There is a slice of time in the Story I Tellthat I don’t often speak of, but in the middle of my depression this summer, this memory flickered in my mind, prodding me to process that moment of when I chased after normal.
This is my process, in all its glorious imperfection.
The findings of T’s interrogation had a swift fallout. No charges were pressed. Determining he was no longer a threat, he was released back to his home, back to his family, back to his life.
But he didn’t get his job back.
Yet.
Chasing After Normal
A week passed and the Christmas season was readily upon me. I looked forward to the school break, to have a chance to breathe and find my way back to myself. A dance was coming up, and I, of all people, had a date.
I looked forward to that step toward normalcy. The dance became a test of sorts. Who would I become after all of this had happened? My date knew smatterings and rumors of what had happened, but unlike some others, he stood by me, believed my story, and dared to love me through it.
I was going to the dance and I would be normal.
The day of the dance, the church had called for a meeting between myself, my mother, the head of the church council, and the priest. I held my head up high, but I was a trembling bundle of nerves with every step toward that dark office. What did they have to say? Aren’t we done? I have a dance to go to!
Nothing could prepare me for what they would ask me to do.
–We would like for you to be in a room with T. He will say he is sorry and you will forgive him. Then, you can offer him his job back.
Words dried up in my mouth, escaping in puffs of stale air. I clutched my sweater across my chest, covering myself from the nakedness I felt.
There would never be enough clothes.
I went to the dance, an unblinking, horrible, abnormal date. To this day, I feel sorry for my date. He tried. He really tried.
Normal was unattainable.
Normal had vanished.
Normal had merely become a setting on a laundry machine.
After Normal
Twenty years later, I still wonder what I would have said had I taken them up on their offer to step into that room and give T. and the church everything they asked for. I gave him his job back, but I didn’t forgive him. I left that church and struggled to find my footing without the foundation I had grown up with.
I remain without an answer. But as an adult and not the child I was then, I did come away with some thoughts on the question I don’t know how to answer.
A step in that process is a letter I will never send, but one that I share now as a window into what I battle with concerning this memory.
A Letter from me to T.
T.,
Everyone says I should forgive you. The reasons are numerous and often are listed as the following:
To move on.
To let you go.
To become more than this past hurt.
Though logical, I fight with the reasons that can’t fit into my brain. What would it mean to forgive you? What does that say about you? About me? What happened between us?
You’ve never said that you were sorry. And I don’t trust that you know what to be sorry for.
Should I step toward forgiveness, I’d like to make a few things clear:
What you did was wrong. You may not realize it, but it was absolutely wrong. Nothing I offer will change that. And to clarify, fathers and daughters do not kiss like the way you had that day.
What you did broke my heart. I trusted you. I trusted your character. I trusted you because you were an adult. I recognize that trust was misplaced. Just because someone is older doesn’t mean they know how to be a responsible adult. What happened that day broke a trust that cannot be regained.
What you did hurt me on multiple levels. This smear on my life cannot be erased by a simple apology and an equally simple response of forgiveness. Twenty years on, I am still healing from the lies you told, the trust you broke, and the kisses you stole from me.
What you did was a violent disrespect to me, my body, my soul, my spirit, my heart. Yes, it was violent. Years were and are dedicated to rebuild what you have devastated. And I will be rebuilt. Stronger and weaker. Bent and broken. Beautiful and bold. I will stand without you in my shadow.
Where does one go from here? I would love nothing more than to nothing you.
As it turns out, forgiveness isn’t something I know how to qualify.
It took me twenty years to realize that waiting for someone else to say sorry is not how this forgiveness thing works. Mercy of this nature comes from one’s character and not the conviction based on the sincerity of another’s apology.
I know not what forgiveness could look like for what happened between us. I can’t forgive a wrong and pretend that forgiveness can make it right. I don’t believe forgiveness works that way.
So if it bears saying, here is what I can offer:
Grace.
Grace to breathe.
Grace to let go.
Grace to live without holding onto each other, frozen in that moment in time.
Grace to become more than what our shadows could tell.
I write this unsent letter, hoping that grace would be enough.
And as I have so many time before, upon this, I shall rise.
