loved?
This is a hard one, isn’t it. It always gets me. Fierce, protective, tender, love-for-self. You might start today’s writing with:
Because I love me, …
You might also draw from our earlier exercise in writing blessings for others in the group. See if you can write a blessing for yourself. Can you see your own self the way love sees you?
Try it out. Let us know how it goes.
From my first moment of motherhood, I was terrified of losing a child. I watched other parents survive the loss of their children, but was positive I would not, could not, survive if that happened to me. I marveled at those parents who outlived their children; their strength was beyond me. I saw the façade they put on display for the world, but didn’t recognize it as simply a façade. I assumed what I saw was what they felt; I assumed they were as okay as they looked.
Nope. Of course they weren’t. How could they be okay? They were surviving, doing whatever they had to do to keep going; I just didn’t understand. Now, I understand, and I wish I didn’t. The nightmare I spent decades dreading turned into reality.
Somehow, I’m surviving. Barely, but I am. I, too, have constructed a façade. Turns out, those are necessary for self preservation. I usually show up. I give as much as I can. Some days, I just don’t have much to give, and that’s okay. Understanding and accepting that I’m not Tonya of Before has to be love for myself. Getting to know Tonya of After is an intense process, but I’m working on it. I don’t always like Tonya of After. I don’t recognize her as me, but here we are. Living in the After.
When I finish my last class of the day, any remaining energy leaves with the students. That means when I get home, I don’t get much done. I’ve claimed the corner of the couch as my evening spot. Sometimes I nap, trying to compensate for a restless night, but mostly I write or watch TV or listen to a book or play games on my ipad. I am not productive. I do not force myself to be productive. I don’t know if that’s love for myself or an acquiescence to sloth. What I do know is I am depleted by that point in the day and I give in to the exhaustion I’ve been fighting since morning.
When I reach out to my safe people, tamping down the worry that I’m just too much right now and talk or write about my day, sharing with someone else my broken heart, the sadness that runs my life, is that love for myself or a sign of weakness? When I can get past the feeling of bothering people, reaching out and pulling someone into my reality feels like a break. I almost always feel better after that interaction, as if I’ve visited an emotional spa. Surely allowing myself to let down is a way of loving myself. After all, nobody else can force my vulnerability; that’s a decision I must make for myself.
This is all so tricky, though, to the point of inducing anxiety. Doubt. Guilt.
If I’m honest about myself, I have to admit I’m pretty bottled up in person; very few people see the ugly cry. Cry, yes–I don’t even know how to stop at this point–but ugly cry, no. If you know me, you already know how I’m wired. In my writing, though, I’m more open. My words ugly cry for all to see, and I’m finding I’m actually comfortable with that. I may not want to talk about it, but I can write about it. Allowing myself to share these writings has certainly been a form of love for myself, although on some level it’s also selfish.
It’s hard for me to differentiate between self love and selfishness in its many forms. Maybe self love is just giving myself permission to be selfish when necessary–to look out for my own well-being.
Maybe that’s my takeaway from this final prompt and the course overall–it’s okay to care for myself. It’s beyond okay; it’s necessary for survival. I understand the façade. I understand the brave face that distracts from the broken heart. I understand that, like it or not, I can and will survive the worst loss, the most devastating tragedy I could imagine. I am surviving a life I didn’t want, a life that feels unsurvivable. I am surviving. Right now, that’s the extent of it. One day, I’ll do more than survive, but I know it will take time. So much time. Maybe it takes forever. I’ve learned I need to be patient with myself, that I deserve my own patience.
Giving myself the time I need, spending time with my safe people, indulging myself in survival necessities–these are the ways I show myself love. This is how I live.
Woods Writes 