that boy is a monster.

Forgiveness. I mean, just look at it again, say it in your head, mull over its meaning and then say it out loud. Forgiveness. What an insipid, whiny word. And isn’t it funny how this word, or rather the abstraction that the word represents, is the gateway to either the rebuilding or complete demise of most human relationships. We all mess up, and we all must repent. The problem for me is that I know that we all should forgive, but I’m finding that that’s coming harder for me now than ever before.

Its funny to write about, that is, to see these thoughts in print. I stopped journaling largely because I ran out of time, but also because I became exhausted. The retelling of only the negative aspects of my rather inconsistent life was starting to make me feel tired, so I took a break. And despite the fact that I am a memoryphile, one who lives in dual awe and fear of what memories can do to the brain and heart, it was becoming too much to relive things a second time. At any rate, I suppose that I’m visiting now to seek that original sensation of catharsis and release at getting some of it out. I realized recently that despite my positively lovely day-to-day life in Charleston, I don’t do much talking. That is, I don’t do much talking of the really valuable kind- the kind of talking in which you talk about the things that really matter to you, talking about how you feel (and why), the kind of talking that improves you. I don’t do much of that anymore…largely because, again, I have no time, but also because there seems to be a shortage of folks I can trick into following me down that labored path.

Anyway, forgiveness. You know, God has a pretty clear stance on forgiveness, a pretty cut and dried one. Something like, “forgive everyone, right away, because you’re not in a place to NOT forgive them.” I can get behind that, except that I’m not a deity, and my real flesh goes on pulsing with the hurt and the fury long after the transgression. Anyway, the long and short of it with me is that I know what I’m supposed to do. And I can say with some clarity that is a great place to be in, to know what you’re supposed to do or be doing. Lots of people, like my mother, spend their whole lives just trying to figure out what it is they ought to be doing. I’m lucky to say that I think I have a pretty good idea, and I am faithful enough that God and fate will intervene and push back when I’m doing the wrong thing. That said, my struggle right now during my time home in Virginia is not in knowing what I’m supposed to do about the situation (which is simply forgive), its in finding the strength to do it.

I’ve considered writing a book (honestly, I have considered this) about the past two years of my life. Not because I’m under the silly delusion that its so compelling a story that people would want to read it more than anything else, but because I think its so bizarre, absurd and otherworldly that for my own amusement, experiencing it as a reader, an outsider, might illuminate even more for me. That said, the pace of events did manage to teach me some valuable things, among them self-control.

Which brings me to today, in which that same self-control that I learned and nurtured during the past year’s episode was put to the test. I succeeded in being reasonable, but am left wondering if that is enough. Release, for me, true release, tends to be a bit overwhelming. Years of carefully and deliberately packaging away emotional nuggets can put everything in its right place, yes, but then you’ve collected a room full of delicate trinkets just waiting to be bothered. When they do happen to be bothered, things can get…well…broken. And while I preserved the condition of everything in the room this time, the passive attacks on my character and motivations are really shaking things up.

So what does all of this cryptic fodder even mean? Well, it means that, just like in life, I can’t talk openly. It’s unbecoming of a gentleman. So, like in life, I come up with creative euphemisms about emotional trinkets on shelves in abstract cerebral rooms, all in an effort to effectively but politely admit that I am not, and don’t know how to be, in a position to forgive my mother for the stable of wrongs she‘s passed and continues to pass on us. As far as I can see, not much results from her ongoing presence in our lives save more confusion, vitriol and anger. When you’ve a tumor or a hangnail or a stain in your shirt, you get rid of it. So with that in mind, why not similarly rid yourself of a presence in your life that only functions to warmly welcome in an atmosphere of negativity? Naturally, this attitude of mine (which, let’s be honest, is perfectly practical) has vilified me in the standard manner, because it’s so “cold”. Some things just never change, I suppose.

What can I say? One has to chill the exterior to cool the hot anger on the interior. "Apathy is your best friend right now." I'd normally not condone such a sentiment, but when the alternative is fiercely going off on someone, I'll compromise on my stance.