I forgive you. What?! You say. What could you possibly need forgiveness for, you haven’t wronged me. In fact you say nice things to me and about me, you spend your precious time reading at least some of the things I say, and basically you are pretty freaking stand up as humans go, except for that time you got in a fight with your sister when she was ten and you were kind of mean and then you also ate the rest of her ice cream all of the time, but it’s not like she was going to finish it and well if having a sweet tooth is your worst vice somebody go ahead and SUE. I know. You have worked hard to be you, and that is a really big deal, whether working hard means just dealing with the shit life has dealt you, or whether it’s achieving your way to a big job or a big paycheque, or showing up for some people who love you and need you, or taking care of everyone when balls are being dropped like New York on New Year’s Eve.
I forgive you.
I forgive you for all of the suffering you have been through in your life. All of those gut wrenching moments of loss, when your heart was sucker punched and your knees buckled and you thought “I can’t do it”. I forgive that howling wind that shrieked through your hollow places “It’s you. You brought this on yourself.”
I forgive you for all of the shitty things you think you did, and that you are afraid you are. You know, the judge and jury in your wee head that bicker back and forth building and then dismantling the case against you (sometimes in different accents, or played by Julia Roberts and Brad Pitt) working you over, beating you down when you’re tired. Because you really could have saved all of that fruit for the compost, what’s a few thousand fruit flies anyhow. They deserve love too, don’t they? Because technically somewhere along the line you cheated someone or something according to someone’s rules. You had to, because the rules collide and oppose, and shift in the wind (#wearamaskdontwearamask).
I forgive the idea that all of this living business defines you, that it means something about your SOUL, that your chakras need bleach, that who and what you are begins and ends somewhere in a story that Hollywood is writing, only they’ve hired Tommy Wiseau to direct and produce.
I forgive you for everything that you believe in but can’t seem to do perfectly.
I forgive the oh so bloody tired you who rises to the top only to feel attacked and knocked down, and not enough. Tired of problems. Tired of pandemic. Tired of hand sanitizer. Tired of tired. Tired of finding the silver lining in the ratty ass dress you wore to prom in the eighties.
I forgive those vulnerable bits that you don’t want to share with your new love, and maybe not even with the priest or the tarot reader (okay that’s a joke I know you can share everything with her). Not because they MEAN a bloody thing, but because they make you feel broken and damaged and like you should have known better. I am so sorry you went through that in the first place. It’s not your fault already.
I forgive you for all of the BULLSHIT nasty judgment thrown your way by sick people; the narcissists, the bullies, the cruel ones, the drama Kings and Queens, the shit disturbers. The ones who project their guilt onto you and paint you to be something so far from your truth that you shouldn’t care, and you oh so badly don’t want to care, but you do care, dammit all to hell, because they are super skilled at making you care and getting under your skin, which should be oh so thick by now but it’s more like a tender grape than a bad ass coconut. I forgive you for caring. I forgive the tiny mad idea that they have something on you. I forgive you for defending yourself. I forgive you for hating them, but then still caring about them, and for being confused by them and then loving everyone including all of your enemies. I see your candy ass and raise you a little lamb.
I forgive you for feeling like you have to show up and be a saint on any given Monday, when you just want to eat some brownies and get a pat on the head from Big Sky Daddy telling you you’ve a good kid and he is so very proud of you so you can run along and play.
You know what?
You’re a good kid and I’m proud of you. Here are some brownies. Run along and play.
I know you are good.
I KNOW, god only knows, that you DID THE THING, the really fucking high road thing and that you’re not getting any credit for it, and that ON THE CONTRARY, they actually have the audacity to take your deep digging high road give until you bleed efforts and throw shade on them and you, and that just feels like a stab in the back, gut, needle through the chest, kick in the back of the knee betrayal. I’ve got more terrible awful metaphors where those came from! UGGH.
So can we just agree today together in this tiny moment of sharing that you’re so much more Saint than criminal. And that criminal you is just a game the ego likes to play to keep us buying in and betting the fucking emotional house again?
Today, on me friends, take a GET OUT OF JAIL FREE card.
No expiry date. Unlimited usage.
You have been calling me up. And you’re tired. You need a nap. On a beach with a fruity rum drink hold the fruit. You have been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders. And you’re feeling kind of sad. Like it’s all a house of cards.
Well forget about your house of cards (cue Radiohead).
You are good, Baby. And good is good enough for me.
Take a rest. Dig in the sandbox and put an umbrella in your rum.
Let joy look up your address and come knocking on your door.
Let it wake you up with some good news for a change.
I’m sending it on over to a theater called your place.
You don’t have to prove yourself to me.
Much love,
— Erin
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