The
weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.
–Mahatma
Ghandi
Forgiveness.
Few topics evoke stronger responses from victims. Should we forgive? If so,
why, when, and how?
These
are complex questions, and this essay highlights but a few principles I gleaned
from forgiving the adults who raised me. I suggest visiting The Forgiveness Project for more comprehensive
guidance.
My
mother cared for me from my birth until her death when I was six. She suffered
from worsening depression during that period and finally took her own life. I
remember her as occasionally playful and loving but often tearful and distant.
At
first I resisted blaming her. How could I direct anger toward such a frail
soul? But in young adulthood I started feeling bitter: her depression and
suicide cast long shadows. Why didn’t she work out her difficulties and stick
around to raise me? By my forties, after years of depression and suicide
attempts of my own, I understood better. I’d experienced firsthand how despair
deludes people into thinking suicide the only option. Feeling kinship with my
mother made forgiveness easier.
My
father had left the household when I was four, but took over my upbringing
following my mom’s death. He was an alcoholic, and like most men of his
generation did not express much affection, though he seemed to care about me.
Unfortunately, he failed to protect me from mistreatment, despite ample evidence
of its occurrence.
His
alcoholism angered me, especially when I watched his drinking as a sober adult.
I saw him belittle family and friends. I observed how alcohol enabled him to
ignore problems, and it was clear he’d used it to wash away the signs of child
abuse. But I still loved him, and to my regret I didn’t forgive him until after
his death. Forgiveness only became possible when I woke up to how easy it is to
screw up in adulthood. This lesson of middle age wasn’t available earlier on.
My stepmother, Della, was my most difficult forgiveness problem…
