Forgiveness

I originally did this as a guest post on forgiveness over on my wingbitch Jamie’s blog Single Mom Survives ,but thought it worth re-posting over here. Of course her version has hysterical pictures and some insight as to why we’re wingbitches, plus there are inspirational comments there, so you  should follow the link above and check it out as well!

XOXO,

Mely

“To forgive is to set a prisoner free, and discover that the prisoner was you.” -  Lewis Smedes

I became a single mother unexpectedly over two years ago when my child’s father decided to leave me for another vagina. Notice I didn’t say another woman because the truth is he didn’t stray to spend the rest of his life with someone who was, as Alanis Morissette so eloquently put it, an older version of me, perverted like me, or that, like me, would go down on him in a theatre. Ultimately, he strayed strictly for sex with someone else, which symbolized to him that he still “had it”. “It” being the freedom he longed for during whatever quarter-life crisis he was going through.

The events that led up to my separation were traumatic, to say the least. There was a lot of lying, some cheating, and if it weren’t for whatever tiny morsel of sanity I had left at the end of our relationship, there probably would’ve been a murder charge.

The period between wondering and knowing what was going on nearly killed me. I’m sure a lot of women who’ve been cheated on can relate. Your man starts to become distant. He starts coming home late. Maybe he’s not answering your phone calls or texts. Your intuition kicks in and you have a pretty good idea of what is happening. You halfheartedly confront him, not really ready for the truth. Luckily, at this point, you get no answers.

You start to question yourself and your abilities as a woman. What did you do wrong? How can you make it right? What if you were prettier, thinner, funnier, less of a raging bitch? Maybe you try to lose weight with the hope that he’ll once again find you attractive. Perhaps you start bending over backwards to please him in an effort to show him how good he truly has it with you. In other words, you’re grasping at straws in order to maintain some control over the life you lived, now spinning out of control.

Then, in time, when some common sense creeps back in, you get pissed off enough to make your move, because it’s become obvious that this man is having his cake and eating it too, at which point you turn yourself into some sort of undercover spy, complete with oversized sunglasses and bobbed wig, in an attempt to prove that you are not, in fact, insane and he is, in fact, double dipping between someone else’s legs.

Eventually, if you’re anything like me, you find the answers you were looking for, leaving you no choice but to face your biggest fear and learn how to stand, and raise a child, alone.

When the life you once knew and everything you believed in is gone, it can put you in a dark place. My dark place was my closet. I spent way too much time there in hiding amongst my stilettos and skinny jeans. I knew I couldn’t go back, yet I didn’t have the strength to move forward. Time stood still in that closet for nearly six months. That is, until the anger came; aimed directly at the man who had broken my trust and cast me aside like a pair of his whore’s panties.

I swore to myself I would get revenge by becoming the sexy, successful, independent woman I always wanted to be, showing him everything he had lost and would never have again. Every time I started to feel sad and wanted to give up, I used the memories of what he had done to get mad instead. That anger picked me up off the ground and shook me back to reality.  It opened my eyes to the face of a little boy who needed his mother now more than ever. It gave me a reason to wipe away the tears, let go of my old dreams, and reach for new ones. Albeit unhealthy, that anger saved me.

Hating my ex made my transition into singlemotherhood easier. When times got tough, I blamed him. When there wasn’t enough money to pay my bills, I blamed him. When my son cried, I blamed him. When my vibrator broke, I blamed him. Life is so much easier when you have someone else to blame, isn’t it?

Before I knew it a year had passed and I was a million miles away from where I had been. I’d never thought I’d get there, but somehow I’d built a new life, all on my own. I finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel I’d traveled through, yet something was keeping me from reaching the outside.

That something was my past.

What I hadn’t understood was that all of the anger I used to fuel my journey toward independence was linked to the old. It didn’t matter how many steps I took forward if I was always looking behind me to get there. I realized I’d never be free to enjoy my new life until I figured out how to let go of my previous one.

For me, that meant forgiving the man who had hurt me.

Forgiveness has never come easy to me.  The rare occasions that I had forgiven people, especially men, resulted in me being taken advantage of. Therefore, most of my life I’d believed that forgiving someone meant giving in. Translation: Losing.

I hate to lose.

But what I came to see was that the other times I’d forgiven people I’d done it for the wrong reasons. I’d done it for them, usually to ease their guilt or make their lives easier, even though I wasn’t truly ready to forgive them.

This time was different because I’d be doing it for me.

This time it was about letting go of the anger and resentment that kept me a prisoner, trapped in a cell full of memories and pain I no longer needed to survive. While they had helped me in the beginning, at this point they were only holding me back.

So I forgave him, and, more importantly, I forgave myself. I made a choice to let go of some control and wipe the slate clean, hoping to stop turning back when all I wanted to do was run forward. With my decision, and a deep breath, I finally reached the end of that long tunnel that brought me from past to present.

These days I focus on where I am instead of where I’ve been. I use my confidence, strength, and kick ass sense of humor to guide me. They’re a lot more powerful than my anger ever was.

I won’t lie and say forgiving my ex has been easy.  I still struggle with my decision from time to time. There are days I relapse and let the anger creep back in, raising my middle finger high as a reminder to me, and to him, that forgiving doesn’t mean forgetting.

But honestly, I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t. And neither would he.