"Mean bone": forgiveness is a heavy burden

"She doesn't have a mean bone in her body."

I heard someone say that the other day, and my initial reaction was, "that's nice".  But it's been niggling at me, as random overheard comments sometimes will, and my reaction to that now is succinct.

Bullshit.

They used to say that about me, years ago, that and all the other truisms that mean the same thing.

Wouldn't say boo.  Wouldn't hurt a fly.  Big pussycat (or teddy bear).  Heart made of marshmallow fluff.  Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

I actually believed it about myself.  Central to my image of myself was the affirmation that I was a kind person.  All through high school, it was easy to believe.  I was well-liked, if not popular.  I didn't have the right clothes, go to the right church, participate in the right activities for that.  And I liked geeks better than jocks.  Kiss of death for '80s high school popularity right there.

Even when I left home for university, I believed it.  And then I met him.  I had gone to the fall formal with a group of friends, the only one without a date, but that didn't seem to matter.  I was sitting on the sidelines when my friend Jocelyn came over with her date and invited me to come over to their table to meet, as she put it, "some single guys".  That was how I met Greg and Mike and, well, let's just call him JP.

We made awkward small talk as a group, and Jocelyn and her date left to dance, and JP invited me to dance, as well.  Finding him attractive and engagingly awkward, and admiring the courage it had taken to ask me, I assented.  We ended up dancing together for the rest of the evening.  He was everything my romance-novel-reading soul could ask for.  Tall, blond, devastatingly handsome, incredibly intelligent, romantic, thoughtful, a great kisser.  I fell, and I fell hard.  I was in love, real love, not merely high school infatuation, for the first time in my life.  Or at least, that was how I interpreted it. 

I spent the next while on a cloud, even when I couldn't see him as often as I would have liked.  As a romantic young woman will, I was sure that he felt about me just as intensely as I did about him.  Maybe he did, but I imagine that I will never know. 

Then it happened.  It was probably just bad timing, catching him at a bad moment, but I telephoned him and he blew me off, sounding testy, saying "shouldn't you be studying, goddammit".  Well, I had called him because I was finished my homework for the nonce, and I was feeling somewhat isolated, since my friends had all gone out to the movies, for which I did not have the funds.  Instead of making allowances for his bad temper, I took it personally.  Very personally. 

I spent the next two hours composing a four page letter.  Four single-spaced, closely written pages.  Full of every insult and slur I could think of or create.  I attacked his origins, his birthplace, his ancestry, and I laboured long and lovingly over my descriptions of the heartache I suffered because of him and his behaviour.  I don't remember much of the details of the letter, but I do remember calling him a "blue-nosed bastard" and a "Cape Breton conman".  To use twenty-first century parlance, I flamed him but good.  I think the only area I did not attack was his sexual competence, and that was chiefly because a) we hadn't gotten that far, and b) I had no standard of comparison. 

I then signed it, sealed it, and delivered it by sliding it under his dormroom door where he would be sure to find it when he returned from wherever he was out to.  Then I went to bed and slept the sleep of the self-righteous.  I awoke a couple of hours later to the sound of something being slid under my dormroom door. 

It was his response.  Even drunk, sarcastic, and hurt, two things came through.  First, he was disappointed, because he had seen in my "china doll pureness" some form of redemption for himself after a devastating end to a previous bad relationship. (Heavy burden for anyone, let alone an eighteen-year-old romantic, to be someone else's redemption.)  Second, he forgave me.  (Forgiveness unsought, another heavy burden.) 

I couldn't see it then, but looking back, I am in awe at how maturely this twenty-year-old boy handled my childish tantrum, and my subsequent course of action, which could not have been easy for him to handle -- such truly stupid choices as dating his best friend with the intention of destroying him for the "crime" of introducing me to JP (which backfired on me because said young man saw it as an opportunity for revenge on JP's behalf). 

Not only did he keep forgiving me, but he also kept pursuing me, for the rest of that year and the next, whenever he found the courage in the bottom of a bottle.  I wanteed to take the redemption I was being offered, but the burdens of guilt and shame, combined with the blows I had inflicted on my own self-image and self-esteem, kept me from reinstating the relationship.  That, and resentment of the fact that he only seemed capable of approaching me when he was well, traveling under full sail.  Now I realize that he was inoculating himself against the pain of further rejection. 

When I finally realized what I had done and was trying to do, I was devastated.  It's true what they say, that revenge can destroy the one seeking it.  I am living proof.  I have since done my best to rebuild my soul, but it is a haphazard and patched thing, full of scars and pitfalls.

But I have digressed somewhat.  My point is, if the "nice" person I was and try to be can harbour such potential for darkness and meanness, anyone can.  I believe that everyone has a "mean bone".  We can only choose not to indulge it. 

JP, wherever you are, I hope you are well.  I hope your soul is intact.  Our stories are linked, making you a part of me.  I hope that you have found happiness commensurate with your past suffering.  While our story does not have a happy ending, I have found one, at least for now.  I hope you do the same.  They say God has a special openness to the prayers of sinners.  I hope so.  This my prayer for you.

Why does letting go hurt so much? or, I shouldn't care, but I do

It shouldn't. It really shouldn't. Maybe if I keep telling myself, I’ll eventually believe it. If there was a time when he was mine, that was fifteen years ago, and I could probably argue that he never was. It would be so much easier to do this if I didn't have a living, breathing fourteen-year-old reminder with his eyes. Deep down, I’m happy that he's found someone and I know that his deliriously giddy behaviour is perfectly normal for that fresh-in-love stage of a relationship. Lord knows, he's had his share of the crazy girls and the psycho bitches. At forty-two, he deserves some happiness. I know it can't be with me. I've got a happiness of my own that grew out of the ashes of him and me. But it doesn't mean that I haven't harboured a secret hope that all these years he looked back with regret at what we might have had if we had both had a little more courage.

I've only had a few relationships in my life that have had profound and lasting effects, although my feelings have been engaged more often than that. The ruin of the first one taught me the importance of compassion. The second taught me that sometimes it is necessary to cut ties when they become destructive. It was a long time before the third one, he whose happiness I am now mourning. From that ending I learned the importance of courage over comfort. There were so many missed opportunities that I saw but talked myself out of using. Now I am learning the importance of dedication and devotion -- and yes, I know that sounds like the chorus of "Walk of Life" by Dire Straits -- and finding myself awed and humbled that someone thinks me worthy. Let me tell you, unconditional love, wherever you find it, is an amazing, awe-inspiring, humbling gift.

It shouldn't hurt, not any more. It really shouldn't hurt like it ended all over again. Maybe if I keep telling myself, I’ll eventually believe it.

Old Friends, New Friends

Faced with the rare, unaccustomed luxury of a day entirely to myself: no work, no appointments, no one to answer to for anything, I found myself in a dilemma: should I be sensible and go grocery shopping, checking out the amenities of my new home, or should I take advantage of a beautiful sunny day (with more than a hint of a breeze) to explore a little farther afield and possibly take the chance of running into an old friend. 

Being a woman of rare good sense, I opted for the more nerve-wracking option.  Courage is always a good thing to flex. 

Having missed the local shuttle bus, I gambled on my thumb.  The risk paid off fairly quickly, as I was picked up by two women on their way home from grocery shopping.  They dropped me off just a couple of blocks from my friend's workplace. I swear that he must have every kid's ultimate fantasy job, especially every kid who ever read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory: he manages a candy store.  And not just any candy store, but one that sells every type of candy you ever loved or heard about as a kid and can't find any more.  You name it -- salt-water taffy, every kind of penny candy you can dream of, chocolate, liquorice, giant lollipops, a dozen different kinds of fudge, most of it arrayed in plexiglas bins and apothecary jars.  Candy cigarettes, PEZ dispensers of every possible variety you could imagine.  You name it, they stock it.  And if they don't stock it, they will most likely source it for you. 

After fourteen years, it was gratifying to see the look on his face when I walked in the door: the shocked surprise, followed by the instant recognition.  I spent the afternoon hanging out in the candy store, or just out front in the sunshine, catching up, and marveling at the sensation that almost no time had passed. 

When it was time to go, I had once again missed the bus, so I had to use my thumb.  The first car to pass, stopped.  As I got to chatting with the driver, it turned out that her husband works for the golf course right next to the hotel where I work, and that they have a basement suite available for rent, just as I am looking for accommodations.  She then invited me to her home to check out the suite, introduced me to  her husband, fed me tea and cookies, and then they drove me back to the hotel.  I think I may have made a new friend.  And all because I decided to reach out to an old one.