The Secret Way I Was Punishing Myself

I’ve lived with what I thought was a shameful secret for two decades. I buried it deep inside me, so deep I never thought I’d never have to deal with it again. But it turns out shameful secrets will come to surface no matter what.

I binged for years, shoving food in my mouth trying to keep it down. I swallowed pill after pill trying to escape from the reality where that secret lived. I got tattoos and piercings, hoping that pain would distract me from the pain inside me. The needles are nothing compared to emotional pain. Alas, none of it worked. It wasn’t long before I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder and anxiety. I kept my mouth shut about that, too until I could no longer hold it in because I was abusing my anxiety meds and it was too hard to get out of bed, despite my growing list of responsibilities.

I ended up at a psychiatric facility, which confirmed that I had major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, binge eating disorder and avoidant personality disorder. It cost tens of thousands of dollars for me to stay there six weeks and get back on the straight and narrow. Or close enough, anyway. And one day, after a binge session and tons of guilt, I started to think: maybe I’m bingeing because I’m punishing myself. Punishing myself for what happened to me. Punishing myself for never truly confronting my demons. Punishing myself for being a kid and not knowing any better.

And that’s silly. Because I was just a kid. I didn’t know better. If the same had happened to one of my kids, I would never let them partake in the blame game, because it simply wouldn’t be true. Maybe I should forgive myself for whatever role I thought I played. I should forgive myself. I forgive myself. I forgive myself. I forgive myself. It was not my fault. No matter what my brain tells me, it wasn’t my fault.

However, it is my fault if I don’t change my behavior and keep hurting myself to forget or escape. I am needed here, with my family, and hurting myself only hurts them. That’s my fault. It’s my fault if I don’t forgive myself. If I don’t do the work to forgive.

I’ve spent two decades ignoring this bullshit, so I know it won’t happen overnight, but I can take the steps to forgive myself now. Starting today. Starting now. My life is so good. There’s no reason to escape it, through any means I might’ve relied on in the past. I need to be here now. I need to show myself love, because my kids are watching, and God do I want them to love the shit out of themselves.

My way — my past ways — are no longer the way to go. The thing about secrets is that they feed on shame. I was feeding it with my bingeing and abusing meds, but I don’t need to feed it anymore. I’m done feeling shame over it. At least I’m trying to be. I’m not giving this thing any more life than I have. It’s dying now. It will soon be dead.

If you have a buried secret, please forgive yourself. Love yourself. Do the work and work it out. Forgive yourself and live the life you are meant to live.