I am not perfect–far from it, in fact. And although this is one of the most common-sense statements to make, it has been one of the most difficult things about myself to accept.
I woke up angry today. No particular reason. The day outside is beautiful–a crisp, bright autumn day, the perfect day in my favorite season. And yet I awoke with anger rankling in my gut, twisting my words into sneers and even my attempts to smile into sardonic grimaces. What is wrong with me?
The answer, as it turns out, is nothing. Nothing is wrong with me, both in the sense that nothing has really caused me to be angry; and in the sense that (and this is particularly important for me today) there is nothing wrong with occasionally being angry.
Yes, I woke up angry. And I could even blame it on a less-than-tactful text that awaited me when I woke up. But that’s not really what it is. The fact is, many things have contributed to my anger this morning: feeling underappreciated at work, becoming more aware of my selfishness in my relationship with Brady, and (seemingly insignificant, but occasionally debilitating) feeling fat.
I’m not even a particularly cheery person by temperament generally, so combining these things can lead to an anger that I often don’t know what to do with. I feel like I shouldn’t be angry at all, because each problem by itself is something I should be capable of handling. Of course, telling myself that my feelings are somehow illegitimate isn’t productive or helpful; it only leads me into a spiral of “what’s wrong with me?” and the inevitable answer, “I’m a terrible person.” It’s a circle of destructive self-abuse that, if allowed to continue unchecked, can lead to severe depression and self-hate.
I found myself starting down this spiral this morning, during our “God-time”–an hour or so every morning that we purposefully set aside to pray, reflect, listen, and generally realign ourselves spiritually–as I berated God in my anger. “I’m angry with you today, God,” I prayed aloud. “I don’t know what the fuck you want me to do.” And it’s true. I don’t. But as I sat back in my chair and began to hate on myself for being weak, for being immature, for being angry at nothing and everything, I felt a tiny, whispering peace settle in the base of my chest. From it, something fluttered into my consciousness: “Love yourself.”
Well, why? And how? But the peace was insistent. “Love yourself.” And then, louder, “Accept yourself.”
Images flashed across my mind’s eye–images of me looking fat, of me angry at the work meeting later today, of me and Brady together–and in each one, I tried hard to accept myself and love myself. The images changed. The peace grew.
Now, as I write these words, the anger is still there–MY anger–but there is a profound and embracing peace as well. It’s like the peace came in specifically to surround the anger and, rather than fight it, love it, accept it, calm it.
Today may still be really difficult for me, but I feel an honest and abiding love beginning to grow where my anger was gnawing. More than anything else, that at least gives me some hope that I’m growing in my spiritual journey, and in my desire to really, fully accept and nurture the love that I’ve been given.
