Stop picking scabs

I should really get this title tattooed on my forehead. This seems to be one of the hardest things for me to do. Just when I’ve: made progress, started on a better path, stopped feeling so anxious, learned to smile regularly and enjoy life…I pick a scab. I used to think it was morbid. Then after a really long talk with someone I love and respect, I realized….I’m only human. If I didn’t hurt, if I didn’t feel sadness and moments of weakness, I wouldn’t be human. If I hopped up one day like “phew, that’s over. On to the next thing”, I never really loved.

Somewhere along the last few months, I stopped offering myself compassion. I allowed the words, thoughts, feelings and judgement of others make me feel like I’m not a good person. Like I’m not enough. Like I’m a monster. Now, let’s be clear. Bianca is not perfect. I repeat, Bianca is not perfect. But I am a human being. I have a heart (a big heart). I love hard, which in turn means I hurt even harder. Picking my scabs only makes this worse.

For those of you who literally think I’m sitting here picking away at hardened blood on my skin, let me clarify. No. That’s not it. But it’s like anytime I make a little progress in this healing process, and I’m left alone to my own thoughts….I falter. I go searching for things I know already exist. My mind wanders for answers that have already been given to me. It’s as if I’m trying to awaken myself from a nightmare by repeating “it’s not real, it’s not real”. Oh yes my friend, it’s real. It’s life and an idle mind is the devil’s playground.

I cried today. An ugly, nasty, snot dripping from my face, red-eyed just ridiculous cry. I mourned. Mourned my life that once was. Mourned the life that could have been. Mourned hurt that I’ve caused. Mourned decisions that I could have made differently. Mourned the babies I’ve lost. Mourned the relationships that have come and go.

After about 30 minutes of that (yes, 30 minutes), I said a prayer. I asked God to get me off the floor and to remind me of the woman that I am. To remind me of my heart. To remind me of my blessings. My beautiful, healthy children. The roof over my head. The refrigerator full of food. The legs I have to walk on. The eyes I have to see. The heart that’s still way down deep inside the mini freezer of my chest…I know it’s there. Because I can feel it beating.

I asked God to help me smile again and not feel guilty for it. I asked God to keep me away from doors he’s shut. I asked God to give me a forgiving heart. I asked God to help me forgive myself. I asked God to remove the callus from my soul and my spirit.  I asked God to help me accept what is, not linger in what was and not worry about what will be. For anyone who knows me, the last one is difficult.

For anyone who reads this today, just know that God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers. If I ever cross your mind, just pray for me.

Lastly, I’m so sorry to any of you that I’ve ever wronged. Anyone I’ve ever hurt. Anyone who’s ever needed me but felt abandoned or exiled. Anyone who I took too long to forgive. If I never got a chance to say those words to you, I hope they ring true. Anyone who didn’t feel anything but love, peace, hope, joy and happiness from my presence.

B

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