Forgiveness is a Journey of a Thousand Steps

the first step is a doozie

My reaction to Melanie’s offer? I shrugged.

What, who me? Scream? Shake my fist to the heavens? Drop the f bomb in the presence of any woodland creature with a mile radius?

Nope. And then to learn that he had wanted to take the next step in their relationship she rejected the notion. I felt like a fucking middle schooler playing the “does he like me more” game. WTF?!

If one of my good friends were going through what I was going through, I would have been sprouting horns and looking for blood.

But yet, there I was, shrugging. Perhaps sometime, I told Melanie. Right now, I just felt numb. Probably a little disassociated. I felt like I was standing outside myself, watching the slow train wreck of my marriage.

It’s not that I don’t have an inner raging bitch. She’s in there, trust me. (And the wasband can truly testify to this.) I can shake my fist with the best of them and truth be told, if there was a meter tracking my f-bomb usage, the dial would be spinning out of control.

And this was before the Big Confession where he told me about doing the downward dog with his yogi outside of yoga class. It had gone on for several months, right underneath my naïve nose.

After he confessed, I bolted from the therapist’s office quicker than you can say “Om”. I packed up my shattered Chakras and I bolted from the therapist’s office and headed to my favorite hiking trails, wishing to God I didn’t run into any people on the trails. I didn’t want anyone to hear me sobbing, and I sure as hell didn’t want to exchange fake cheery greetings with strangers on the trail.

It was then that I began to finally connect with the anger I kept under lock and key. It was there the whole time, just repressed because, you know… nice girls don’t go postal.

Yes, Theresa finds her rage. And it wasn’t pretty.

Strangely enough, I found the object of my rage wasn’t directed toward him. Nor did I turn my guns on Miss Yoga Pants, the woman who was practicing the Happy Baby Pose with a married man. MY married man.

Nope, nope-ity nope!

I was furious with me, myself and I. Yep. I turned the guns on myself. (Think Warrior Pose but with live ammo.)

How could I have been so stupid? How much of my marriage was a lie? Why the hell didn’t I run before it came to this? Why the fuck didn’t I file for divorce earlier?

I was furious with myself for not securing my financial interests earlier in the marriage. Furious for adopting the Leave it to Beaver 50s style family and the realization that I am screwed financially for the rest of my life.

And then I was even more furious with myself because I realized I was tolerating the intolerable by denying my own needs for safety and respect. But yet, there I was. Dependent. Terrified. You stoopid, stoopid idiot, my bad angel screamed these reminders to me.

I also realized I fucking hate yoga, but I digress.

This explosion of dark and condemning thoughts highlighted to me the fact that my journey of forgiveness must first start with…

forgiving myself.

A strange reaction, I know. Especially after such a breathtaking betrayal of our marriage vows and trust. My ire should have been directed toward him and him alone, rationale would say. But I also realize my codependent ways, ie… if you stepped on my toe, I would apologize for having my foot in your way.

Coming from an alcoholic home, I learned from mom how to smile and keep moving forward despite intolerable behaviors and lack of healthy boundaries. Mom had even once admonished me: You must be strong for those who aren’t.

I was 13. THIRTEEN, people.

This programming is part of the behavior I had been applying in my marriage. He is going through a midlife crisis right now; I just need to be strong. Even if he was a decade past midlife. What evs.

Excuse the behaviors. Overlook the growing contempt for me. Lower your expectations, adapt, wait it out, and for fuck’s sake… PRAY! (As a Christian, I should have put “pray” in first, but God seemed to have left the building. What, with all the doors to close and windows to open, he no doubt is a busy, oh-so-very-busy deity.)

I would wake up an optimist, ready to take on the world. You got this! I would speak to myself. But it was all downhill come early afternoon. By the time the shadows grew long, the grief felt unbearable. Some nights I would crawl into bed at 6pm.

I knew I could not keep this pattern up. No, I can’t just buck up and put on my big girl panties.

How the hell do you walk through forgiveness when you are in a swirl of conflicting emotions? Rage. Grief. Disbelief. Shock. Tenderness. Fear. Loss.

I’d ponder the availability of Klingon Warbirds and a moment later, I’d be sobbing.

During one of the crying jags, I took a moment to wipe the tears and snot streaming down my face; the clouds cleared for a moment. From deep within, I heard Wisdom speak.

You must feel all the feels.

Say wat? Yeah, you! I’m talking to you, Dear One. You must feel all the feels.

Either my subconscious just burped up something my therapist told me. Or it was God, consoling me and telling me it was okay to feel the feels.

Well, shee-it, this is awkward. In a “Positive Vibes Only” culture, anger and grief are something to deny and/or repress. And in many Christian circles, anger is considered a sin. (And don’t get me started on the hypocrisy this toxic viewpoint creates.)

Talk about uncomfortable. But since I had a catastrophic failure of my big girl panties and was now buying wine by the case, I needed a better strategy, and fast.

It was time for me to take an unwavering look at the reality. No sugar coating. No excusing his behavior. Nor could I minimize the terrifying truth that I would start over again as an economically vulnerable woman in her late 50s. No safety net. No pension since I was a stay-at-home mom during earning years. Grow old together? HA. The life I had known was blown to smithereens.

As I assessed the reality of this bleak situation, all those feels wanted to be heard and have their day(s) in court. They had a lot to say. Especially anger. I sat with that enough to realize it was just the tip of a grief iceberg. It’s so much easier to direct anger at someone else (even if it is rightfully so) instead of facing the deep sadness.

Being a journal keeper for many years, I turned to pen and paper to unpack things. Hello, emotions. I know you’re trying to help me see the unvarnished truth.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. It really sucks to be me. From crying over my journal pages to angry scribbles, I allowed the emotions to flow. (After making sure the windows were closed lest someone report a domestic disturbance to the cops.)

I could almost feel Wisdom smile a little bit. That a girl! Let it all out. The only way out is through.

And I began to feel better. Just a little bit. It was time for some of those hiccup-y sobs you see little ones get after a temper tantrum.

This wasn’t a one and done event by any stretch of the imagination. There were many days I rode the emotional roller coaster. I still do, now over 2 years out.

But I began to see and understand that this was the necessary first step toward forgiveness.

There’s no cost, no inner work required to put on a show of faux forgiveness. Words are cheap. And stuffing down the feelings will only bite you in the ass, eventually. There are no shortcuts in the journey to genuine forgiveness.

This is what I find. As I continue to process the emotions, Wisdom’s companion, Grace, carries me. I could see a miracle happening in my shattered heart: it was expanding.

It’s like a water wheel. Turn, turn, turn. I release the pain, Grace rushes in.

Forgiveness fills in the broken places. And Love sustains me.

I remember the Ho’oponopono Mantra that I learned at a divorce retreat:

Step 1: I Love You

Step 2: I’m Sorry

Step 3: Please Forgive Me

Step 4: Thank You

I speak this to myself. And then I speak it towards him.

The healing work continues. And so will the forgiveness topic continue in the next article…

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