The thing about blame is that it’s insidious. It snakes through your body and buries itself in your bones till every step you take is heavier-filled with rage and bitterness. You arm yourself with self righteousness and grief till you’re impenetrable; a shadow of the person you once were, consumed by the flames of your supposedly just accusation.
The thing about blaming yourself is that it’s worse. You can’t vow to take revenge or bloat with self righteousness. Instead, there’s a quiet hatred for yourself enveloping your body till you can barely breathe.
And honestly, it doesn’t help. You can hate yourself till Kingdom come, and you can weigh yourself down with guilt, but it won’t help. You’ll never feel better about it. You’ll be filled with self reproach and it’ll just be a shadow following you around, till you’re a shell of the person you once were.
That’s why it’s not worth it. It’s been three years of beating myself up over something I wouldn’t have been able to control, and every day was a battle, till it wasn’t and slowly it faded to once a week, and then once a month, till the present where it’s just something that hits me every now and then.
And everytime it does, I just tell myself it wasn’t my fault, that I couldn’t have done anything, that it would’ve happened regardless of my actions. At first this didn’t help at all, but little by little you understand, and you agree, and you imbibe what you’ve been trying to tell yourself till you reach a point where you can look at yourself and not cringe.
I’m not sure I’m there yet. But my point is, there is an end. There is a point where you make peace with whatever it is you blame yourself for. There is a point where you realise your limitation and you realise you can’t change the past. This is when you’ll be able to accept yourself. And it might sound cliché, but it’s true. It has to be.