A strange thing happened today. I was going through old journal entries, looking for things written by me about religion, which was hard to find because I had to dig through near-infinite entries about pain and suicidality. And for some reason, something in me was genuinely moved by what I was going through in 2011. Maybe it’s because I was mildly dissociated and didn’t recognize that the entries were written by me. But I wanted to go back in time and validate the old me, and reassure her that she was right that she was being totally screwed by her family, and she was being given way more responsibility than was fair to put on a 21-year-old, and there was no reason that she should have had to be the sole caretaker for her cantankerous maternal grandmother, and she shouldn’t have to feel such intense guilt for not being a better caretaker. It was nice to be able to take my own side for once. I’ve worried that I was wasting months out of my life hanging out here in the psych hospital, but maybe not. Maybe being literally locked in an environment where people empathize with me and validate me and take my side has given me…
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self-compassion?
