Forgiving The Girl I Was
Words by Allana Bianco
I was 22 when I moved from Oregon to South Australia to be with the boy I loved. After a four-year long-distance relationship, I bought a one-way ticket. I’ll never forget the moment I stepped off the plane and ran into his arms, knowing that this time - finally - there was no good-bye in sight.
The girl on that plane carried heavy baggage, and not only the 200 pounds of clothes and books in her four huge suitcases. She had just finished university; her mental health had been declining since high school. In photos from graduation day, she wears red stilettos and a brittle smile, and her eyes are exhausted. She arrived in Australia carrying perfectionism, insecurity, anxiety, depression: invisible but heavy. Deep down, she knew she was vulnerable, but… now they were together. That would be enough, she thought. Now, everything would be okay.
She had plans. She would find a job straight away. She would earn money by working hard, earn friends by being fun, earn happiness by doing things right. It should be easy.
It wasn’t easy.
She didn’t find a job. She was homesick. She was lonely. Disappointment quickly became despair. You are failing, she thought, you are a failure. While her boyfriend was at work, she stayed in bed until noon. She ate whole blocks of chocolate and hid the wrappers. When she went out with his friends, she got drunk and kept drinking. The more she tried to numb her feelings, the worse she felt.
The rush had disappeared, and all the baggage was still there.
The self-loathing she had never left behind began to consume her again. You’re pathetic, she told herself. Selfish. Weak. Worthless.
I was almost 24 when I went to therapy. After so long hating myself and hiding my pain, I finally asked for help. I learned to see the stories I was telling myself as just stories. I learned that I was not bad or broken.
I thought I had long ago finished processing those painful months after the move. That time of my life was wrapped up in a tidy package and put away. I accepted it, it was all done. Recently I took out that package as material for a reflective practice assignment, a structured examination of one’s expectations, feelings, actions, and choices surrounding a given event. Unpacking those memories, I discovered that it was far from done.
The question was: how do you feel now, looking back on the event?
I wrote: I feel compassion for my past self.
Instantly, I knew it was not true. When I thought of that girl, I could summon only pity.
I was aghast. Pity is a poison. Compassion stands with one who is hurting, but pity holds itself above. For all I knew about that girl’s pain, I still looked down on her. Looking back, I still felt shame, even contempt. My assignment was much more than writing a paper. I needed to find the key to loving that girl.
There was a version of myself I did look back on with compassion. At 23, I was still exhausting myself under the weight of my baggage and unhealthy coping methods. I still believed I was unworthy of love and yet, I was fighting for it. We were engaged, but I could not hide from the fact that our relationship would not bear the strain of my suffering forever. I did not go to therapy because I believed I deserved help; I went because I could not lose him. When I look at the girl who made that choice, I see both pain and courage. Asking for help was hard. The work required was hard. What she did for the sake of love saved me.
One past self held the key to the other. I had forgiven me-at-23 because even with all the anguish she carried, she was brave enough to do the hard thing. I would not be my present self if not for the leap she took going to therapy. And yet, me-at-22 had done the same. Even with all the pain she carried, she was brave enough to move around the world for the sake of love and that was a hard, hard thing.
She was not foolish for taking that leap, and she was not weak for surviving those months as best she could. If she had waited until there was no risk and no hardship, she would have waited forever and I would have lost the love of my life. Me-at-23 would not have made it through therapy without the support of her fiancé, just as present-me would not be where I am without my husband, and yet we all would have lost him if not for her. She did not fail; she faced an ordeal. Now, I see her courage too.
Before, I thought understood that girl. I had puzzled out how she came to that dark place, and would have said I accepted her role in my journey. I imagined the path of healing taking me ever further away from her, towards a woman who would no longer recognize that girl in herself. It was a shallow self-love, celebrating the ways I was no longer her.
The woman I strive to be, the most joyful and powerful version of myself, has always been there, even when she was buried so deep under pain and desperation that I did not know her. She is who I discover as I learn to truly trust myself. A deeper self-love celebrates the ways I am becoming her. When I recognized that woman in the girl I used to be, I could let go of the shame I had been holding on to. By forgiving my past self and acknowledging the ways that she shaped my present, I become free to keep moving towards my future.
About the Author:
Allana lives with her beloved husband in a little house next to a beautiful wetlands in the south of Adelaide. She practices writing, yoga, and rock climbing. She had no idea she could be so happy.
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