Tiny Buddha's Guide to Loving Yourself: 40 Ways to Transform Your Inner Critic and Your Life (3 page)

Looking back, I see it hasn't been a linear journey, every day better than the one prior. It's been a process of two steps forward, one step back. I've gone through many periods of confusion, desperation, and self-doubt. I've also impressed myself, inspired myself, and enjoyed myself like I was rarely able to do when my life revolved around being sick.

There came a time, six years back, when I returned to Wisconsin to share my story with new residents. As I stood in front of the room—eyes clear, hand unmarked, skin pink instead of sallow—I shared some of the many self-destructive things I'd once done in secrecy. Then I recounted the words a mental health counselor once told me, after I'd sunk to a new low: You should be ashamed of yourself.

I told them he was wrong. Yes, I'd made a big mistake. Yes, I'd done selfish, dangerous things. Yes, I needed to take responsibility for my life instead of drowning in my victim mentality. But if I hoped to do that, I had to challenge the voice inside that told me I
should feel ashamed. I had to see myself more as the light I'd shuttered for years and less as the darkness that threatened to suffocate it. I had to start telling the story of my strength instead of dwelling on the stories of my former weakness. That, right there, is why I never again told this story, until now: I no longer wanted to build my identity around my eating disorder. I didn't want it to be how you defined me. But I now realize it doesn't matter if you choose to define me by the lowest lows of my past; what matters is how I define myself through my actions in the present.

This, I've learned, is the foundation of self-love: knowing that we are so much more than our greatest mistakes, our weakest moments, or our most shameful decisions; and realizing that we can be who we want to be right now, not just in spite of where we've been, but also because of it.

I share these specifics from my own journey now knowing full well that you, the reader, may never have hated yourself quite so intensely. You may never have come close to death, or wished for your death, or wondered if the people in your life would be better off without you. But this is part of my truth. Though it took me a long time to realize it, these feelings of unworthiness caused all the pain in my life—not the relationships that didn't work out or the many jobs that didn't feel fulfilling. Nothing ever felt good enough because I didn't believe
I
was good enough. That, I suspect, may resonate with you too.

It's something most of us have in common: We don't fully believe we are as beautiful and loveable as we are. Just as we may
find proof that we can't trust other people, we search for evidence that supports our distorted perceptions of ourselves. And so it goes inside our heads, the cyclical negative thoughts about who we are, what we think we've done wrong, and what we wish we could change but fear we can't. Everything that happens externally reflects what goes on internally. The good news is that we all have the power to change one by starting to change the other.

It's this realization (among others) that prompted me to start
tinybuddha.com
in 2009 as a space where we can all learn to heal, and not just survive, but thrive. It's also what led me to this book. Every single one of us has amazing potential to create purpose, passion, and joy in life, but first we need to believe we deserve it.

You do.

Even if you've made choices you wouldn't make based on what you know now, you don't deserve to feel inadequate, ashamed, unworthy, or inferior to anyone else. You don't deserve the anguish of beating yourself up over the past, or the insatiable emptiness that comes from believing you're fundamentally lacking. No matter where you've been, you deserve the opportunity to go where you're going less burdened by your own mind.

This means not only being good to yourself, but also cutting yourself some slack when you struggle with that. I've learned that we may never completely eliminate self-doubting and self-critical thoughts, but it's possible to think them a lot less often, and to give them less power when we do. And there's great power in this
gradual, imperfect journey. Tiny shifts in our minds can create massive change in our lives. I hope this book helps you be a little easier on you and a little more present and joyful in your life, one thought and one moment at a time.

S
O MUCH OF HOW WE FEEL ABOUT OURSELVES PERTAINS TO
our experiences as children. If you didn't grow up with love and support, odds are you've struggled to offer those things to yourself and others around you. If the people who were supposed to care for you neglected your emotional or physical needs, you probably concluded that your needs weren't important—and that you somehow deserved to be ignored.

Ironically, if you grew up in an abusive environment, you may have felt overwhelming anger toward people who hurt you, only to grow up and adopt their voice in your head. That's the paradox of mistreatment: you may feel outraged when you recognize you've been wronged, and yet pick up where your abusers left off. We often treat ourselves the only way we know how—the way we learned through example from our parents and/or peers.

For those who didn't experience abuse growing up, you likely still formed conclusions about yourself based on your relationship with your parents. Many of us learned at a young age that love, acceptance, and approval were conditional on certain behaviors and achievements. But we didn't conclude that our
behaviors
weren't good enough; we internalized it to mean that
we
weren't—that there was something innately wrong with us. According to psychotherapist and researcher Alice J. Brown, author of
Core Beliefs Psychotherapy
, because we're egocentric as children, we assume that when our parents aren't there for us, we're somehow to blame.

As adults, we may understand that we did not deserve to feel bad and that we shouldn't torture ourselves for things other people have done. But sometimes despite knowing these things, we don't fully believe them. We don't grasp that we've always been beautiful, even if we've never been perfect, and that we've never deserved to feel scared, alone, or ashamed—not when we were kids, and not now.

It's helpful to understand how our childhood experiences shaped us, but it's not about placing blame or playing the victim. It's about recognizing that
we all
learned to question ourselves, on some level, growing up—even those of us who had the most attentive parents, since various factors contribute to our beliefs about ourselves. And we can all learn to love, support, and nurture ourselves now, regardless of how we've struggled. We can all challenge our thoughts and beliefs to cultivate positive feelings about ourselves—flaws and all.

How do we let go of the stories that we've been clinging to for years? How can we begin to move beyond trauma and pain? How can we release our shame and start recognizing our worth and beauty? Countless Tiny Buddha contributors have addressed these questions on the site, sharing their experiences and insights. Some of those include . . .

by Marie

You, yourself, as much as anybody in the entire universe, deserve your love and affection
.

—B
UDDHA

I'
VE ALWAYS CRAVED LOVE AND ATTENTION
. T
HIS IS NOT TO SAY
that I accepted love willingly—quite the opposite, in fact. If someone decided to like or even love me they would have to pass through a path of obstacles, being pushed, pulled, and tested at every corner. Only then, upon arrival at the finish line, would they gain my acceptance.

As you can imagine, this eliminated a number of potential friends and partners, and I often found myself lonely and disappointed. The root of my inability to accept love easily stems from my childhood. My mother was unable to connect with me. She got pregnant during the height of her modeling career. After she gave birth, her career dried up. She resented the attention that a baby attracted, and, in addition to this, she was highly addicted to narcotics.

Growing up with my mother telling me that she felt no love and was ashamed of me made me desperate to be the perfect daughter. I would go to any length to prove myself worthy, even taking drugs
with her as a way of connecting. When I was fifteen years old, she upped and left with no good-bye, leaving me with my stepdad and an overwhelming sense of failure. If my own mother could not love me, how and why would anyone else?

After my mother left, I disguised my pain through drugs and control. Drugs provided an instant, closely bonded social network. I tried to take control through self-harm. My life continued like this for ten years. I hated myself, and I was terrified of letting anyone in. Throughout these years, I did several stints in rehabilitation centers, where nurses and psychiatrists worked hard on me. I would almost give in and build connections with these people, but when the time came to leave these institutions I would find myself alone all over again.

I was desperate for a loving relationship and a career. My battles were hindering me from achieving either. Luckily, I had a fantastic education under my belt, through a childhood spent at top boarding schools. It was just a matter of escaping this vicious cycle that I had spent the majority of my life spinning around in. I had stopped the drugs, but I was addicted to self-pity. Therapy had taught me that I needed to let go and learn to trust. This sounds quite easy now, but back then the very idea was not only terrifying but also impossible.

I always dreaded birthdays and holidays. On my twenty-fifth birthday I woke up with an annual feeling of dread. I went to the store to buy some cigarettes, and the lady at the counter asked me for some identification. I handed it over and she said to me “It's your
birthday today. You look so young. Your mother should be very proud of you.”

It was such a simple compliment, but for some reason it struck a chord. After all my years of therapy, these words from a stranger hit home. I can't really explain it, but I felt a whole hoard of emotions release: anger, regret, understanding, and, finally, relief. I felt that, yes, my mother should be proud of me, and I felt sorry for her that she was unable to feel that way.

I wanted to have a chance at life, to meet someone and have my own children who I could love and be proud of. I realized then that this would only happen if I stopped treating myself the same way my mother did. Considering how long and hard it was to reach this point, turning my life around was surprisingly easy. The hardest point was the realization.

If your parents didn't treat you well, and you'd like to treat yourself better and open up to love, I recommend that you:

Write through your fears and feelings. I didn't want to cause myself any more harm; I wanted to connect and understand how I worked instead. Writing things down served as a great release.

Go out and get a journal with the main intention of putting your emotions into words. Try and pinpoint when and what makes you feel good or sad. By putting everything on paper, you can then reference your emotions, look into your behavioral patterns, and recognize what made you feel a certain way and how you dealt with it.
Keeping a journal keeps you connected to yourself so you can make real changes that last.

Risk trusting other people. Instead of testing people in my life, I let go and granted people access. This was a difficult step, as rejection is way out of my comfort zone. However, I put myself on the line and trusted my instincts. I decided that even if someone let me down, I could handle it. Moving into different social circles helped. I got back in touch with people I liked growing up, and I was surprised to find that a number of them were happy to reconnect with me. As I started to feel more connected and less alone, I realized this paid off.

I also decided to be open with new people who came into my life. I didn't scare them off at the first encounter, but as relationships began to develop, I would explain how my past affected me, and how I'd chosen to move on and be happy. Almost everyone I opened up to was completely supportive. Openness became a two-way street. I learned that most people have experienced their own struggles. Our confessions strengthened these new relationships. I also learned that not everyone is someone I can open up to—but the more I do it, the better instincts I have about who to let into my life. Taking risks with people is essential for happiness. After all, it is better to have experienced at least some loving friendships than to sit alone, fearing heartache.