I think one of the biggest and hardest steps in my battle
with depression was learning how to forgive and let go. I was hugging this flaming ball of hurt and
anger to my chest like a kid cuddles a teddy bear, and I had held onto it for
so long that it felt normal. Sometimes
that ball could also make me feel powerful—I’d draw off the anger and feel
strong—and I liked it.
Mostly, however, it was like cuddling a porcupine. It just hurt a lot, and it scared people
away.
I was afraid of letting go of it.
I was justified in some of my anger. I had been molested, and it was right and
normal for me to feel angry about it. I
had been beaten physically and emotionally and I was justified in my rage. I felt that to let go of that would be like
saying I didn’t care about what had happened, or that it would look to others
as if what had happened was ok.
I was afraid it would give my abusers power over me again.
I was afraid I would look weak.
I’m going to get a little nerdy here, but it’s who I
am. It’s what I do.
What you don’t realize is how your anger and hurt twists
you. It’s like Gollum with the
ring. The ring gave him certain powers—he
could be invisible at times, and it made him feel strong—but it twisted him
into something other. It
made him ugly. It made him want to hurt
other people. It made him go places he
wouldn’t have gone, and it made him afraid of the light. It made him unable to let go.
It’s a pretty good analogy.
I found myself hurting other people.
I would lash out for no reason.
Little things would send me into a rage.
I physically hurt sometimes, and my pain would weigh me down to the
point that getting out of bed was a struggle.
What I realized about forgiveness is it's good for the person you
are forgiving, but it’s even better for you.
I will never get an apology from the people who hurt me, but forgiveness
isn’t about that. God forgave us all
before we apologized. I will never look
into their eyes and tell them how their actions have impacted and continue to
impact my life in a million big and small ways.
But forgiveness isn’t about that.
Forgiveness isn’t saying, “What you did to me was ok.” Forgiveness isn’t about weakness.
Forgiveness is making a choice. It’s choosing freedom. It’s choosing to lay down that ball of hurt
and anger and walking away from it. It’s
finding a different kind of strength, one that lifts you up to soar
instead. It’s saying to yourself and
others, “I refuse to let what happened have power over me anymore. I refuse to be defined by hurt and anger.” Forgiveness takes courage.
Some people have a moment of miraculous forgiveness where
they make the decision and it never, ever bothers them again. I am not one of those people. It’s something I have working on for a long,
long, LONG time. At first it was taking
God at His word when He says things like, “Vengeance is mine.” God can get revenge much better than I ever
could. Then I realized that I have done
things that I’m not proud of too. I’ve
hurt people (not in the same way, let’s get that straight first). I trust in God’s mercy. Could God’s mercy extend to them too? I had to acknowledge that it could if they
asked for it. That was a difficult
realization, and it made me angry at God.
But then I realized that there can be a hell on earth for people locked
in guilt over things they have done, and I wonder if they feel that way.
I began dropping little bits of my burden. Slowly at first, and I had to grieve each
time. I spend nights crying, sobbing out
my pain and anger, letting go of what I’d held inside. At times I felt like I’d be overwhelmed by
it, but Jesus held onto me, an anchor in the storm of my past. The burden would be lessened each time, but I
would feel so raw afterwards and I would have to remind myself why I was doing
it.
I have to forgive every time I realize another way in which
their actions have changed who I am.
When I flinch at a touch from a stranger or a friend. When I’m nauseated at the thought of certain
people hugging me. When I’m in the
hospital with my sister after she’s had a baby and quake in such fear at the
thought of that many people touching me that it makes me afraid to ever have
children. When I was in the Philippines
a few years ago and saw my abuser and it sent me into a panic attack. When I realize that my fat is my security
blanket that keeps unwanted attention at bay.
When I think of the years I lost to my depression.
I also have to fight the temptation to pick my burden up
again. Satan follows after me with it in
his hands, and he whispers in my ear, reminding me of the power I felt when I
held it. It is seductive, but it is NOT
who I am. It’s not who I was meant to
be. I was meant to fly, and I'm learning how.
