on forgiveness
do you remember when we first met?
The act of forgiveness allows us to move through fear, through anything and everything that was holding us back.
It could be someone close to us who belittled our hopes and dreams. It could be the entirety of how we were raised. It could be someone who didn’t believe in ourselves as much as we did. It could be an old lover or friend who wronged us in the past, making us terrified of being receptive to any type of love again.
Or, maybe we need to forgive ourselves. For the stories we told ourselves. For the narratives that weren’t ours to carry.
And I think, too, the act of forgiveness can be perceived as weak. By forgiving, are we acknowledging our own hurt? Shouldn’t we be putting up boundaries and walls and safeguards in place to shield ourselves from ever feeling disappointed again?
But then - where does our freedom lie? It’s now trapped in between someone else’s hands.
My friends,
I’m writing to you, cozy from my bed in Toronto. I realize it’s been a while since I just typed to you without a story that I needed to tell, without a story weighing heavily on my mind.
I’m propped up with a million and one pillows. There’s a humidifier running (for the glow). There’s a glass of water beside me (also for the glow). I’m wearing my new vintage navy Harley Davidson tee and white Brandy Melville pajama bottoms. It’s a Friday night in the city, and I don’t have anywhere else to be.
You’re going to laugh. The Man at the Front texted me this week. We haven’t spoken in about a month. He said, “I keep thinking I’m going to see you every weekend and then I never do.” I laugh. “Soon.” I write him. “Hopefully for the holidays.”
“You love Rome.”
“I do. January is my favourite time to be there.”
And it is. It’s calm, it’s peaceful, it’s quiet. It’s 16 degrees and sunny. Chilly enough to wear jacket, but still warm enough to sit outside.
“It’s more liveable in the winter. How’s home?”
“Saw my ex. He basically told me he was still in love with me and disappeared. Lol.”
“Do you still love him?”
“Unfortunately. A little bit. But I know it’s not ever going to work out in the way I want it to.”
He doesn’t respond. Lol.
-
The prompt for this week’s writing group is forgiveness. And I’ve been thinking about who or what I need to forgive in this situation, in order to…believe in something again.
You see - I had this idea, this fantasy inside of my head. About how this would all play out. You, like me, had spent the last seven years changing. Having different experiences, going after what you always wanted, or what you thought you always wanted. Maybe writing more. Creating something, or building something new. Chasing this “idea” of happiness, but maybe, eventually, you’d too realize that there is no finality in the pursuit of happiness. Maybe you’d understand why they’d call it the pursuit. It’s about the journey. It’s about the present. It’s about the time that we’re allotted, not about the time that we have promised.
Do you want to know a secret? In the past seven years, no one has ever come close to touching your level of banter.
And do you want to know another secret? She had to beg me to go out with you. Lol.
Our first date was a double date. But prior to that, we had been talking for a few months. You had invited me and our mutual friends to a gala that you and your friends were hosting.
“He’s been texting me every day to make sure you’re coming.” Our mutual friend tells me.
I didn’t know much about you, besides our conversation from the first night we met. Those black barstools, the white wine, and that charismatic demeanor.
“You’re the girl who starts the fire, then walks away. We’re going to get along great.”
Do you remember when your friend kissed me? It was that night, and I think he purposely did it in front of you. We were getting ready to leave, and I hadn’t said a word to him, besides, “Hi.” But I guess it was enough for him to feel entitled to do something. And I was young, I was 24. I was a lot younger than he was. But, as we’re so often trained to do, trained to not make a scene - I laughed, shrugged, and played it off as him being drunk. But you were upset.
“He’s not like the rest of them.” Our mutual friend reassured me. “And I know he’s into you. Trust me. He’s different.”
So. I agree to go to this gala. I buy a new silk dress. A dusty rose one with the highest slit possible. I get my hair curled, I get my make-up done.
And we show up. I don’t know what I was expecting. But we barely see you the entire night. You’re here, you’re there, you’re everywhere, then you’re nowhere.
My friend is annoyed, but I didn’t really care enough about you to be annoyed, just yet.
“I’m so fucking annoyed. He’s been up my ass the past two months making sure I’d bring you.”
So, I tell our mutual friend that I’m done entertaining the idea of you. That crowd is not for me. I couldn’t look up at the suits and their empty eyes and fancy parties and pretend to be enthralled in whatever big words they were using. And what was it all for? To impress each other? Because it certainly didn’t feel like they were doing it for themselves.
A few weeks go by, and our mutual friend messages me.
“Tuesday night. Me, you, him, and his friend. He’s been begging.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
My friend shows up at my apartment with a bottle of wine for us to drink before.
“Don’t you have something…a little more sexier?” She looks me up and down. I’m wearing an oversized boyfriend button-up shirt from Aritzia, a pair of leather leggings, and white sneakers.
“He’s not getting anything sexier. I really do not care.”
She laughs. We get there. You’re in a suit. Your friend is in a suit. And I don’t know what spell you put me under. But an hour later, I’m telling you what I make for breakfast every day. “Spinach, tomatoes, eggs. And the sourdough from Whole Foods is so good.” I don’t know why I want to tell you my life story, but I just do. And you’re looking at me as if I just said the smartest thing in the world. And we leave the restaurant and you grab my hand. And we go back to your place, and we leave our friends in the living room. You put your jacket over my shoulders and show me the terrace. It’s the size of my apartment, but I don’t say anything. It’s not the money that I like about you, and I don’t want you think that it is.
“House?”
“Slytherin.”
He smiles. “Of course you are. Patronus?”
“Albatross. You?”
“Snake.”
I smile. “Of course you are.”
It gets colder. It’s late November. The city lights become brighter. You look at me, but, you really look at me. And not in the drunk, lustful, “we might as well” type of way. But in an I see you, I understand you type of way. And it terrifies me. Because I know. Because I know that I have you. And I know that I don’t want to let you go.
“Are you going to throw me off this terrace?”
I know what’s coming.
You hold my face in the palm of your hands.
“Actually, I’m about to do something I should have done a long time ago.”
I stand on my tippy toes and wrap my arms around your neck. And you kiss me. And I kiss you. And you mean it, and I mean it. And it’s just us. And everything else fades away.
-
So. The topic of this week is forgiveness. And in the spirit of forgiveness, and in the spirit of setting myself, and maybe each other free - this is really, what I want to say to you.
I forgive myself for the times that I told myself that it was all just a game. That you were just being nice. I forgive myself for not believing our mutual friend when she told me you were into me after one conversation that we had that I barely remember. I don’t think I said anything revolutionary - how could you have had any interest?
I forgive myself for getting excited when I saw your name pop up on my phone every morning around 9 AM. I forgive myself for every impromptu weekday hangout we had that always led us to having no sleep, and both of us waking up with mild hangovers. I forgive myself for never wanting the sun to fully rise, because I learned that 5 AM is my favourite time to have sex. Both of us still half asleep, and both of us not wanting to let go of each other, just yet.
I forgive myself for holding on to an idea, for maybe longer than I should have. But I was never wrong to do so. We really did have everything.
It’s been seven years since. Seven years is a long time to remember a three month stint. I don’t regret moving and changing, and living a life that I truly desired. And what I’m realizing now, is that the feelings that came with this three month stint, gave me a blueprint. Home and understanding could be found in a person. And time, again, is omnipotent. Because no matter how much time or distance passes, it’s still possible to get butterflies and sweaty palms and grab each others hands from across the table and slip back into old patterns.
Home. We have so many different variations of it.
So I forgive myself for what is, and for what was.
How lucky are we? Really though.
It’s over, but we were lucky. We were really, really, lucky.