'Forgiveness' can be defined as "the intentional and voluntary process by which a victim undergoes a change in feelings and attitude regarding an offense, lets go of negative emotions such as vengefulness, with an increased ability to wish the offender well." As a child, the teaching of forgiveness is often rudimentary, basic, and lacking the true depth of the word. Through life's progression from adolescence to adulthood, it becomes clearer that this seemingly simple term holds great variation in both application and meaning.
There are millions of scenarios that require or involve the act of forgiveness, and it is something that only time has the power to truly embed within us. It takes much courage to forgive others, and even greater courage to forgive ourselves.
It is one of my personal philosophies to forgive others as often as possible, and as time goes on, I find that it has only become easier to forgive family, friends, acquaintances, and strangers for whatever minor or major offense they may make towards me. However, I find it quite difficult to forgive myself, especially for one thing in particular. I have not spoken to many people about this, but it is something that I will always regret. Though I would give anything to change the decision I made in this particular instance, it can never be undone, and as such it was incredibly difficult for me to forgive myself during the past three years. Now as time has passed, I continue to regret not making a more selfless decision, yet I can recognize the factors that led me to the decision I did make. The art of forgiveness requires a significant amount of time, honest reflection, and kindness if true forgiveness is to be appropriately achieved.
As a small child, I was known to disappear from my parents' sight in public places. This situation is every parents' worst nightmare, and was a frightening reality for my mother on more than a few occasions. Nothing I did as a child upset her more than when she couldn't find me.
In 2013, my mother spent her last few weeks in a hospice center in Wayne, New Jersey. Two days before she passed away, I decided to spend the night with her in the facility. At fifteen years old, I thought it would be a comfortable experience, spending one night with my mother, who, at this point, I still believed to be incapable of dying. Incapable of leaving me. Her condition still frightened me in more ways than I'd like to admit, but I wanted to be there with her for as long as I could be. This night, however, turned out to be the single most terrifying night of my life.
My mother, being terminally ill, slipped in and out of consciousness, and I felt alone as I wandered down the dimly lit hallway of the facility. It was a small hospice center, with only a few rooms, possibly four that lined the hallway and led to a larger family room at the end. The wallpaper and flooring were quite outdated and the carpets seemed to trap in an intolerable heat. There was no air flow in the center, the silence was deafening, and I couldn't escape the fatalistic thoughts that ran through my vulnerable mind. I couldn't stop shaking and a tightness settled in my chest, making it difficult to breathe or calm myself down.
I paced around the family room, tears falling from my cheeks as I tried to understand why I felt so distressed, while also trying not to attract attention from the two night nurses down the hall. Knowing what I do now about anxiety and grief, I recognize this night as my first of many experiences with anxiety attacks. Prior to this night, I had convinced myself that I would always be able to withstand any obstacle or issue without any self-doubt and while retaining my identity and personality. However, anxiety, as I have learned, can be crippling, unrelenting, and cause extreme panic without an obvious reason. As I was truly unable to collect myself enough to fall asleep in my mother's room, I felt that I needed to escape to anywhere but where I was. Calling my aunts that lived nearby merely resulted in me reaching their answering machines, which was understandable as it was the middle of the night. I hesitated to call my dad at home because I felt that he might be upset with me. I had made the decision on my own to stay the night with my mom, but couldn't handle the circumstances of my stay. I finally decided to call him, finding that he was very understanding of my feelings and was willing to drive the twenty-five minutes to come take me home.
As I packed my things away in the dark of my mother's room, I felt terribly guilty for not being there for her as she had been for me my entire life. I held back sobs, trying not to wake her, and made my way to the hall. Though I had told one of the night time nurses to inform my mom that my dad had taken me home, the message was not relayed for whatever reason, and early the next morning, my mother called my sister in a panic. Her weakened voice over the telephone conveyed such confusion and fear: feelings she should not have experienced on her last day on earth. I could only blame myself for not being stronger and leaving my mom when she needed me the most.
It felt impossible to forgive myself for that night and I carried my guilt for over three years. I cannot say that I have completely forgiven myself, but I have certainly made progress towards self-forgiveness. Knowing my mother, I feel that she wouldn't want me to continue to carry this blame. I was young, frightened, and didn't know at the time how to cope with anxiety. I hope to eventually be at peace with the decision I made that night, but for now I'll think about that time with a bit of regret.
Forgiveness is a journey and it cannot be reached without self-love, self-respect, and understanding of the peace and happiness it can bring to your life. It has an incomprehensible depth that can only be experienced and not taught, and it is this depth that makes forgiveness perhaps the most difficult and complex process that mankind may ever encounter.
