Late last summer I used to be settling right into a latest apartment and right into a routine of preparation for my first time teaching introductory theology at a Catholic liberal arts college in northeastern Wisconsin. I opened my small maroon journal and commenced my regular practice of reflecting on the day that had passed.
My entries included a spread of emotions. There have been reasons for gratitude: I went to a riverside concert with my roommate. The WiFi in our apartment had been installed after a delay of a pair weeks. I had a listing of things to do the subsequent day: meet with a former professor and now colleague to go over my syllabus, finish my syllabus, and write a letter to a friend.
I also made one short note with a minus sign next to it: “I hurt myself this morning and was cruel to myself. I hate myself.”
I wish I could reach out to myself across time and tell him that life will recover.
Reading those lines now makes me pensive, sorrowful and somewhat scared. I wish I could reach out to myself across time and tell him that life will recover as he asks for help. I also wish to remind him that he has all the time been, is, and all the time will probably be loved unconditionally by God, a truth that is simpler for his future self to simply accept.
A part of hating myself got here from my inability to be honest about what I had done to myself that morning. Even within the privacy of my journal, and even to God in prayer, I couldn’t bear to jot down down the proven fact that, over the past several months, after I felt extremely stressed, overwhelmed or frustrated, I had began slapping myself.
The identical day I wrote the intentionally vague line in my journal—I hurt myself and was cruel to myself—I had also sunk my nails into my calves until I drew blood. I used to be praying to God for relief from my misery as I did so. I couldn’t see that I used to be putting myself through a misery that God would never want me to experience.
I used to be praying to God for relief from my misery as I hurt myself.
A part of my hatred of myself got here from the explanations I harmed myself that day. I hurt myself because there was a delay within the installation of wireless Web in my apartment. I assumed not having the wi-fi arrange in my apartment would make me look incompetent and rude to my latest roommate. From my perspective while journaling, this was a pathetic reason to injure myself, yet earlier within the day that reason seemed so momentous that injuring myself was the one “right” and “logical” thing to do.
One other a part of my hatred got here from my repeated use of self-harm as a coping mechanism. Sinking my nails into my skin was essentially the most severe episode, but several months previously I had began to slap myself each time I felt like I used to be losing control. At the moment, I had ended a job that provided my housing and moved thrice in two months before finding a stable place to live. In these situations where I lacked control, where I didn’t know exactly what my future would hold, I didn’t be patient. I failed to succeed in out to my family members. I didn’t trust God.
As an alternative, I latched onto my crutch of perfectionism, deciding that to be “perfect like my heavenly Father is ideal” (Mt 5:48) meant I needed to all the time do and be “right.” In a way, I attempted to set myself up as my very own god. And I used to be an unforgiving, exacting and ultimately violent god.
I assumed being ‘perfect like my heavenly Father is ideal’ meant I needed to all the time do and be “right.”
A part of my self-hatred got here from my continuing struggle to look for and accept help for my mental health. I had gone to therapy a number of times within the last half of 2020 on the urging of my sisters, and it helped with my thoughts and habits of self-degradation for a number of months.
Nevertheless, I had gone onstage as an actor for over a decade. When those thoughts and habits of self-destruction began creeping back into my every day life, I knew play the role of a stable, blissful, productive person and conceal the fact of my life from my family, my friends and myself.
“I hurt myself this morning” covered up the total reality of how I had physically harmed the body God has given me. It canceled out the reality that God cherishes me, and desires to lift me up within the resurrection on the last day. You may also say “I hurt myself” was also in regards to the extent to which I used to be hurting myself through my dishonesty, perfectionism and refusal to hunt help with my mental health.
All these habits damaged my relationship with God and the loving people in my life.
Hurting myself canceled out the reality that God cherishes me, and desires to lift me up within the resurrection on the last day.
In John’s Gospel, Jesus prays that each one who consider in him could also be one and be delivered to perfection within the unity between himself and the Father (John 17:20-23). I feel that communion with God is our goal as Christians and our success as people. By hurting myself, I used to be missing the goal of my fundamental purpose. Each the Hebrew chata and Greek hamartia mean “to miss the mark”, and these are the principal words utilized in the Bible for sin. By hurting myself and believing that I needed and deserved to be hurt, I used to be sinning.
I assumed I used to be attempting to love God and my neighbors with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength by being an ideal Christian, son, sibling, friend and employee; by never admitting my failures and doubts or asking for help with my struggles. In point of fact, I used to be failing to acknowledge that I needed to like my neighbor as much as I loved myself, as the remainder of that passage goes. (Mk 12:30-31) And I used to be not loving God by recognizing and accepting the infinite and abiding love God had for me.
By believing that I needed and deserved to be hurt, I used to be sinning.
In my unhealthy pursuit of divine perfection, I couldn’t, or wouldn’t, read the passage in Luke 6:36 that parallels Matthew 5:48: “Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.” Mercy is the divine trait Jesus tells us to emulate and that he modeled in his ministry, death and resurrection. It involves loving the people pushed to the margins of our societies.
More specifically, mercy involves acts of charity addressing suffering and acts of justice addressing the basis causes of that suffering. Mercy also involves acknowledging and healing the traits that push us to the margins of our own self value: our own weaknesses, our fears, our limits and our sorrows.
Our perfection, my perfection, doesn’t come from exercising total control over life. It shouldn’t be about knowing what to say or do in every situation. It shouldn’t be about magically getting the Web arrange on time. It comes from gratefully receiving God’s mercy and humbly embodying and increasing it to others in our every day lives.
Mercy also involves acknowledging and healing the traits that push us to the margins of our own self value.
God has prolonged immense mercy to me in my support network. The people to whom I finally disclosed my episodes of self-harm urged me to return to therapy. My friends and my therapist challenged me to truthfully confront how, through my play-acting, I used to be deceiving myself and them about my mental health. This network of friends, family and my therapist challenged me, fundamentally, to like myself truthfully.
Perfectionism stays an element of my life. I’m attempting to grow to be more comfortable asking for help with difficult tasks, sharing my sorrows or frustrations with others, and accepting the typos and small mistakes which might be an element of on a regular basis human life. Temptations to harm myself in words and even, very rarely, in actions also persist. I’m grateful to jot down that I actually have not followed the latter temptation into physically harming myself since last yr.
God’s grace is lively within the therapist I saw, within the individuals who love me, and within the habits of prayer I actually have cultivated. These all keep me on a protected path. God, through all these blessings, jogs my memory that I’m closest to perfection after I am merciful with myself and others—imperfections and all. That truth in regards to the need for mercy in my life, is all the time on my list of things to offer thanks for. It’s something I need to show, and to practice.
In case you or someone you realize is experiencing mental distress, mental illness or suicidal ideation, please call the Suicide and Crisis Hotline at 988.
