At Least They're Committed

Having a difficult time getting into the book on Alaska and its mysteries last night while the boys watched “No Country for Old Men,” I defaulted to the “Chicken Soup for the Animal Lovers’ Soul” book my mum bought me for Christmas years back. I’ve only read a story at a time over the years because, well, too sappy for me and as it turns out they don’t kill any children in “NCFOM” so I guess I could have watched it with the boys after all.

But I digress.

The story I read last night was “as told by James Stewart,” which I took to mean Jimmy Stewart and it was about how as a boy he had to come to forgive the neighbor dog for killing his dog, Bounce, while he was away at camp. Ultimately, dogs do what they do. I won’t go into Raul’s sins, as they’re detailed in earlier posts.

Again, I digress. The story got me thinking about forgiveness and it’s a lesson that I learned, oh, about 18 years ago or a little less after being fired on trumped-up charges from the New Mexico newspaper. Banished to a small Alamosa newspaper where the carpet hadn’t been replaced in 38 years and the roof leaked and the squishy floors smelled like vomit or athlete’s foot, depending on who you asked, I waited for God to strike down my accusers, my “enemies.”

It was the first time I finally turned to therapy and after going through my story with my amazing counselor, Mary, and then a psychiatrist named Honey Bee (who I hope the insurance company finally paid) and being told by both that I should write a book, I finally had an epiphany. I COULD forgive those assholes for their blatant mistreatment of not only me but so many other people I care about. And I did.

This step came after dreaming one night that the paper’s editor, Mr. “I Loved Her, pounding his fists on his desk ‘I’m your only friend’” guy, was searching a maze-like office building, huffing and blowing and angrily calling my name. I was frightened and anxious that he would see me . . . I was floating above his head, looking down on him. As he bellowed and punched walls storming down the thin, brightly lit hallways, I remember gathering my courage and zipping past him, only about three feet above him. I went into a closet and hovered near the ceiling and as he looked in for me, his eyes never looking up, I realized he couldn’t touch me.

Waking up, I was able to forgive. Neither he nor the other messianic overlords at the paper had any power over me any longer.

As is witness by my writing this, however, I have not forgotten. I indeed had an even greater epiphany: forgiving someone, doesn’t mean you have to forget anything. It doesn’t mean you have to like them. It doesn’t mean you have to maintain a connection or be their friend or even be there for them period. It means that you’re over it, you’ve moved on, you’re above it and they can’t touch you. It doesn’t mean you have to play the fool and set yourself up for further abuse.

I’ve revisited this lesson again and again throughout the years and now it comes quite naturally. I have no trouble interacting with people who have done wrong by me and I’ve spent less time pondering, “OMG! Did I really do that? Am I at fault? How do I make this right . . . ” when I’ve done nothing wrong to begin with and my intentions at the very least have always been honorable.

I let it go . . . but I do not forget. Forgive and learn, forgive and learn.