A couple of weeks ago, I wrote a letter that starts out with "Dear Little Me...". I thought of it as a way to tell little me all the things I know as an adult: That she's afraid, that really no one will believe her, and that's she going to grow up one day, and be someone great, who froze not because she was weak but because she loved life enough to want to survive. Then, not knowing why, I started drawing pictures to illustrate the letter. Randomly - while I was cleaning litter boxes of all things - it occurred to me that I that I was drawing pictures because little me can't read yet! Whoa, weird. So now I've started an illustrated version of the letter. It's good, because sometimes it's emotionally taxing to write, and the pictures seem a better way to communicate with the me that was.
I know this all sounds pretty bizarre. But maybe part of forgiving yourself is realizing that that little girl really did exist. She was a real little person, who didn't have the resources to save herself, or a way to escape an impossible situation. You have the tangible evidence that she lived: you. You live. I want to forget little me sometimes, and push her into the back of my mind. But most of the time I try to remember her, and realize how amazing she (me) is.
If you are staring at a blank screen, maybe you should try something else for a while, maybe something little. Maybe sing her a song, or color a page in a coloring book, or take a day to visit the park. Maybe a little gesture will be the precursor to a bigger one in the future.
