If I loved me I would

Today is international self care day. Who knew that was a thing.

Some things I do all the time are taking care of me though.

I have a hot bath every night. I tried to cut down because of the hydro bill, once. I decided it would be okay because I’m kind of chubby, so it doesn’t take as much water to fill. My youngest son marvelled at how I made the water go way down just by getting out. He thought it was a trick I did.

Exercise was another indulgence, it’s expensive but worth it. I can’t seem to lose weight, but I’m sure moving this mass around is entertaining for others.

I go to our wonderful beaches, but now there are tourists everywhere. Those people just don’t understand scream therapy. It’s a good thing there’s no cell coverage out there, or I would have been carted off.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

The biggest cross to bear in self love has been forgiving myself.

Over and over.

It started long ago.

My parents stood there waiting for an explanation. I didn’t know what to say.

They held my bank book with the deposits and withdrawals. Back then your affairs were not confidential. Both had been alerted of my activity.

I worked at a gas station. The first job I had. My boss was my folks good friend.

I stole. I didn’t know what was happening to me, in the 70’s not a lot was known about behaviour.

I hadn’t really slept in weeks. I stayed up. I would take cash given to me for gas. I didn’t need it, or spend it. I ironed and sorted it by numbers. It had lost its meaning. I just put it in the bank because I didn’t want it around. It was too late to give it back.

I was relieved when I got caught.

I was happy to return it, but very embarrassed and apologetic.

I withdrew all my money, and walked right over and handed the wad over to the owner. I never knew why. Ever.

It made the hatred inside grow. I cut, and destroyed anything good in my life.

Small island. Everyone knew. I shrunk and became invisible.

I never really thought about it until I was in the same predicament, decades later.

I never let myself feel like less than garbage. I lied to my then husband about my drinking, even during pregnancy.

The pit of my being was damaged beyond repair.

I had by then been diagnosed with postpartum depression, which got worse each time. I had been in psychosis, I didn’t know. Would just realize after.

I quit drinking, only to face the horrible image that looked back at me.

I couldn’t control things the way I should have been able to.

I was pregnant when I became suicidal, again. Nothing made sense. Up was down and down was up.

My attempt was interrupted by my, what was now my second husbands motorcycle accident.

I stumbled through the quagmire of feelings of dread, painted a face of well being and moved on.

It seemed worse than ever, I fought and still felt so dirty, and stupid.

My secret life of no sleep and no need for it grew into what I now know was a manic episode.

All of a sudden everything was a technicolor blur of no rules or boundaries.

I began to take again. I felt entitled, and convinced myself the world owed me.

I got caught, this time the police did get involved.

It was coop of all places. Idiotic.

Shocked everyone, the manager was gobsmacked. I was good friends with his wife. That ended.

Not too long after I was finally diagnosed with bipolar illness.

It’s not my character to steal, and I have tried to redeem my sin in serveral ways. Nothing like that has happened since, I take my medication and am militant with warning signs. My mania is now paranoia and plain ole anxiety.

I went through restorative justice. It’s supposed to not show up but in the public forum I am a convicted thief.

It’s been 20 years. It’s the one action people think of when they see me.

We all have that one fuck up, whether is getting barred, being pissed at a party, and jumping over the fire, or that affair we got caught in, it follows us until we die.

Even sharing this now will probably cost me respect and trust. All I can say in defence is I’m human. Don’t like it? That’s okay.

I’ve gained empathy from it, and know it’s never going to be an issue as long as I live.

I look longingly at jobs where the same people who were around, and judging me then, write that big red x over my face. At least that’s what I imagine.

I remember it popping up, being arrested under the mental health act for a job with the government. I was given a chance to explain it. Being a social program officer was very rewarding.

It’s been a non issue and I’ve had some amazing jobs and responsibilities. I flourished.

Guilt is the feeling of doing something wrong. I have always chosen shame, the belief of “being” something wrong.

I kind of, love me at times.

I’m not better than God and He has forgiven me. I have let others walk over me, I forgave.

I don’t use my illness to skip out on accountability, I’ve done my time.

Today I let that go. I implore anyone else who’s screwed up to do the same. Don’t wait 20 years like me. That baggage has almost killed me several times.