I spoke too soon.
I was zen, and calm, and dreaming of forgiveness. Then when I least suspected it, a rage monster rose up in me and erupted all over him and the living room.
He came over last week to sort through his things in preparation for me moving into my own place. That was simple, he didn’t want to keep anything. And if I was willing to do the literal heavy lifting of moving our life and furniture out of this apartment, he wasn’t going to object.
But then the conversation turned to a completely unproductive place. I said, “this isn’t going anywhere, we should end this now and you should go.” I was sticking to the boundary I had clearly set in place- I can choose to disengage from you if you continue in blaming and justifying language. But he insisted he needed some answers and understanding and I agreed we could talk for a few more minutes. So he says-
“Why are you moving out?”
“No one in my life accepts me for who I am right now.”
“You, my parents, the bishop are all just shaming me. But my work friends still see I’m just the same person, nothing has changed.”
“You’ve forced me to be the responsible one here.”
“Your choices are taking away MY choices.”
And then, the boiling lava of rage suddenly surfaced from a deep well of anger I didn’t even knew I had buried within me. I started shouting. And then I yelled, and then soon enough I was screaming at the top of my lungs, hands slamming town into the coffee table, rising out of my chair and flailing my limbs, tears streaming down my face, hair wild, uncontrollable devastation pouring out of me.
“You have RUINED MY LIFE!”
He sat, wide-eyed and silent. I walked into the other room and said, you need to leave. And he did. He stood up, walked across the room, and shut the door behind him.
Perhaps now he has the slightest clue what he has done to me. What his choices have led to. But, probably not. Because to protect himself and his addiction, he will continue to hide and blame until one day, far from now, he is able to face the consequences.
I don’t feel bad about totally losing it on him. I don’t feel the need to apologize. I feel like maybe I was finally really honest with him, albeit in a terrible, and brutal way. It was a cathartic experience, almost out of body.
There’s no way to tie this story up in a neat little package here. That’s what happened. It makes no difference to him, but it’s what happened. And it’s ok. Anger is ok. Last week, my counselor even said to me- don’t even think about forgiveness right now. Be compassionate with yourself, you are going to feel every possible emotion as you continue on this journey, and that’s ok.
I am cycling through the stages of grief in such a real way over here, sometimes hour by hour, but most of the time every few days a new wave washes over me. Last week it was anger. This week has been a bit of acceptance. I wonder what tomorrow will be.