When prompted to pen a letter to the person(s) I hate the most, or the person(s) who brought me the most pain, I uncomfortably had to admit that was you. Amidst any childhood traumas or abuses that occurred; amidst bad boyfriends and broken hearts or miscarriages and injustices- the tally of self inflicted hell piles higher and higher than all the rest.
Arguably I contemplated that perhaps the cutting and the intentional scarring wouldn’t have happened without the cruelty and pain caused by another. While this is probably true, I kept coming back to the mantra of my thirties…
Choice. There is always a choice.
When someone else turned their feeling for me into hatred, it was up to me whether I chose to love myself in spite of them, or follow their lead.
Every self destructive lie, wrong kiss, or self targeted arrow never bettered anything. No microsecond of numbness could ever have made a dent in the pain you gave me.
The pain I gave you.
Old habits die hard. I’ve been able to dull or destroy most of them. Still though, that lingering fear of failure- which might be the instrument with which you beat me senseless, repetitively for as long as I can remember- refuses to leave. It points to the scars that no one else is to blame for, and mocks me.
I’ve learned to love me more than I loathe me, though. It feels like a good step.
I have learned I deserve peace and warmth, light and good things. That is definitely a good step.
Step by step, I’ll get there. It may take my entire life to redeem the damage you have inflicted, but I will get there for this is a journey worth taking…