Forgiveness.

I spent an unjustly large portion of my time, lost in my thoughts of loose ends and times that I hurt others. Unfinished stories, “I’m sorry”s never said, those cut into my heart and reduce my quality of life. It’s true that the longer you live, the more dirt and missteps snowball behind you. It’s rare that we achieve the Hollywood-movie redemption we feel we deserve, or at least crave in order to have a good night’s sleep for once.

Ten years ago, I lost my virginity to a man who loved me dearly. I was a few weeks shy of seventeen, and he was nineteen, and he moved from New Jersey to rent a place and find a job in my city in order to be with me. We were both spoiled, selfish children, ultimately, and the relationship became rocky before its inevitable and explosive death.

John moved back to New Jersey soon after, and I buried him in my mind, the relationship and my love a bitter regret and a source of great guilt and pain. For ten years, it festered, and eventually decayed, a dark wound left in its place, the ashy patch of skin formed by a spider bite that scars a little bit until it fades in the sun, mostly. Every time a “my first time” story came up or relationship pains ached, there it was, the memory of it in the back of my mind, until I forced myself to forget it again.

Last week, I was at the dog park with Mishka, my newly blond hair pinned up and tied with a bandanna, my eyes hidden behind big sunglasses. A couple came in with two small dogs, and as you do in a dog park, we stood over our pups as they said hello, made sure that they played nicely, and then launched into the usual series of questions, “What’s your dog’s name?” “What breed is she?” and recounted stories of their habits and moods. It must have been a full two minutes before I looked up at the man in that couple and realised who it was. My entire body went cold. It was John.

Inevitably, the panic set in. Is it him? He fucking hates me; he must not recognise me! I’ll just keep playing nice. Then, the doubt and incredulity. No, it can’t be him. What the hell is he doing in Pittsburgh? He called this the place where dreams go to die. But if he’s here… oh, he seems to have a nice girlfriend. But wait. Is it really him? It can’t possibly be. Why isn’t he acknowledging who I am?

I realised we were having a pleasant conversation and the mood was genuinely friendly and sweet, on both of our ends. So I resigned myself to it. Oh well, I thought. I can at least have a final memory of John as someone with whom I was once friendly, someone who I once laughed with, and who held me in a loving hug. He used to think I was a wonderful human being. I remembered my own part in the relationship — my sins, my anger — and realised I was no longer angry with him. Not even a little bit. Mostly I felt immense guilt at my mistakes. I was such a vindictive, selfish, moody brat who drove my boyfriend away, hurting him deeply in the process.

The park began to fill up and I turned to talk to a neighbour who had shown up, and when I turned again to see him, he and his girlfriend and dogs had gone.

For a few days I debated emailing him, or finding him on Facebook (we still have mutual friends), acknowledging that I saw him. A part of me was still convinced it was not, in fact, him, and emailing him would dredge up all kinds of terrible feelings and words, for no reason at all. So I left it alone.

Then he emailed me.

I clicked the message with hope, elation, fear, and panic. I forgot to breathe as I read the entire message. He told me he had moved to Pittsburgh in July with his girlfriend for school and had dreaded running into me on the street for months. It ended on a positive note. He wished me well. He had hoped not to have to face his nineteen-year-old self. In short, he had feared all of the same things I did. It had been easier at the time to pretend he didn’t know who I was.

We’re friends now. Ten years of guilt, shame, bitterness, and sadness — lifted like a dandelion seed blowing away in the wind. What a beautiful relief. My entire body was electrified with elation for hours afterward.

 

Jason taught me to ask, “Why is this happening for me?” The answer rang out clear as a bell: Forgive Joseph. Acknowledge his heartfelt apology email from nearly two weeks ago. I logged in to write him back, and then thought, No. I’ll call him.

A ten minute phone call telling him I forgave him, and that everything was okay, was all it took. I paid forward the forgiveness, and the universe veritably shuddered around me as the circle closed. My love for the world and for others and for these two men and for kindness and human empathy was filled to bursting.

 

I feel so incredibly blessed and grateful to have had the opportunity to forgive, and to be forgiven. Confession before God, for me, doesn’t take the shape of confiding in a priest in the quiet of a church. This is a valid form of confession, to be sure, with all my respect for the church as a spiritual sanctuary, but I believe true confession and reconciliation with God comes in the form of goodness for your fellow man.

Matthew 25 states: ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ For me that includes forgiveness. Making amends is so incredibly good for the soul. I felt so wonderful feeling a genuine kindness from someone who I was convinced still despised me, that I knew it was only fair to forgive someone else who I often thought about, despite his moment of cruelty and our subsequent falling out.

People are good. It’s that simple. Often, in our inability to forgive ourselves for our transgressions, we are subsequently unable to forgive others for theirs. I worry a lot about whether forgiving would make me a doormat, if it would open me up to more mistreatment, more abuse. Then I remember the deep regret and shame I feel when I recount the times I had hurt others. If I could summon the immense courage it took to confront them with an open and apologetic heart, what response would I want? What level of forgiveness would I deserve?

It is almost always people we once loved that we now are angry with, or cannot forgive, or who hold a grudge against us. If you found a reason to love them once upon a time, how can you discount those qualities now, consider them less than deserving of your love? Look at it in reverse: If you once deserved the love of another, their anger at your actions or words does not make you now undeserving of love. We are all emotional creatures, afraid of love in as much as we are afraid of rage. We should be more patient with each other.

I cannot be thankful enough for the opportunity to bury the hatchet with a person I knew ten years ago, as much as I am grateful to end a year-long fight with another friend and loved one. No matter what happens from here forward, with either of them, I can live freely knowing that I am forgiven, and that I wholly forgive them.

I’m reminded of this song by Florence and the Machine. “Regrets collect like old friends, here to relive your darkest moment.” Shake it out, shake it off.

The desire to be good.

I would like to think that all people ultimately have good intentions. That everyone falters and fails and that in the end, no one actually takes pleasure or pride in being a hurtful person. I’ll go so far as to believe that even when a person is being spiteful and vindictive, they feel justified in doing so because they have probably received the same treatment. People that project unhappiness onto you are doing just that: projecting. If misery is what you feel, misery is all you have to give.

I told a coworker last night that people will continue to disappoint her and break her heart because few people are emotionally as mature and well-rounded as she is. I gave her that advice because I have been giving myself that advice for my whole life. It has been the only way I have been able to cope with heartbreak and disappointment. I am often let down by the cowardice of others. More than I care to recount.

Last night was a rough night due to work stress. But then, strange silver linings: a coworker who doesn’t like to be touched giving me a comforting hug before I left. Checking my phone to see that I had an apology email in my inbox. The strange thing about that email was that one of the guys at the restaurant last night looked like this person at certain angles. I kept turning my head, thinking, “What is he doing in Pittsburgh? At this restaurant?” Not two hours later, an email from this person — the original, not the doppleganger.

I am forever in the business of writing letters to clear my conscience, to try to make amends, to fix what I have broken. You would think that after the amount of letters I’ve written and sent to people I’ve hurt I could permanently stop causing pain, judging by the harsh penance I demand of myself after every time. But it’s like I never learn. I always find a new way to hurt someone that I love.

I’ve never received a response to any of these letters, either. I’ve been reaching out to friends and coworkers for their perspective on apology letters, and how to react to them, if at all. In the past I’ve felt hurt by the silence on the other end. I wondered if that was ego or selfishness, this feeling of injury — as though by not responding, my letter, my honest effort to fix a mistake, meant nothing and did no good for anyone. As a result, I’ve kind of stopped writing out my apologies altogether. In my mind it has turned into a different kind of penance: be kind and forgiving and understanding to everyone who is still in my life. Do this at all times. Try not to falter, and remove your ego from the whole thing. There is this quote by Mother Teresa, one about doing good, and being kind. Essentially it says, People who you are kind to may hurt you. Be kind to them anyway. And that’s the true path, that’s the way to live and I believe it 100%. But it’s a really, really hard path some days. And I really, truly believe it is the best way to live your life.

Anyway, this apology letter came after an unabashed and cruel one written to me nearly a year ago. It was honest and forthright, and owned up to the mistakes and cruelty. I respected it for its bravery. Now I’m at a loss for how to respond. Is it worth salvaging a relationship where respect has been lost? I fight with everyone I love, but I never name-call. I never use abusive language. I feel like that’s really important to me. What do I do about forgiveness in this situation?

I had made my peace with this situation. I wrote a letter, and I burned it, and it became the subject of a performance art piece. I can’t pretend I don’t think of this person, ever, but I had relegated him to memory because it made the most sense to do so. Forgive, don’t forget, but move along. Be at peace about it. At what point do I stop being a kind person and become a doormat? What does it mean to respect myself in the context of past relationships and forgiveness? Jesus says forgive. But does that mean I sweep it all under the rug and start over again, pick up where I left off with somebody? Or do I say, No. You hurt me once. I made my peace. I appreciate your apology and respect your bravery and kindness in giving it. I’m glad you are at peace. But I can’t let you in again.

Then I wonder how I would feel if I ever needed to beg forgiveness from someone whose heart I broke. And that is a very real situation in my life. Obviously I would accept the final decision of the heartbroken. But would I be happy enough for them to put away my guilt, my shame, my desire to have them back in my life? Empathy. It confuses everything when I’m just trying to make a rational decision.

Why do I even need to decide right now? Why don’t I wait until I’ve mulled it over, search my soul, look for the signs I place so much trust and faith into? Ultimately I need to make the decision that a good person would make. I’m just having trouble figuring out what that is.

I’m sure it’ll come to me.

 

A jumble of words, a lack of direction, a scattering of seeds.

Life has become so hilarious, so light-hearted, so generally directionless that I find myself putting stock into things as insignificant as phone app horoscopes. I should be more concerned. I know, somewhere in my mind, I’m sure that I should be panicked. Here I am, turning twenty-seven in two months (officially treading the waters of my late-20’s — the fun is nearly over) and I don’t know why I’m not thinking about school, not thinking about babies, not thinking about career.

Well, that’s not completely true. I do think about all of these things. Namely career — I have allowed art to take a backseat for the time being (more on that in a minute) and have put my focus into reading histories of alcohol production, consumption, and business, as well as finally getting the bartender training I’ve been after for the last few months. Gaining the trust and investment of my boss at the restaurant I work for has been nothing less than immensely rewarding, particularly in the face of being fired for the first time in my life (I have held a job since I was fifteen) for being a part of a “toxic environment” at the second job I  had taken at a pub. By the way, I was fired over the phone, after a night of doing what I felt was particularly good work, and after putting every drop of my effort into learning what I could, pleasing my boss, and being generally kind and free of thorns. It’s true that I made professional errors, for which I apologised and worked hard to correct.

Some people are just impossible to please, I suppose, and though it’s incredibly shameful for me to admit publicly that I have been fired, it’s a lesson learned. The ultimate lesson, without going into too much detail, is that I should never waste my time giving my genuine affections and friendliness to men who will be intimidated by me no matter what. There is nothing more disappointing than an insecure man. If I was spiteful, or vindictive (two things I find abhorrent in anyone), I would exploit this situation to its fullest. But it is extremely important for me to be trustworthy. In the past, I let secrets that were not mine slip out accidentally. I don’t want to make that mistake again. I want even my enemies to know that their secrets were never mine to tell, and that, even though they probably don’t deserve it, they continue to be safe with me. It is not my job to hand out justice. Everyone gets theirs, eventually. “For you strike all my enemies on the cheek, you break the teeth of the wicked.”

Back to career: In a few short sentences, here is the goal, culled from hours of observing my coworkers both on and off the clock. I want to be a bartender, but I don’t want to just sling drinks with half-baked abandon. I want to know history, I want to know culture and folklore. I want to make a brilliant craft cocktail with care and love, and I also want to be capable of slinging a hundred drinks in an hour in a fast-paced environment. Having worked on my listening and observing skills over the last two years, this job is the perfect avenue to continue to hone my skills.

On the subject of art-making: I’m feeling dejected and uninspired. I’m putting it on the shelf for a while. I’ve even begun giving my work away. A few weeks ago I decided this was the right thing to do and that finding loving homes for my work was much more fruitful than trying to make a dime off of anything I do. Even though I harp on about being unable and unwilling to compromise my vision just to be able to sell work, every time I have a show, someone inevitably asks not “How was it? What was the turnout? What was your body of work about?”, but “Did you sell anything?” I know in my heart that sale signs are not the measure of my success, but the more I get asked, the more I begin to internalise a general feeling of failure over my work. How come I didn’t sell anything? I begin to ask myself. What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with my work? I’m obviously not talented enough to warrant a sale, no matter how under-priced my work is already.

I don’t want to think about my work that way anymore, so until I can rid myself of this albatross around my neck, I’m not making anything. Anything I do make will come without any particular fanfare or publicity, and I won’t have or seek out another show for a long time, either. I’m relinquishing myself to the role of an outside artist. The public be damned, however naive a statement that is — one only has a public if that public is buying.

Putting my visual art in the backseat gives me a greater outlet in the realms of music and writing, anyway. I took a Facebook hiatus on Sunday, and haven’t been on since then, and I found that almost instantly, not filling my head with static gave rise to lines of poetry and ideas for sketchbook doodles. I haven’t played piano, consistently, in months. I never sing anymore. All that is about to change. That’s the hope, at least.

Maybe the next few posts will be poetry. Or I’ll likely just prattle on in the next few posts, for the five of you who even read this. 🙂