Two days ago when my alarm clock went off, I couldn’t muster the willpower to drag myself out of bed. I hit the snooze button and curled into the fetal position with my face pressed against my pillow. I whispered God’s name over and over again for strength to face another day. No great tragedy had struck my life. It was the classic case of “I should be happy.” Although I am only thirty years old, in a loving and fulfilling marriage, and nearly finished with my doctoral degree in clinical psychology, none of these things soothed the ache in my heart. What then was there to worry about? The answer—time.
I try to live my life so that twenty years from now I won’t look back with regret about what might have been. The problem was, I haven’t forgiven myself for things I wish I would have done differently over the last couple of years. With another birthday two days away, I was stuck in my head ruminating about all I hadn’t accomplished in the past year that I had intended to: those couple of pounds I lost, and then gained back; the book I said I would write and hadn’t yet started; and mornings I set my alarm to meditate at the crack of dawn, but didn’t. My goal had been to celebrate my next birthday feeling I was “better” than the year before, and it certainly didn’t seem I would accomplish that either!
I struggled through the rest of the day putting on my happy face for others, but my eyes filled with tears when no one was looking. I am always amazed how well people can function on the surface when it feels like something inside of them is dying. Whatever pain I carry has been there for a long time, buried slightly beneath the surface as my spiritual teacher likes to say. I went to bed that night feeling downhearted and defeated. I didn’t even have the energy to talk to my distressed sister through a difficult situation.
The next day I woke up and decided to do things a little differently. Instead of taking work home with me, I was going to treat myself to something I had been talking about for weeks. Near my home is a lavish, world-renowned hotel, the Broadmoor. The hotel is exquisite and the grounds look like something out of a Jane Austen novel. Once at the hotel, I casually strolled about admiring the decorative furnishings and imagining what it would be like to stay there as a guest. With a distinct European ambience, I considered simply being at the hotel a delicious treat. I stopped by the espresso shop for tea and chatted with the friendly young man who worked there. And then what I had been waiting for … I walked over to the fireplace area and settled into an oversized armchair, tea in hand, and pulled out my journal.
I wrote from my heart how life seemed like such a struggle, and how tired of it I was. Whatever I was battling was subtle, but somehow I always ended up in the same place emotionally, like a well-worn circular track. To me, the hurt seemed to be an unsolvable mystery. Despite contemplating the depths of my despair, I felt content and cozy, and I smiled at guests as they walked by. The pain began to melt a bit; I was thoroughly enjoying what I wanted to do, rather than what I thought I should be doing. When I had nothing left to write, I packed up to head home. In the darkness of the night, the full moon greeted me and the entryway gardens looked enchanted. The temperature outside had dipped near freezing and when I got home, the air in my little apartment was frigid. A hot shower would fix this I thought, and I took the hottest and steamiest shower possible. Trying not to think about the water I was wasting ! I stayed in the shower until my entire body was beyond relaxed, and my skin was bright pink. Warmed through and through, the pain melted some more. Afterwards, I made some peppermint tea with honey and curled up on the couch. I lit a white candle on the coffee table and stared into the flame, holding the hot tea mug between my hands.
