What would that even mean?

It is human nature to bear resentment against those who have wounded us.

So, when I’ve perpetually wounded not just others, but myself, over the years, how might I begin to forgive myself?

Beyond the practical understanding that forgiveness is the path to healing — that those who have wounded us need love the most (aka me) — what am I to do? What is any of that practical “knowledge” even worth?

Is forgiveness about releasing anger? Is forgiveness about forfeiting feelings of hostility and instead replacing it with understanding?

I am understandably annoyed and frustrated with myself, as I’d like to be better. However, I fail to recognize that, like a plant, I too need water and sunlight if I am to grow. Without such, I will wither and perish.

To punish myself for not having grown tall and strong, I block the Sun’s rays, I deny nourishing water that can mend me deep in my roots. I yell at myself for not being better. I demand more from myself; and, as punishment, I deny myself the very tools needed to make that happen.

“Why are you withering?” I bark at myself, as I deny myself the pitcher, as I stuff myself in a dark closet.

“Why are you wilting?” I demand, as I step on my own central stem.

A stern, severe father. A rebellious, unruly son. No matter how many beatings are dealt, somehow, the son doesn’t get his act together.

And, as is the nature of the insane, he continues.

All I’ve ever wanted is a loving embrace. Why, oh why am I afraid of giving it to the boy in the mirror?