Permission

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Through the dark days, through the ‘I don’t know if I can feel worse than this’ days, a deeper knowing, a trusting voice managed to convince me otherwise. I knew I had to reach that point of no return before any warmth would entice healing hands, my healing hands over the entirety of me.

For countless days I’d want so desperately to stay in bed, to cover my head in complete darkness and rot, watching the colour drain from my cheeks, my arms, life pouring out from my hands into the air, to be inhaled by someone else, someone more deserving. During moments of self-pity I knew I was still wearing a veil over the rawness, feeling sorry for myself wasn’t enough as the lie still lived. Unhappiness simmered as I painted a smile and pretended I was ok. I knew it had to get worse before it got better. The glass had cracked and I was one movement away from shattering completely. All the darkness I’ve been avoiding (more like ignoring) was slowly being discovered, I’d found her cowering in the corner, not sure how to exist without being shunned, ridiculed and hated by the other half that I’d so carefully constructed as the ‘better’ part of me. I needed to purge this sadness out as it was finding ways to seep through the porcelain veneer I’d crafted anyway. I no longer had control, that’s if I ever had any to begin with. The sadness rose like a serpent from the roots of my beginnings. I needed to cry more, I needed to hurt more, I needed to want to die. Then it came, that moment of believing there was no way out other than ceasing to exist, it struck me hard across the base of spine, my joints had frozen, time had frozen, I was cocooned in a ball of absolute surrender and it scared the shit out of me. I was angry, I was angry at myself for getting so low, angry at life, angry with the unanswered prayers, the wishes unfulfilled. I was so angry I punched myself; so hard on my right leg it went numb. I didn’t care, I kept hitting and for one split moment it felt so fucking good. I’ve never known anger, not really. I never wanted to own such an emotion, never wanting to relinquish control. Yet here I was, hitting the shit out of myself because I was feeling so deeply and feeling was something I never really gave myself permission to do.

I cried.

Not so much for the physical pain but for the way I’ve treated myself so sternly since I was a child. I cried for the anger I’d felt such shame to feel and express. I cried for the scared child I was, needing so desperately to be heard, to feel her anger, to acknowledge how cross she was and to hug her so tightly we’d both loose a breath. I cried for the strength to commit to this moment, to listen, to bathe in the medicine I was finding within, the treasures I’d hidden so meticulously. It’s only once I’d hit rock bottom that I could bury my hands into the soil and find all those precious qualities, a precious uniqueness that I’ve never let shine.

I gave myself permission to hurt that day, to really hurt and cry and vent. Permission was my green light to let go, to feel like crap and release, unapologetically. That day I found all that I’d lost. It’s incredibly empowering to know that you are the answer to your own prayers and on that day I gave myself permission to heal, to be human and to love myself, unconditionally.

 

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