How I Learnt to Forgive Myself.

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Abstract

ter several phone calls, catastrophising ruminations and sleepless nights, I decided that this wasn’t the end of the world. It was annoying, yes, a little frightening and anxiety-provoking, but not earth shattering. <b><i>And for the first time in my life, I let myself off the hook.</i></b></p><p id="2173">Yes that’s right, I didn’t go into a shame spiral and beat myself up.</p><p id="9ca9">I remember the moment distinctly. I was standing at the kitchen sink putting cutlery away.</p><h1 id="3a6f">“You have a right to be here.”</h1><p id="2d7c">Not a right to be in my own kitchen washing the dishes, but a right to be on earth. A right to fresh air, housing, food and shelter, a right to live, a right to space and oxygen and water. And I also felt authentically grateful for all those things. And grateful that I lived in a country where I could access them.</p><p id="6e06">There have been many times when I didn’t feel like I deserved to be here. And during some of those times I really didn’t want to be here.</p><p id="e4ed">I often felt like I had to make myself irredeemably small, so that I wasn’t visibly taking up space or somehow impinging on the universe.</p><h1 id="c9e3">Most of my childhood had been spent trying to avoid the negative attention of my parents.</h1><p id="62dd">I w

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as often in their way, just by being me: a separate and autonomous being making unwitting demands for validation and support.</p><p id="e2a2">By the time I was 10, I had long since given up hope of being accepted as I was. In order to gain the fleeting approval of my hypercritical mother I become an overt people-pleaser, straining to be what she wanted me to be, usually at the cost of my own well-being.</p><p id="c538">So, as an adult I developed the ability (and the need) to find a way (the right way)to please others and to create an image of perfection. I wasn’t even sure who I was without the sheen of flawlessness or external approval.</p><h1 id="c6a0">Nowadays I know that, like Cheryl, my imperfections are a part of me.</h1><p id="8694">I don’t have to be better, stronger, faster or more adept. Sometimes I make mistakes. Sometimes I do things that other people dislike.</p><p id="59a5">I know I can survive disapproval, and my own flaws.</p><h1 id="2881">We all want to be better.</h1><p id="61ea">We want to improve ourselves, to reach a higher consciousness and evolve. But sometimes it’s not about endless striving or perfecting.</p><p id="1c3a">It’s about coming to terms with who we are right now and accepting that we deserve to be here, with all our faults.</p></article></body>

What the Movie Wild Can Tell Us About Self-Forgiveness

At the end of the movie Wild, Cheryl Strayed (Reese Witherspoon) decides to forgive herself.

After 1000 miles, getting lost in the snow, losing her boots (and her toenails) and almost getting assaulted, she comes to the conclusion that in order to move on with her life she needs to become more tolerant towards her own mistakes.

Like Cheryl (and a lot of us out there) I have consistently pressured myself to be perfect and get things right the first time. Of course, I didn’t fuck up a perfectly good marriage and take lots of heroine, but you know what I mean.

I remember when I first decided to give myself a break.

I had made a mistake.

I hadn’t killed anyone, stolen anything, deprived anyone of their liberty or livelihood.I just fluffed up my figures and received an unwanted reminder from a powerful Government body asking to me prove that I was still eligible for a payment I had been receiving.

It was a sobering moment. After several phone calls, catastrophising ruminations and sleepless nights, I decided that this wasn’t the end of the world. It was annoying, yes, a little frightening and anxiety-provoking, but not earth shattering. And for the first time in my life, I let myself off the hook.

Yes that’s right, I didn’t go into a shame spiral and beat myself up.

I remember the moment distinctly. I was standing at the kitchen sink putting cutlery away.

“You have a right to be here.”

Not a right to be in my own kitchen washing the dishes, but a right to be on earth. A right to fresh air, housing, food and shelter, a right to live, a right to space and oxygen and water. And I also felt authentically grateful for all those things. And grateful that I lived in a country where I could access them.

There have been many times when I didn’t feel like I deserved to be here. And during some of those times I really didn’t want to be here.

I often felt like I had to make myself irredeemably small, so that I wasn’t visibly taking up space or somehow impinging on the universe.

Most of my childhood had been spent trying to avoid the negative attention of my parents.

I was often in their way, just by being me: a separate and autonomous being making unwitting demands for validation and support.

By the time I was 10, I had long since given up hope of being accepted as I was. In order to gain the fleeting approval of my hypercritical mother I become an overt people-pleaser, straining to be what she wanted me to be, usually at the cost of my own well-being.

So, as an adult I developed the ability (and the need) to find a way (the right way)to please others and to create an image of perfection. I wasn’t even sure who I was without the sheen of flawlessness or external approval.