Why I Must Commit To Self-Compassion

I worry that granting myself grace will make me feel, or become, selfish.
I don’t remember the exact words, but I will never forget how I felt as I wrote them.
My pen sliced the page as a butcher’s knife would meat, purple ink bleeding evidence of my self-loathing. The vitriol slamming within my mind, throat, and chest collided with my journal, where I recorded how pathetic and unbearable I am—all because, that morning, I had overslept, and missed my train.
Over a decade later, I wish I could say that this was an isolated incident, that never before or since have I abused myself in such a way. But we only wish for what we would like to, yet do not, have. The language I used against myself that morning of the missed train was far from a single overreaction; I regularly perceive myself as being without worth, and beyond repair. Between my anxiety, insecurities, and perfectionism, I have never known what it is like to make mistakes, fall short, or disappoint, without berating myself for it. Sometimes, the self-inflicted reviling can last for weeks, months, and, yes, even years.
Certainly, we all hear the chiding of an inner critic, and at times can even benefit from it. While I have known for most of my life that I am particularly hard on myself, it hasn’t been until recently that I have realized just how insidious that can be. My judgments about myself, and the subsequent shame and stress these harsh assessments induce, squander my quality of life.
While I acknowledge that no one is perfect, I personally do not feel justified in being flawed. I had too nourishing of a childhood, have had too many exceptional opportunities, and live far too comfortable a life, to warrant the imperfections that comprise who I am. But I know my character will always be blemished, even if I believe it shouldn’t. As a result, I live in dreadful anticipation of when my faults will inevitably devastate all that I cherish.
My accomplishments, for instance, rarely feel like my own. Suspicions that my feats are flukes—certainly, I do not possess the talent, or intelligence, or discipline, to attain that, do I?—prohibit me from fully enjoying success. Because I believe that I am only one mistake away from shattering any and everything, achievement always feels, at best, precarious. Even worse, I am convinced that my loved ones are on the brink of realizing I am a far worse person than they ever imagined and will vanish from my life at any moment.
Simply put, I do not feel deserving of even the smallest pleasures in life. For the year I lived along a canal in England, most of the sunsets I watched brought me to tears; I did not, and still do not, feel as though I am good enough to witness something so beautiful.
Since childhood, I have told myself I am not, and never will be, enough. I have fixated on my failings, dismissed my triumphs, and been inexplicably ashamed of and angry at myself more often than not. A few months ago, then, when I discovered I had lost a new earring, it was unsurprising that I immediately scolded myself for being an irresponsible adult, undeserving of nice things. I felt detestable. Ordinarily, this sense of insignificance would have persisted for at least a few hours, but instead lasted only a moment. After so many years of nurturing this self-destructive thought pattern, I cannot explain what made it cease so suddenly, but mercifully, it did. That was the first time I understood: I do not need to talk to, or perceive, myself so cruelly. In fact, I shouldn’t. I deserve better for and from myself.
It has only been since I began therapy this summer that I have come to learn the necessity of becoming self-compassionate. However, for as much as I want to improve my reactions to my shortcomings, I do not know how. A willing nurturer in my personal and professional lives, I consistently show others patience, understanding, and forgiveness—yet cannot fathom extending that benevolence to myself. Despite my newfound awareness that I must practice self-compassion, I simply do not feel worthy of it. Does kindness still count if it is forced? Though I can imagine a life free of the torment of my disparaging self-talk and self-perceptions, it feels unattainable. I yearn to be someone who thoroughly, and authentically, takes care of herself, but I am only fluent in chastising and denouncing. I worry that granting myself grace will make me feel, or become, selfish. I cannot discern when to hold myself accountable versus when to cut myself slack. I do not know how to love myself in spite of my flaws.
But I can learn. I will. Crossing the chasm to self-compassion will exhaust and exasperate me, I am sure. I anticipate needing to (incessantly) remind myself why I must leave where I have virtually always been, and go to this place I have never known. It will be a demanding journey, but it is also long overdue—and I refuse to continue missing the train.
This article was republished with full permission from Role Reboot. You can read the original version, here.
Kerry Graham lives, teaches, writes, runs, and photographs in Baltimore, Maryland. Her work has appeared in The Three Quarter Review, Spry, elephant journal, A Quiet Courage and Vine Leaves Literary Journal, among others.