I don’t feel like self love is something I’ve ever really grasped, and I’m not entirely sure how to go about getting it down.

Part of it stems from a fear of being perceived as narcissistic, because I can’t stand people who are full of themselves. I try and stop myself from being overly talkative. I do a bad job of it, and chastise myself internally for not shutting up more. Honestly, even writing this blog makes me feel panicked and a bit sick sometimes.

Why are you writing this? No one wants to read your whining. Who do you think you are? Why do you even keep sharing this link with people? They probably already know how crazy you are. Do you just want to give them more proof?

I know in the logical, less neurotic side of my brain that humility doesn’t equal self loathing. In fact, one of my favorite authors wrote, “True humility is not thinking less of yourself; it is thinking of yourself less.” I love me some C.S. Lewis.

That quote is enough to convince me that I’m not humble, because I am stuck up in this mess of a brain far more than can be considered healthy. Which then makes me feel awful, because man, I don’t want to be a narcissist. The cycle continues.

I’ve been told that in learning independence, I need to learn to love myself. I feel light years away from that. Right now, I just want to learn to tolerate myself.

I wrote this earlier today and saved it in my drafts with the intention of posting another glimpse into my self loathing brain trying to work through fear and depression brought on by this divorce. Then, I was reminded through a simple text of a song that I sang this weekend:

The bridge says, “When the lies speak louder than the truth, remind me that I belong to You.”

I suppose it is no surprise that this time has been trying on my faith. I’ve struggled with a disconnect between what I believe and what I am actually feeling for awhile now.

I can’t comprehend grace. I fully understand the wrath of God, and the depravity of humanity, but grace will always dumbfound me. It doesn’t matter what I’ve done. Past, present, future, if I believe what I believe, I am forgiven.

I may be cynical, sarcastic, broken, and screwed up in my own special way, but I get to be God’s. Why He would want me, I have no clue, but I’ve been assured that He does.

I get to have hope. I don’t see it now – not a clue in the world how this one gets orchestrated into something beautiful and redeeming, but it does. At my core, even when the lies are screaming that it doesn’t get better and everything in me trembles with fear, there is still hope, no matter how buried it gets.

It’s why I’m strong, even with my many poor coping mechanisms. I won’t break. I won’t stay knocked down. I just need to remember who I am, and dig deep for hope.