There I was, lying in the middle of our bed, in fits of tears, again. How many nights had I found myself there?

“What’s wrong?” he asked, for the thousandth time.

This time, instead of the generic “I don’t know”, another answer roared from my depths in a voice I barely recognised –

“I don’t like myself!” I screamed.

There it was, I cracked.

Five years later, this moment is still with me; I can almost feel the pain and my eyes prick with tears just writing this because I’m transported back. This was my breaking point, my rock bottom. I want to reach back and whisper to the person I was – “It gets better, I promise.” I can’t be there for her but I can be here for you now and I wanted to tell you all –

“It gets better, I promise.”

The forced isolation we are all facing is bound to bring with it a whole host of fears and anxieties. The fears and anxiety about the state of the world, uncertainty and financial pressures are to be expected but the part we didn’t see coming, the part that may bring us to our knees is the other ‘stuff’, our other stuff.

I saw a post on Instagram the other day which said –

“It’s like we’ve all been put in a pressure cooker and our deepest darkest shit is rising to the surface.” (thanks @Ms_Marnie_is_here)

It might not be a motivational quote to hang on your wall but damn if it ain’t the most poetic and fitting phrase for what we are all going through right now.

This message spoke to me because I have been here before – not ‘here’ as in a worldwide pandemic but ‘here’ as in the pressure cooker of stillness which forced all of my ‘deepest darkest shit’ to the surface. I wanted to write a message from ‘the other side’ to reassure that yes, we do survive this. I know how uncomfortable and even traumatic this experience can be but I have also seen firsthand how necessary it is, I wouldn’t be who or where I am today without this moment; sometimes we need to break. If we shy away from this experience, we are missing an opportunity to visit the places that scare us and heal.

Five years ago, I moved to Croatia to be with a man I had fallen in love with, we were married within three months. What should have been a blissful time in my life, was actually one of my hardest and darkest chapters. It had nothing to do with my man, he loved me hard; I was at war with myself.

Being in Croatia was the first time I had ever stopped. From University I moved to Australia (from NZ), I got engaged, we moved to London. I managed a high-end restaurant; worked hard and played harder. Said fiancé and I broke up. I bunny-hopped around Europe taking odd jobs as I went until I ended up on a boat in Croatia and met the man I would marry. An extroverted personality, forever the optimist and life of the party, my life was anything but dull.

No one would have described me as depressed or anxious but when the noise of the restaurant wasn’t there and the party crowds disappeared, I could sense a darkness in me, a sadness… I was no stranger to anxiety attacks and there were plenty of days where I could barely get out of bed but it never lasted long because I never gave it a chance to take hold; it was always up and onto the next thing – next party, next job, next country, next guy… I never stayed still long enough to see what was lurking in the shadows of my depths.

I barely took a breath. I never really stopped. Stillness was a foreign concept.

In many ways, my move to Croatia was similar to the forced isolation many are facing. I had no family, no friends, no job, no social life, heck – I didn’t even speak the language, everything was stripped bare. I felt exposed and alone, and I thought something was terribly wrong with me.

I was fumbling in the dark.

I could ignore the heaviness in summer; the sun and the beach crowds were enough to distract and drown out my inner world. Then came winter, and the demons that had been clawing at the edges of the shadows came out to play. I couldn’t escape them because there were zero distractions. This was also the first time in my life that I didn’t want to run – I had found my soulmate and didn’t want to mess it up, so I had no choice but to stand and face my demons.

Everything I had ever pushed down and ignored came bubbling up to the surface. The dam I had so carefully constructed began to crack and everything came rushing out. Memories and images from every shameful act came flashing before my eyes on repeat, a motion picture film I never signed up for. Every regret, every doubt, every failure, every awful thing I had ever done or thought about myself was there; a non-stop parade of all the reasons I was a “horrible person”.

I had no idea what was going on, I was scared and disorientated, I didn’t even recognise myself – who was this sad, angry, lethargic, anti-social, pessimistic person? Looking back, it’s tempting to label this as depression but it was more than that; this was a fight, a reckoning.

By this stage, I was crying every night or raging over nothing – everything triggered me. My poor husband didn’t know what was going on and was possibly questioning his decision to marry this bat-shit crazy person but somehow, he stayed. He was always good with silence, so he would just sit or lie with me while I thrashed it out. I need to point out here that his love and patience gave me a safe space to go through whatever the hell it was I was going through.

I felt wild, untamed and unchecked. I wanted so desperately to offload the hurt, to fling it in my husband’s direction – sometimes I did. But deep down I knew that this wasn’t about him, which made it even more painful because I had to own it – “this is all on you, kiddo”.

The night that I screamed “I don’t like myself”, was the final ugly truth to reveal itself.  As soon as the words left my mouth, everything stopped. The hyperventilating tears, the fire, the rage… everything that had been coming out for days all boiled down to this simple yet powerful statement.  I felt empty and exhausted from the effort of it all but I was awake.

“Well, that’s something”, he said.

“Yea”, was all I could manage, it was something.

Why am I sharing all of this?

Because this is what I believe many people will experience during this time of isolation. It may even be more intensified because it’s not just being experienced on an individual level but rather on a collective level as well – the perfect storm.

Lying in a pool of tears and sweat that night, I came face-to-face with all of my fears, shame, regrets and anxiety, then discovered the ugly truth beneath it all – I didn’t like myself? It was a proper smack in the face. It wasn’t something I had ever considered before, I mean, liking ourselves should be our default mode, right? Turns out it’s not a given. When I was honest, I saw not only did I not like myself, I loathed myself. This truth still hurts today but it is the truth which slapped me awake and brought me back to myself; granted, I was a shell of the person I wanted to be and had a lot of work to do but there I was – cracked wide open.

Another voice came up from my depths that night; not a pained roaring voice, a softer, kinder voice (but just as strong) which said something along the lines of –

“Like it or not, you are the only person you are stuck with for the rest of your life. You need to learn how to like yourself otherwise, this ain’t gonna end well.”

I knew the voice was right because I knew the path I was on; I had walked it before. If I carried on in this way, I was going to sabotage my marriage and my life. Something needed to change. I was shattered into a thousand tiny pieces so I had no choice but to begin the process of putting myself back together again. I needed to examine everything – the good, the bad and the ugly. What is true, what do I need to change, what are my values, my beliefs – are they serving or harming me? What do I take with me, what do I need to create and what can I lovingly discard?

It was a slow and painful process – it is a constant process – but five years down the track, I feel closer to the person I always knew I was capable of being. Looking back, I can see that the pain of this process was nothing compared to the pain and effort of keeping everything buried. Accepting every part of me – bumps, flaws, mistakes and all, helped me to become whole. When we hide our dark, we also bury part of our light – the light which shines brighter when we integrate every part of ourselves.

In Japan, there is a centuries-old technique called Kintsugi which is the art of putting broken pottery pieces back together with gold – it comes from the philosophy that by embracing our flaws and imperfections, we can create an even stronger, more beautiful piece of art. So, the aim isn’t to be like new but rather every crack is viewed as unique; it is these ‘scars’ which contribute to the overall beauty of the design.

We need to break in order to become.

Maybe we’re supposed to crack, maybe this unravelling will be our becoming and maybe this is the perfect time to do it; the collective pain may intensify our experience but can’t it also do the same for healing?

We all have our stories, our demons; telling ourselves we’re the only ones is just another way shame and our ego keeps us hiding, keeps us playing small. No one gets out of this life unscarred but I’ve only just realised we’re not supposed to. This is all part of the journey, how we heal ourselves whole; how we become more beautiful and resilient in the process, how we no longer hide our uniqueness but embrace it.

It is a continual process of destruction and construction; and every day we edge closer and closer to our truth. Nothing in life remains unchanged, everything is in a perpetual cycle of growth, death and rebirth; so, why do we cling so fiercely to a static version of ourselves?

Close your eyes, what does your most beautiful life look like? What do you feel is your greatest potential? When things get quiet and the gentle voice whispers from within, what does it say? All of this is waiting on the other side of the protective walls we’ve built but first, we need to break.

So, crack baby. Become what you were always supposed to be; a unique, everchanging work of art.