Dear Diary,
Diving deep into my ancient wounds has left me feeling “puzzled,” for lack of a better word. It’s as if I hadn’t realized the extent of this old suffering and how it has conditioned me throughout my life. I’m sorry to say this, but I am feeling sorry for myself; it seems I was dealt an unfair hand by life. And it’s even worse when I consider that, after that, I ended up in another abusive relationship.
Yet, somehow, I sense that there’s a hero’s song to be sung. I faced “unbearable” pain—not because it was necessarily more than what others may have experienced, but perhaps because of the particular circumstances that led me to that pain. Whether it’s true or just a cry for help, I’ve never been closer to suicide in my life than I was at that time.
Why am I saying all this? Maybe it’s just a push to acknowledge the pain I’ve lived through. The path I walked during those years was not an easy one, and that explains a lot about why I felt stuck in the years that followed.
I have been wounded. I have scars on my heart. And, in some way, I might be a hero for all that I have endured. I think I need to keep that in mind—not to play the victim, but to own both my shadow and my light.
And one more thing: I’ve learned to seek to forgive when confronted with these dynamics. Funnily enough, I don’t hold any grudges about it. But somehow, it seems there’s one person I still need to forgive, and that, strange as it may sound, is myself.
