We hear it all the time..."you have to forgive" or "forgive and forget." We hear it from the earliest of years from our parents, our teachers, our pastors...we now teach it to our children. I know that it's important to forgive; I know that's what God wants us to do; I know that forgiveness lifts a burden off of one's heart.
The problem I'm having right now, is with the whole "forget" part. I really just don't think that is possible. We can move on. We can put it behind us. But, can we really just "forget?" I guess I probably could when I was younger, and the reason to need to forgive wasn't as big. I'm sure that when I was little, one of my friends probably took my favorite toy or gave me a good smack. I'm sure that there were probably apologies, words of forgiveness, and hugs to make things better. And while I'm sure that probably went on, I don't remember any ill will from stolen toys, punches, or hair pulling, so I guess, back then, it was easy to forgive and forget.
As an adult, it just seems so much harder. As an adult, feeling hurt from someone, generally means that the someone is important enough to me to make me hurt. At least with me, I don't let many people get close enough to me to REALLY be able to hurt me. And although I still know the importance of forgiving, it's really hard to just "forget" that someone so important to me could reduce me to a quivering pile of tears, and make my heart ache so badly that I just can't function.
So, when someone says, "I'm sorry...let's try again" all I can think is "Do I really want to hurt that way again?" and "How can I forget?" We've probably all heard the saying, "Hurt me once, shame on you...hurt me twice, shame on me." That doesn't really sound like forgetting to me. I also heard it put another way..."If someone hurts you once, you are a victim. If someone hurts you twice, you are a volunteer." Well, when you put it that way, I certainly don't want to volunteer for pain, do I?
My husband says that when you forgive someone, you don't have to choose to put yourself in a position to be hurt again. You can say, "You know what? I forgive you for what you did, but you just stay over there, so it doesn't happen again." Is that truly forgiveness? It's definitely not forgetting. And how can you truly forgive someone if the wrongdoing is still hovering around?
I'm just not sure that there is a right answer, but for now, I'll just keep on thinking about it...while I tell my boys to say they're sorry, hug and make up, and forgive and forget.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Thursday, March 19, 2009
My Beginning
I don't have a big family. Well, let me rephrase that. I don't know if I have a big family or not. A lot of my past is a mystery. My mom has never really been the sentimental type, so I can't go through boxes of mementos, because there really aren't any. My Granny was a definite pack rat, but when she passed away, most of her things mysteriously disappeared. Ok, maybe it's not a big mystery, since my mom isn't very sentimental, and while no one ever spoke about throwing stuff in the garbage, it's not hard to guess that that's probably where most of it ended up.
Anyway, most of what I know (except for the things that I can remember) about my family and childhood came to me through conversations with my not-always-the-sanest-person-around Granny, and my not-always-the-most-honest-person-around mother. I never really knew any of my father's family, so I've got nothing there.
The earliest story of my impending existence that I can remember ever hearing about was the courtship, if you could call it that, of my parents. My mom was around 23 or 24, divorced with 2 kids. My uncle, the bar owner, introduced them. My dad was 16 years older than her, with two teenage daughters of his own. So after an amount of time that my mom can't remember, my honky-tonkin', boot-wearing, beer drinking mom was married to my suit and tie, hard liquor drinking, alcoholic, woman obsessed dad. Sounds like a match made in Heaven, right? Yeah...right.
After an amount of time that my mother can't recall, my dad apparently decided that being married was interfering a little with his social life, so he started dating. And he told my mom when he would go out on a date. Yep...you heard that right. I'm not really sure what was going on with my siblings at this time, as she never mentioned that aspect of her life. I'm guessing that the two teenage stepdaughters were probably left in charge of my sister and brother a lot. Anyway, a short time later, although my mom really can't remember how long (are you seeing the pattern, yet?), she became pregnant with me. She told my dad, who immediately accused of cheating. They separated. My mom had been working, so at least she didn't have to go out and find a job. My Granny was probably enlisted in the care taking of my brother and sister, because mom had to work, and, well, being pregnant was never an excuse for her to stop partying and drinking.
My mom worked until she was 8 1/2 months pregnant with me. I know this, because when talking about her five pregnancies and subsequent births, she is always very quick to point out that she gained less while pregnant with me than with any of my siblings. She gave birth to me and got my dad banned from the hospital when he came in drunk and started screaming that I wasn't his.
Now, ask any mother about bringing home her baby from the hospital and you will probably hear things like,
"I checked her every five minutes to make sure she was still breathing."
"I couldn't believe how beautiful he was."
"I didn't want anyone else to touch her."
"I couldn't stop staring at him."
etc, etc...
But the story about my homecoming, the story that I've heard more times than I can even count:
Mom: "I lost every bit of weight that I had gained when you were born! I went home and the next day I was able to fit right back into my "hot pants" and I went to the bar!"
Me: "Where was I, Mom?"
Mom: "Hmmm...I don't remember...I guess you were with Granny."
And people wonder why I'm screwed up.
Anyway, most of what I know (except for the things that I can remember) about my family and childhood came to me through conversations with my not-always-the-sanest-person-around Granny, and my not-always-the-most-honest-person-around mother. I never really knew any of my father's family, so I've got nothing there.
The earliest story of my impending existence that I can remember ever hearing about was the courtship, if you could call it that, of my parents. My mom was around 23 or 24, divorced with 2 kids. My uncle, the bar owner, introduced them. My dad was 16 years older than her, with two teenage daughters of his own. So after an amount of time that my mom can't remember, my honky-tonkin', boot-wearing, beer drinking mom was married to my suit and tie, hard liquor drinking, alcoholic, woman obsessed dad. Sounds like a match made in Heaven, right? Yeah...right.
After an amount of time that my mother can't recall, my dad apparently decided that being married was interfering a little with his social life, so he started dating. And he told my mom when he would go out on a date. Yep...you heard that right. I'm not really sure what was going on with my siblings at this time, as she never mentioned that aspect of her life. I'm guessing that the two teenage stepdaughters were probably left in charge of my sister and brother a lot. Anyway, a short time later, although my mom really can't remember how long (are you seeing the pattern, yet?), she became pregnant with me. She told my dad, who immediately accused of cheating. They separated. My mom had been working, so at least she didn't have to go out and find a job. My Granny was probably enlisted in the care taking of my brother and sister, because mom had to work, and, well, being pregnant was never an excuse for her to stop partying and drinking.
My mom worked until she was 8 1/2 months pregnant with me. I know this, because when talking about her five pregnancies and subsequent births, she is always very quick to point out that she gained less while pregnant with me than with any of my siblings. She gave birth to me and got my dad banned from the hospital when he came in drunk and started screaming that I wasn't his.
Now, ask any mother about bringing home her baby from the hospital and you will probably hear things like,
"I checked her every five minutes to make sure she was still breathing."
"I couldn't believe how beautiful he was."
"I didn't want anyone else to touch her."
"I couldn't stop staring at him."
etc, etc...
But the story about my homecoming, the story that I've heard more times than I can even count:
Mom: "I lost every bit of weight that I had gained when you were born! I went home and the next day I was able to fit right back into my "hot pants" and I went to the bar!"
Me: "Where was I, Mom?"
Mom: "Hmmm...I don't remember...I guess you were with Granny."
And people wonder why I'm screwed up.
Why I am here?
Why am I here?
...blogging, that is.
First, let me give you a little background on my psyche. I've always been one of those people that pretty much keeps my mouth shut...well, about anything that really matters, I guess. For the most part, I've always been that person that just kinda goes along to get along. I'm a yes girl.
"What do you need?"
"Of course, I don't mind helping."
"Oh, no, you're right...I'm not offended at all."
Yep...those have been repeated by me over and over and over and...well...you get the point. I do not like confrontation and I have this bizarre need for everyone to like me and oftentimes, I feel like it is my responsibility to make sure that everyone around me is happy. So, I tend to get lots of little holes in my tongue from trying to keep everything on the inside. I'm really very good at this. There are things I've buried so deep down, even Houdini couldn't get them out. Sometimes I do tend to explode and things just burst out. I've noticed this happens more as I get older. But even when things fly out of my mouth, i.e. "Did I say that out loud?" I'm still pretty good at clamping down on the tongue before it gets too out of hand. I know, I know, it's sometimes better just to let everything out and just deal with it. But that really doesn't fit into my plan of A)avoiding confrontation, B)having people like me, or C)making sure everyone is happy. So, you can see my dilemma here. Plus having things pushed down as deep as I've pushed them, some have had years to fester, and more importantly have probably become distorted in my head.
So, having this uncontrollable desire to get some of these feelings and thoughts out of my head, while at the same time, not wanting to hurt anyone, or make anyone the least little bit uncomfortable or unhappy, and, of course avoiding the evil confrontation monster, I have landed here at Blogger where I will write what I need to write about whatever topic is on my mind.
I have absolutely nothing newsworthy to say. I'm not sure that I even have anything blog worthy to say. I may write some things that will make you think that I'm a rude, selfish bitch. I may write some things that make you think I'm a pathetic person with no backbone. I may even write some things that may make you wonder why I'm still living on the outside and not in some white, padded room.
But regardless, I will continue this until all of the words that are fighting to get out of me are released.
...blogging, that is.
First, let me give you a little background on my psyche. I've always been one of those people that pretty much keeps my mouth shut...well, about anything that really matters, I guess. For the most part, I've always been that person that just kinda goes along to get along. I'm a yes girl.
"What do you need?"
"Of course, I don't mind helping."
"Oh, no, you're right...I'm not offended at all."
Yep...those have been repeated by me over and over and over and...well...you get the point. I do not like confrontation and I have this bizarre need for everyone to like me and oftentimes, I feel like it is my responsibility to make sure that everyone around me is happy. So, I tend to get lots of little holes in my tongue from trying to keep everything on the inside. I'm really very good at this. There are things I've buried so deep down, even Houdini couldn't get them out. Sometimes I do tend to explode and things just burst out. I've noticed this happens more as I get older. But even when things fly out of my mouth, i.e. "Did I say that out loud?" I'm still pretty good at clamping down on the tongue before it gets too out of hand. I know, I know, it's sometimes better just to let everything out and just deal with it. But that really doesn't fit into my plan of A)avoiding confrontation, B)having people like me, or C)making sure everyone is happy. So, you can see my dilemma here. Plus having things pushed down as deep as I've pushed them, some have had years to fester, and more importantly have probably become distorted in my head.
So, having this uncontrollable desire to get some of these feelings and thoughts out of my head, while at the same time, not wanting to hurt anyone, or make anyone the least little bit uncomfortable or unhappy, and, of course avoiding the evil confrontation monster, I have landed here at Blogger where I will write what I need to write about whatever topic is on my mind.
I have absolutely nothing newsworthy to say. I'm not sure that I even have anything blog worthy to say. I may write some things that will make you think that I'm a rude, selfish bitch. I may write some things that make you think I'm a pathetic person with no backbone. I may even write some things that may make you wonder why I'm still living on the outside and not in some white, padded room.
But regardless, I will continue this until all of the words that are fighting to get out of me are released.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The Funny Farm
Ok, so if you happened upon this blog (God help you), you're probably wondering...why the funny farm?
So here's the best answer I can give you... A few years ago, while browsing through a new craft store, I found a, hmm...I guess you would call it a sign...you know, one of those with a picket to stick in the ground. I have always loved cows. No, not the real barnyard mooing type...just the cartoon character and occasional stuffed one...so, when I saw this I knew it must be mine. It had a cow on it holding a sign that read, "Welcome to the funny farm!" Anyway, twenty-five bucks and a couple of miles later, it was in my front yard.
It's ironic...even though it seemed to fit my life and family so much at the time, all these years later, with the paint faded, and the cow's head that's fallen off (although it's still in my garage), I would never have guessed how truly perfect that phrase seems to have become a part of this insane ride that I like to call my life.
So, with that said, all that's left is...Welcome to the Funny Farm...I'd keep your boots on if I were you...sometimes it will get pretty deep in here...
So here's the best answer I can give you... A few years ago, while browsing through a new craft store, I found a, hmm...I guess you would call it a sign...you know, one of those with a picket to stick in the ground. I have always loved cows. No, not the real barnyard mooing type...just the cartoon character and occasional stuffed one...so, when I saw this I knew it must be mine. It had a cow on it holding a sign that read, "Welcome to the funny farm!" Anyway, twenty-five bucks and a couple of miles later, it was in my front yard.
It's ironic...even though it seemed to fit my life and family so much at the time, all these years later, with the paint faded, and the cow's head that's fallen off (although it's still in my garage), I would never have guessed how truly perfect that phrase seems to have become a part of this insane ride that I like to call my life.
So, with that said, all that's left is...Welcome to the Funny Farm...I'd keep your boots on if I were you...sometimes it will get pretty deep in here...
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