I missed a pretty huge anniversary for myself last week. One that I’m really proud of, actually. Two years since the last time I smoked a cigarette. Two years. This is a huge milestone for me because this is the point, last time, where I completely failed and gave up pretending that I had quit. I’ve done what I once feared I’d never be able to accomplish and I’m so proud of that. I’m a bad ass.
And, honestly, I’m surprised that I’m saying that – pleasantly so. I’ve been introspective of late, retreating into my own mind; that is a pattern I’m well familiar with and it usual results in a bout of depression. I’ve been gearing myself up to get through it. I know I can do it; I have before and it seems that I am better able to handle those episodes when I am aware that they are coming.
But I spent yesterday with my sister and my darling husband and despite the fact that we were taking care of her most recent appointment – which is stressful in and of itself – I had a really great day. But more importantly, I had a moment as we were sitting there in the truck together, sunshine falling through the windshield, and I realized that I was happy. Genuinely, contentedly happy. It wasn’t depression that was moving in, but a settled sort of joy.
I’ve talked several times in the last few years about the abuse I suffered in my childhood as I have finally begun to work through years of issues. And the more I’ve talked, the easier the conversation became and I’ve begun to reach out to others, sharing my experience and feelings in hopes of helping someone else that is where I was not so long ago. And I’ve finally reached a point where I think positive thoughts about myself. I am finally feeling at home in my own body.
So today I’m celebrating healthy me. There’s still work to do – physically and mentally – but I’ve come so far already that I am proud of myself. And even better, I’m not ashamed of being proud of myself.