Skip to main content

Forgiving, saying goodbye, and starting over


 Dear diary,

It's been countless weeks since I last wrote, I've had everything and nothing whirling around in my head. I feel complete unrest, and total ease. And I'm not entirely sure what to make of that. I said earlier this year that I think this year is the year I learn. Learn about myself in this post-cancer life, learn about who I am as a wife and mom vs who I actually want to be. And I don't mean that impossible vision we all hope to one day be. 

But, I've been stuck in this rut. I just can't seem to...can't wrap my head around what I want to achieve, or let go of everything I jacked up along the way. I know with 100% truth that I will never, ever be the wife and mother I wanted to grow up to be. I've got way too much emotional baggage I can't let go of, wasted years of my life in this constant inner battle of  who I really was vs who I was pretending to be; and neither of them were very stellar. Somehow, I ended up being 40, surrounded by broken relationships that I created, dragging around all this hurt, shame, guilt, and fear crammed into even more emotional baggage...completely unable to let that shit go, to save myself and them. And I just keep asking myself, why are you holding onto that? Why do you keep dragging that crap around with you? It does you no good. It does no one else any good. You can't be a better wife, if you don't forgive and forget the one you were for the last 15 years. You can't be a better mom if you keep beating yourself up over the one you've been the entire time. I'll never be a better Christian if I keep dropping f-bombs and have to blow the dust off my bible. Writing "Darian was here" in the dust doesn't count for anything. You can't show people God's love if you're turning your own back to it. And yet, there I still stand, clutching that emotional baggage like my life depends on it. 

But really, my life depends on me letting that shit go. But how do you let go of 40 years worth of....shit....It all piles up and just becomes a part of you. How do you tear those layers off, and start over? Is it even possible to start over? Can the relationships be restored? Can the faith be rebuilt? Can the load get lightened, and then let go? Those are good questions, Darian...so what's the answers?

Baby steps, that's how this is goin down. Baby steps. This isn't like some Lifetime movie or blockbuster chick flick, where within the length of one upbeat pop song the main character has turned everything around and now life's just so. darn. peachy. That's not how this works. That's not how any of this works. Although I can't tell you how many times I had fantasized that it was that easy. That I could wake up tomorrow and actually be the wife my husband deserved, or be the mom my kids deserved. If only it were that easy. I've gotta let go, and move on. That's the only way. But I'm not really sure how to do that, but I can't keep standing here, petrified to set my emotional baggage down and take a few steps forward.  

So, baby steps...I have to forgive myself, for who I ended up being, instead of who I wanted to be. I'm sorry, Darian, that I lead my life so unfocused that we wondered everywhere yet didn't go anywhere. You had potential, kid, you did. But I messed it up. I underestimated your worth by believing what others said I was. I shouldn't have let them beat you down like that, shouldn't have given them that power. I'm sorry that I never stood up for you, to anyone. I'm sorry that it took me almost 40 years to be able to verbally say to anyone my actual opinion. You have a voice, thoughts, desires, and I should have tried harder to let you voice them. I'm sorry that I never told you you were beautiful. I'm sorry about all the mean insults I said to you, calling you fat, stupid, and ugly. You're none of those things. I'm sorry that I taught you your worth came only from what men think of you. Your worth has nothing to do with that. I'm sorry I put such pressure on you to not be a screaming mom like yours was, that I turned you into such a calm and quiet mom that you never said anything at all. I'm sorry, that I always told you to be quiet, all the time. I'm sorry that I always told you you aren't good enough. I'm sorry that I told you happiness was dependent upon other things, like what people thought of you, what they said about you, or if they wanted to be with you. I'm sorry, for all of the things I let men do to you, mentally and physically....because no one taught you that you deserved more. I'm sorry, that I let you carry this baggage for so long, letting it weigh down your every breath. 

I forgive you, Darian, for failing yourself, which inevitably hurt and broke those that you love the most. I forgive you, not because you deserve it, but because God already forgave you. If he already forgave you, if he's already told you to stop carrying that baggage with you...why do you keep carrying it? It's time to say goodbye to her, to let her go, that broken girl who was just so desperate for anyone to love her, to see her, to want to listen to her. To that broken girl, who broke others. It's time to let that go, to let her go. She was once a beautiful girl filled with hopes and dreams...and, she got ruined, by her own choices and by how others treated her...and she hurt people, people who didn't deserve it...I'm sorry, me, that I did that to you. And I'm sorry, because I have to let all of that within me, I have to let it go. She's too broken, too dangerous, too unstable. She has no place here now. It's time to pick up the pieces, and move on....

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Being Mad at God...

  I've spent the better part of 2023 being mad at God. Mad because I didn't like how my life was turning out. Mad that I couldn't control that. Mad that He wouldn't heal me, fix me, give me my health back. Mad that I didn't understand why He wouldn't grant me that, to be healed. Mad that for the better part of the last year it's felt cold and lonely, as if a great distance stood between me and God. Only I didn't know if He put the distance there, or I did. I'm not good at a lot of things in life, but I'm good at distance, at building walls. I had to for so long, to survive living with those that were supposed to love me, and once I no longer had to build walls, I can't seem to learn how to stop. So there I was, countless times, laying bed bound, or on the floor about to pass out again, crying out in the darkest of dark, cold, lonely silence - crying out for healing that still hasn't come, for understanding of why my life has to hurt so ba

The path I didn't plan on taking...

Mom was 36 when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. I remember on her short treatment days she let me come with her, because by that point I did everything with her. Doctors appointments, tests, treatments. Where she went, I went. Whether she wanted me to or not. The oncologist administered the treatments at his office, in this dingy little room in the basement that looked like death row for cancer patients. Ugly pleather recliners lined the walls of the small room, you could hardly breathe through the dense desperation in the air. As if everyone was just waiting. Waiting to die. At that age, I thought that would never happen to me. As I grew older, I feared that would be me. When I turned 36 I was horrified it would be me; thinking that would be the start of my impending doom. My death sentence. The year I would be diagnosed with breast cancer. But that birthday came and went without a diagnosis, and I almost felt victorious, like I had made it. I had beat this thing that had at

I look like a cancer patient

It's not like I didn't know it was coming, like somehow I would be spared the inevitable. Every day, as I run my fingers through the shaved fuzz on my head, I look at my hand wondering, is today the day? Is today the start of another transformation? Is today the day I look like a cancer patient? And as I looked down at an empty hand, I exhaled. Today wasn't the day. Today, people would only still wonder, was I a patient, did I shave my head in support of a patient, was I a feminist trying to prove a point? They could only wonder. The other night while my husband was at his bible study I was sitting on the patio, taking in all the fresh air I can before the air turns too cool to sit outside, forcing me indoors. I took a long breath, ran my hand across my head, and looked down at my palm, covered in hair. Today was the day... I blew the handful of fuzz off my hand, and then pinched a small cluster and pulled. I felt nothing, it didn't hurt, but there between my finger