When I first started recovery, the whole process seemed close to impossible. It seemed I’m trying to get over the biggest most important time in my life, to get over a summer that was hell, that broke me to pieces, and left nothing behind to rebuild over. With time I learned to trust that may be I can get better, overcome it slowly. But it was always about changing myself, it was always about moving so much that I’ll never have time to feel that kind of hopeless, helpless pain of being caught in something over which I have no control and no option of doing anything to change it.
I was trying to overcome the idea of rape and all the other things that happened during this summer. I was never trying to make the summer seem just a bigger moment, because it wasn’t. I was never trying to see the guy as anything but monster, because I couldn’t even think that I will ever be able to do that. Forgiving him was never in the cards. I broke down, went through and started getting over the rape part. But I never intended to think about him ever again.
But recovery has it’s own timeline and rules, and you never see them until you reach a new step.
Since New Year, I have been feeling better. Closer to my dream of finally moving to another country to live with my partner and be independent, I was inspired to keep trying. I was finally able to see that new life is possible, even after everything. But inspiration and magic tend to fade if we don’t take good care about them, and here I am.
I’m losing myself into the daily activities. Half of the time I’m rooting for myself, for the fairy tale, for getting where I wanted to be for months in just 6 weeks. But sometimes, the past catches up with me, all the tiny unresolved parts. And then it’s all the old story over again- the panic attacks, the breaking down and missing half day of work because of it. With no reason, with no help, with no logic. I just get lost. I can’t be both the person who is recovering and the person that works 8 hours a day. I can’t, but I have to be.
I’ve based my life for 3 years on running away, even my recovery. I’m not very good at letting go of things. I’m okay with the rape part. I still can’t think about the person that did that though. The person, that I thought was my friend.
But yesterday, in the middle of one of the biggest panic attacks lately, I forgive him.
He was my friend that who crossed the line. He was the monster in my head. I can’t yet forgive what he did to me, who he became when he crossed that line. But I forgive who he was before. And the minute I do I feel lighter, like that was keeping me in that summer and stopping me from moving on.
I don’t know if I’ll forgive all parts of him ever. I don’t know if it would be different if he lived close to me, if I saw him every day. Probably. But I am where I am, and I know I’ll never see him again, separate by an ocean from him, without his full name or address. I’m grateful for that.
I can’t forgive the monster.
But I forgive my friend. Not for him. For me.