They hurt you.
Badly.
And they never apologized.
But because you’re soft-hearted, understanding, sweet (on a good day), and were taught by Sister Mary Margaret and Father Monahan that “... they know not what they do,” you forgave them.
Easily.
Quickly.
Completely.
And then... You let it go. No, not like Elsa in Frozen, but like every good dysfunctional student of denial: You swept the hurtful event under the proverbial rug. Pfft! Gone!
And what exactly did the offender do that caused you pain?
Well, they might have made cruel comments and called you not-so-funny names in front of your friends. Or maybe they betrayed your trust (with your best friend... SERIOUSLY?). Or worse—a very dangerous scenario—they physically assaulted you.
Someone once lunged at me, wrapped their hands around my neck, and squeezed. Luckily, another person was present and yelled “Stop!” and pulled them off me. I stumbled and banged the swinging kitchen door open, flew into a room with a phone, locked the door, and called a taxi while silently screaming Please get me the hell outta here!
After about a week, when my head stopped throbbing and my heart finally received the message that we were safe, and it stopped its 3 a.m. “fight or flight” wake-up calls, I resumed communication with the person but kept my distance for a while. And then... It was back to normal—except for the fact that there were now 3,000 miles between us.
I never mentioned the incident.
They never mentioned the incident.
And the witness to what took place that night, did they mention the incident?
Not a word from them. Not One. Single. Word.
So, here I am, many years later, wanting accountability, and from a dead person, no less. Why didn’t I demand it then? And why did I dismiss the whole frightening episode?
I didn’t know.
I didn’t know how harmful it is to ignore transgressions against yourself. Who knew you were supposed to hold people accountable for hurting you? Growing up, I learned to deny the verbal and physical abuse I witnessed at home. At 25 years old, I was still clutching my little survival kit full of lame excuses:
They didn’t mean it. (A golden oldie, my all-time favorite default explanation.)
Alcohol is the problem. (A problem indeed, but never an acceptable defense.)
I should have kept my mouth shut. (You’d better be quiet OR ELSE! Is that any way to live?)
I love them. (Of course you do, but honey, you’re not Ali MacGraw in 1970’s Love Story. Sometimes love means saying you ARE sorry!)
These rationalizations have continued to shield me from the cold, hard slap of reality I’ve so desperately needed to avoid. Facing the raw, unvarnished truth about a person’s true character, and exposing their disrespect and disregard for me could, as I’ve said many times before, knock me to the ground, where I just might stay for a long, long time.
Each excuse has always seemed fair, reasonable, and logical to me. I mean, why would anyone who really cares about me, whether intimately or platonically, purposely hurt me and cause me grief?
They wouldn’t.
Unless... They don’t care about me the way I think they do.
SLAP!
Reality really does bite, doesn’t it? But I think that can be a good thing.
To live a functional life takes courage. And honesty, lots of honesty. Sure, lifting the veil of illusion may leave you with a broken heart. You mean they don’t love me to the moon and back? (No, my friend, they don’t.) Asking people to take responsibility for their actions can raise your blood pressure, give you sweaty palms, and set your knees to knocking. It’s intimidating.
However, when someone moves beyond making an everyday “mistake” (forgetting your dinner party is not the end of the world) and intentionally does you serious wrong, you must respect yourself enough to address it.
And if, for some reason, you can’t or don’t want to speak directly to the offender (for protection purposes), or they refuse to cop to their offense, then you must pick up the slack. You don’t stuff your feelings and pretend “it’s okay” (another of my doormat responses). You don’t “wipe the slate clean,” and you definitely don’t reach for a broom and get busy sweeping.
Instead, you acknowledge the truth—TO YOURSELF. You admit their behavior is unacceptable. You take an honest look at the relationship, call it what it is, and decide what role, if any, this person will play in your life. And you forgive, in your own time and in your own way, apology or no apology.
Decades after my frantic taxicab ride, I am finally holding someone accountable: ME. Oh, don’t worry, I’m also holding the deceased offender accountable, too.
But it’s time I stop with the “it’s okay” and throw away my broom. I may never receive an apology or an admission of wrongdoing from anyone ever again, but I can now honor myself by seeing things as they are. That is my responsibility.
Revisiting that long-ago encounter in the kitchen, I’ve come to these conclusions:
They meant it—in the moment. Their rage took over and they snapped. In that state of anger, they wanted to lash out and hurt.
Alcohol was involved. No excuse.
I spoke up for myself and had every right to. I could, however, have refrained from adding fuel to the fire by using a couple of inflammatory words. Still... No excuse for laying hands on me.
I loved them. Still do. Always will. But what they did was wrong.
And I didn’t deserve it.