I sit here and wonder why I chose to forgive the men who hurt me. Why would I? I can count the number of men who’ve helped me on one hand. Those who harmed me? I don’t have enough appendages to note them all. I just know that I had to. Not for them but for me.
Every day I punish myself for believing that they deserve it.
I’m a woman that knows what it’s like to fester in what you’ve reaped. I stay reaping for things that I sowed by proxy of being present in those moments. I need to speak up about grace more often. The moment I believe that grace and forgiveness remain distant from me is when the cross loses its power. But I know that as I sit by watching their lives carry on as I labor on with the grief and shame of somehow letting their act of hatred stain me, I again wonder if forgiveness is truly the only method of solving this madness.
A man spoke death over me. A man threw a glass bottle toward my head. A man wouldn’t stop when my hands pressed against his body in hopes that he would. A man spit on me as I went down to the ground hoping things ould end. A man saw me unable to make cognizant decisions and thought the prospect of sex was worth more than asking if I was okay. A man mocked my father’s fragility during an online spat. “Your Dad was inside the house dying a slow death while you were over here sucking my dick.”
I have yet to forgive myself for running to men as my life ran away from me. Dude who spoke of my father’s “slow death” was one of those escapes. I prayed for his children when I found out he himself left Earth and went to the eternal. Forgiveness comes in many forms.
I’ve been taught through the words and actions of an eternal king that no one is without the opportunity for redemption. Powers drive a person to be their worst selves. Trauma informs. “I just want him to be okay.” That’s all I can ask for in those moments after I found myself on the wrong side of their history. They don’t ever mean to. Sounds like I’m making excuses.
I really do want their hearts to be at peace. I also want them to come to that conclusion before God chooses to no longer give them a way out.
“Their houses are full of deceit; they have become rich and powerful and have grown fat and sleek. Their evil deeds have no limit; they do not seek justice. They do not promote the case of the fatherless; they do not defend the just cause of the poor. Should I not punish them for this?”
I’m asking the Creator to spare them the worst knowing that they won’t be fully spared at all. “I won’t destroy you completely.” There’s always rebuilding after destruction.
I know I’m being spared. I know ducking and dodging the worst. Only after acknowledging my guilt. Sitting in shame, bathing in the disgust of my decisions. Punishing myself recklessly before God can finish the job. Sheepishly hoping as if you did enough self-work to keep God’s wrath at bay knowing there ain’t enough to stop the reign.
Sometimes exile is the catalyst for healing. Being sent outside of the city walls until your leprous spots no longer boil and fester is the only way to keep you and others safe. Destroy and rebuild. Uproot and plant. Remove and re-establish. Again, I know.
Yet I live in the shadows of all the hurt inflicted upon me. I don’t trust men. I don’t trust their intentions. I think most men will surely hurt me, it’s only a matter of time. I self-destruct under pure intentions. My ruins aren’t meant to be loved. I know perfect-for-me exists but I know a man won’t see me as perfect-for-them. I stay out of the way in hopes to not be into anyone’s way.
So I hide to heal. That’s the lie I tell myself.
I need to learn how to forgive myself.
ciara roslyn-james 