I Am Becoming Free to Be Me

One of the unexpected “benefits”—or perhaps “penalties”—of taking a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself is discovering memories I thought I had long forgotten. Sometimes those memories reach all the way back to childhood.

Today, I found myself remembering a time when I was very young, perhaps seven or eight years old. But this wasn't simply a recollection of events. As the memories surfaced, I found myself reliving the emotions I had experienced as that little boy.

I remember being terribly lonely.

I spent much of my playtime, both at home and at school, by myself. School was especially difficult. I was often bullied by my classmates, and I hated going there!

Somewhere along the way, I found a way to cope with that loneliness. I created two invisible friends.

They were both girls my own age. They were actually my cousins, although I didn't think of them as cousins in my imagination. They were simply my best friends.

And they accompanied me everywhere!

I can still picture myself riding the bus with Mum, carefully saving two extra seats so that my friends could sit beside me.

That memory touches me deeply today.

My imaginary besties never judged me. They never bullied me. They agreed with me, supported me, shared my interests, and reflected my personality back to me.

They accepted me just as I was.

And perhaps, most importantly, they made me feel that I wasn't quite so alone.

Looking back now, I can begin to understand just how deeply those early childhood experiences influenced the person I would become.

That sense of loneliness didn't simply disappear as I grew older. In many ways, it followed me into adulthood, contributing to periods of deep depression, persistent questions about my self-worth, and an overwhelming tendency toward self-pity.

As I reflected on those childhood memories today, a familiar song began playing in my mind: “Alone Again (Naturally)” by Gilbert O'Sullivan.

I remember how profoundly that song affected me when it first came out in the early 1970s.

I understood its sadness.

I recognized its loneliness.

In many ways, it expressed emotions that I had carried within me for years but had never really understood.

Yet something remarkable happened as I continued reflecting on those painful memories.

Instead of becoming overwhelmed by the sadness, I began to experience something entirely different.

A sense of renewal.

A feeling of emotional freedom.

It's difficult to describe, but as I allowed myself to remember those experiences and acknowledge the emotions associated with them, I began to realize that I no longer needed to carry their burden.

I could accept those memories for what they were.

I could acknowledge the loneliness of that little boy without allowing his loneliness to define the man I am today.

And, most importantly, I could surrender those memories, along with their emotional weight, to my Higher Power—God.

The past hadn't changed.

But something within me had.

Perhaps this is one of the greatest gifts of recovery: discovering that I don't have to deny my emotions, suppress them, or be controlled by them.

I can acknowledge what I felt then.

I can accept what I feel now.

And I can recognize that my emotions, however powerful they may be, do not determine who I am.

My recovery is happening!

It's happening in moments of surprising clarity, often when I least expect them.

It's happening as I learn to look honestly at my past without judgment, to accept my experiences without resentment, and to surrender what I cannot change to God.

And it's happening as I begin to understand a simple but profoundly liberating truth:

I am not my emotions.

I am becoming free to be me.

M Robert D