Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
I don’t want to write this. I don’t want to think about all the things I haven’t forgiven myself for, and I don’t want to rehash a million and one lashes with the emotional whip that I’ve given myself over and over on the blog, much to the delight of absolutely no one. I don’t want to write this post.
Now that I’ve gotten the whining out of the way, I’ll write the damn post.
Forgiveness of others seems so easy, except that tiny ugly version of myself that lives in the back of my head that whispers “But I’ll never, ever, really forgive you”. Forgiveness of self is a much louder voice, with a bullhorn, spraypainting the sides of buildings with “never, never, NEVER will I forgive myself, I won’t even think about it, lock it away in the safe with all the other things I’ll never forgive myself for, all the things that scream at me in the dead of night, that no amount of medication can touch. It’s those things that drove me to silence myself with alcohol, to numb the voices constantly keening in my ear about all the unforgivable things I’ve done, said, thought.
Sometimes I have bad thoughts. About people, things, events. Nasty, wicked thoughts. Sometimes I covet, am gluttonous, lust and all the other sins that 15 consecutive years of Catholic education bore into me, all the sins I have committed and still commit every day. All the things I could never forgive myself for. All the things that tears and blood and booze and sex and therapy and pills don’t touch. Because I can say to myself “I try, my best, to be a good person every day” but that’s impossible. No one is a good person every day. Sometimes I’m downright selfish and mean, and I lock all those thoughts up where no one can find them, in that dark place in my mind that hisses all night as I lie awake and yearn for relief.
No one is a good person every day, not even when you lock all your thoughts away where they only chatter to you.
I’ve fucked up royally in my life, exquisitely, with bells and whistles and parades of therapists and ex-boyfriends and liquor store employees doing a salute to me as they stomp by, reminding me of all the things that I have done wrong, poorly, mistakenly, or maliciously. I’ve done them all. I am the duchess of the Fucked Up, and I never expect anyone to forgive me for any of my sins. If the nuns couldn’t make me good after beating their dogma into me for a decade and a half, who on earth COULD make me good?
So what do I have to forgive myself for? That I’m willing to divulge here? Not a lot. That’s for secrets and lies and whispers, all tucked away in my head where no one can see them. A vast library of sins, I have, all documented and alphabetized, stacks of books worth, all in my mind. Shh. You can’t go in there. That’s not allowed.
But I forgive myself for having that history of sin. I may not be able to burn the books, but I can forgive myself for having them. And I do. Danielle? I absolve you of the sin of sinning. I may not be able to make the wrong things right, or take back the thoughts, but I acknowledge and forgive myself for holding so tightly onto them.
We all stow away that library of wrongs. And I forgive myself for having mine.