When my mother died about two and a half years ago, it did more than knock me down. I was gutted. Remember that scene in Terminator 2 when the T-1000 gets shot point blank by the Terminator, and its head is fragmented and ruined and barely recognizable as what it once was?
That’s how I felt for a long time, destroyed, blasted apart, with no idea how to claw my way back to who I used to be. I didn’t know how to repair what had been ripped open, and feeling so lost was honestly a bit scary.
Even as I returned to work, smiled, went through the motions of keeping up with daily life, I felt like something wasn’t quite right. A year passed, then another, and I started to think that this is just the way it is now, feeling off, like parts of me were shut down, and I didn’t even really know myself anymore. I wanted to break past it, but I didn’t know how.
A few weeks ago, I got sick, just a stuffy nose and a cough, nothing serious. I took a day off work to rest, and something just shifted that day. Maybe it was the quiet time to think. Maybe it was just a much-needed wake-up call. I spent the first six months after my mom died very ill, so being sick again made me a little nervous.
I didn’t want to continue that way anymore, putting in the bare minimum to survive but not really taking care of me. I felt like I had all but buried myself alongside my mother. I wasn’t unhappy, exactly, just sort of numb, and I was finally tired of it.
I still can’t explain precisely what changed, or how, or why it happened when it did. But that Monday, after my sick day, I decided to go for a little walk. I was still quite sick, so I didn’t go crazy. I just wanted to set aside that time to take care of this poor body of mine and actually follow through, like I give a damn about myself, and I did just that.
Routines that I have had for years, like doing my nails on weekends or taking time for face masks or making sure I rub lotion into my hands before bed, had been long abandoned, but why? I didn’t want to neglect myself anymore. I had gotten to a point where I felt irrationally angry and frustrated at doing anything to take care of me, and I couldn’t explain it, but I was now over it.
I did my nails that weekend. I bought beautifully scented lotion to treat myself. I used the Sephora gift card that my husband got for me, and I chose items to indulge myself, pamper myself again.
It sounds silly. Why would slapping a coat of nail polish on my nails be a big deal? But it was. Doing anything for myself had become something I resisted so hard, like I was relentlessly punishing myself. I pushed back hard at the idea of caring for me for over two years.
If I was punishing myself, well, I had hurt myself long enough. I decided I was done. It was time to climb out of the pit I had hurled myself into. I was exhausted from just surviving. I wanted to live again.
So I am. I feel like I have pulled myself out of a self-induced coma, and I am still in a bit of a state of wonder, still waking up, but hopeful for the first time in a long time.
I have a lot of time to make up for. I have a lot to fix and heal. Neglecting myself for so long took its toll. I refuse to kick myself for setting myself back so far, though. I was hurting, working my way through my grief. I owe myself gentleness and forgiveness now, not more pain.
I also owe myself an apology, and I owe one to my husband, too. I am grateful for him: for his support, for his love, for his faith in me when I had lost mine. He stood by me, unwavering, patient, while I licked my wounds. Through all of my days, bright or dark, he is always my radiant light and my way home.
Sweat & Sparkle 