This one time, let me try to blow my own trumpet. It is always a hard thing to do. But challenges need to be dealt with in the most appropriate ways.
Forgiveness is one of the hardest gifts to come by. At least for me. It doesn’t come easy. It is preceded by insomniac nights, tear-filled pillows, regretful days, hearts full of hate and a whole lot of garbage that does nothing but suck the life out of one’s soul.
I never want all that. I love a calm heart. I love a thinking brain and a positive vibe. I love a genuine laugh and an in-depth smile. I love waking up to be as smooth as taking a hot shower; with no need to beat yourself up, curling yourself into a foetus until hunger finally drives you from under the covers. I love looking forward to the joy of sunset and the beauty of sunrise. Because that is what life is for me.
Greatness. Smiles. Laughter. Hope. Fulfilment.
And I cannot achieve all that with a heavy heart; a heart bleeding because of the pain; either self-inflicted or inflicted by others. I cannot get to where I want if all I do is hold on to mistakes, to wrong choices, to toxic places, to things and to people who, in one way or another, did something that offended me.
I cannot hold on even to myself when I am the one inflicting all the injury to my soul.
So, I forgive. I forgive people for doing whatever they did. For making selfish choices that hurt me. For choosing others over me. For taking advantage of me. For breaking promises. For betrayal. I forgive places for creating the perfect environment for things to happen to me. I forgive things for happening to me. I forgive the air for letting my perpetrators breathe. I forgive everything from deep within.
But most importantly, I forgive myself for allowing things to happen to me. I forgive myself for knowing the wrong people. For finding myself at inappropriate places. For trusting too much. For being entitled. For holding on to broken pieces of other people, that did nothing but dig deeper into my wounds. For being a prisoner in my own body. For letting my fears known. For letting fear take a toll on me.
I forgive myself for being human. It is something beyond my jurisdiction.
And forgiveness is not as easy as I thought it could be. Sometimes, it involves long hours in the shower, washing away the pain, the hurt, the stains, the blood. Other times, it involves taking long lone walks in the evenings. Talking to myself. Calming a racing heart. Reminding myself to breathe. Picking left over pieces of me. Most times, it involves lying silently in bed, and letting all the pain gently seep from my body.
Honest with myself
Over time, I have accepted the fact that I needed to be honest with myself before I could be honest with any other person. I had to agree with myself about who I am. Who do I want to be? Who do I wish to be with? What my fears are. What my dreams are. The people I love. Those I don’t like. Places that bring me to tears, and those that remind me of the little me.
Deep down. I tell myself about all my hopes and dreams. The fears; like how it bothers me to settle. How routine sucks the life out of me. I speak out my dreams to myself whenever I feel hopeless; like the books I am too afraid to read because I think they talk about me. Or the friends we fell apart with no reason at all. And it scares me about how everyone else is in a rush to get their lives together, that hardly no one stops to check whether they are even breathing. Or whether their friends need any kind of help to get there.
I tell myself whenever I am wrong. Whenever I try out a new recipe and it comes out all wrong. Or the fact that I have never tried my hand at baking. Or how terrible of a swimmer I am. Or how I occasionally get these emotional surges at times, and I can’t even realise what causes them.
No. I am not bipolar. I know because if I was, I would have known. It is only that sometimes, I get too sad I cannot even laugh at the very jokes that would otherwise have me laughing my heart off. I get too sad I cannot even look my self in the mirror, because my own image scares me to death.
Or those times when I think my writing is taking a trip to the drain, and the only reason I keep writing is because of the amount of peace it brings to me. Not even because most people keep saying I write well. Not even because I think I will have a breakthrough someday.
And I tell myself I am this damaged in the most beautiful way the world has ever seen. And there is never going to be another me. That I know too well. I accept the fact that there are going to be lows and highs. No one knows when their moments will come. So, I live each day as it comes, telling myself it will be alright because I know it will.
I know my limits
As much as I am open to new ideas (well, apart from reading motivational books), I know where to set my limits. Be it trying out new kinds of food, trendy clothes or even hanging out with friends.
I know when my dress is too short. Or too long. Or when my neck is too revealing. Or too transparent. Or when my shoes are too noisy. Or when the jewellery gets too much. Trust me, I know when to stop when it gets there.
I know how much food I can take. How much of pepper I can withstand before tearing up. I know how much sauce makes my fries tasty. And just how much soda I can drink in one gulp.
I know my limits when it comes to friends. The pleasantries. Hangouts. Body languages; hugs and fist bumps. I know when the hug lingers for too long it turns inappropriate. I know when to put up my female guard when a misogynist turns up. And I know when to let go of a conversation that is no longer making sense to me.
Do you? No?
I definitely do.