My 2019 has been a real mixed bag. In the minus column, I was trolled for weeks on end by racists on social media; and the general election results have only deepened the unease I’ve been feeling lately, as a British woman of colour. On the plus side, I landed a book deal, and last week my four-year-old son – cast as a lowly shepherd in his school nativity play – stole the show by bellowing his lines like Brian Blessed, then leapt off the stage in tiny act of parkour.
Mostly, though, 2019 will always be the year I finally discovered how to master the art of self-love and self-forgiveness – and use them to improve my situation. Don't get me wrong – I have always and will continue to engender a deep mistrust of anyone who uses such phrases habitually, especially if they're on Instagram. However, according to every therapist I've ever seen, learning to apply love and forgiveness to myself is key to clawing back a sense of my identity after a lifetime of depression, anxiety and trauma.
The trouble is, I've never been able to figure out how to, you know, practically do that. How, for instance, am I supposed to suddenly ‘love’ myself when I know I'm the type of person who, given half the chance, won't shower for a bunch of days and will live off cereal, eaten dry from the packet, in front of a series of low-quality documentaries about the paranormal?
A psychotherapist friend said ‘What if “self-love” described an action and not a feeling?’ and it sort of changed my life.
These aren't lovable qualities. Mustering an emotion more positive than ‘meh’ for a person who's just a neanderthal with Netflix access – even if I am that neanderthal – is, I've always reasoned, beyond my ability. Then again, the concept of self-forgiveness seems equally impossible. While I know I'm not, say an evil person who's committed genocide, I can't quite register compliments or successes as anything other than flukes.
Therapists have attributed this to my ‘legacy of negative self-talk’, but positive self-talk has never really worked for me either. And not for want of trying. But the thing is, for every mantra I've intoned to myself about having the power to achieve everything I want to in life, something in my brain has reminded me that I can't, really, when I think about it.
The hard truth, I've always privately thought, is that if I met myself, I wouldn't like myself. I'm just so… flimsy and unevolved: I can't do mental arithmetic or get through a meeting, non-fiction book, or Oscar-winning cinematic drama without jiggling my knees, fiddling with my phone, or wishing I could watch Riverdale instead. I cannot orientate myself on a map, am always starting projects I never finish, I create mess wherever I go, and – despite being a mother of two and homeowner – I can't adult my way out of a paper bag.
Now, three things have changed my perspective. Firstly, I was diagnosed with ADHD, a (usually) lifelong neurodevelopmental disorder characterised by poor focus, memory and impulse control; difficulties with self-organisation and restlessness, emotional dysregulation, and sometimes sensory issues, too. Admittedly my diagnosis took place last year, but the magic of having a lifelong cognitive disorder no one knew about is that it takes years to unpack its effects. It also pulled the rug out from under my ‘I'm a fucking idiot’ theory – because every single item on my ‘fucking idiot"’ checklist – rubbish adulting, map blindness, general jiggling – is a symptom of ADHD.
Even the shower/cereal thing comes down to being overwhelmed, another classic ADHD trait. A medical problem. Not a problem with my personality. Realising this has turned my brain – and sense of self – upside-down. I've spent much of this year wondering what other ‘core truths’ about myself I've been wrong about all this time.
Some personal digging has revealed that I think everything is my fault. This year, I realised that the inside of my mouth itched when I ate pineapple – not because I was ‘being dramatic’ but because I'm allergic to pineapple. Similarly, I've recently realised that my resistance to dental anaesthetic, constant joint pain, susceptibility to everyday viruses, and tendency to sprain something once a month might not, in fact, be character flaws, but an actual medical condition.
Three visits to three GPs later (the first two dismissed me for being silly and at first I apologised for wasting their time, but then realised that 2019 has also given me the power of self-advocacy), I've tested positive for one chronic health condition, and am suspected to have two others – all of which are treatable and explain my symptoms. Had I continued to live without treatment for the illness I tested positive for, it could have been life-threatening.
I also got some clarity on how 'self-love' works when I met a grumpy dog while out for a walk. I love dogs, but this one was old, skinny and so not up for being petted that even his fur shrank back on itself. But I still thought he was brilliant, at which point I asked myself why I can fall in love with a dog who wants nothing to do with me, but somehow believe that by dint of watching a lot of Netflix, I'm somehow not worthy of love myself.
Soon after this, I was chatting with psychotherapist friend, who said ‘What if 'self-love' described an action and not a feeling?’ and it sort of changed my life. What if 'self-love' was about showing yourself all the love and care you'd give someone you were very fond of, rather than just waiting to fall in love with a Netflix neanderthal?
In many ways, this year has been revelatory, and I've ended it much more politically, socially and personally aware than when it began. Forgiving myself has become a lot easier since I gave up my baseline understanding that I'm a waste of space. And while I'm not quite at ‘self-love’ yet, I am at ‘hey man, cereal and paranormal documentaries are a valid way to unwind’. Whatever clangers 2019 has dropped on us, it will forever have a place in my heart for being the year I finally believed I wasn't a piece of shit. Also, the year I realised my son's potential as a professional Brian Blessed impersonator. Bring on 2020!
Let’s Reflect: As 2019 comes to a close, Grazia writers are looking back and looking inwards to reflect on the last year.
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