Image via WikipediaSome days I wish I never met Roman, let alone married him. Especially when I go through bouts of prolonged depression like as of late, when nothing I do, say, write, think, or eat (I equate carbs with love) makes a bit of difference in lifting my emotional malaise.
Recently I wrote an entry about the role of forgiveness in my healing process. I have been reluctant to post it though because something about it felt off. So for about a week I labored over it, being unable to pinpoint the problem. The post is honest like most of what I try to write, which is why I struggled to identify the issue I have with it. Then it finally hit me.
I realized tonight that authenticity is not my concern. Instead, I think that talking solely about forgiveness alone seems to suggest that I am free of anger; a vexing component I grapple with often - and one I think deserves recognition in it's own right in order for any discussion about letting go to hold water. For me, the topic of forgiveness in isolation comes across as being too linear; particularly when attempting to approximate the process in writing.
In truth, anger regularly creeps up from deep down to remind me just how pissed off I am at Roman, even though I also simultaneously forgive him for being fallible. And as such, anger is part of an emotional paradox that significantly colors the aftermath of my loss.
I have mentioned in prior posts how complicated people leave behind complicated legacies and how complicated legacies lead to complicated grief. For me, one of the most entangled aspects of my grief for Roman relates not only to my resentment over how he treated me, but also my snarled indignation at him for dying. In dying, he abandoned me for a second time..an act I find difficult on some level to reconcile. At times, the struggle is stifling. Most notably, when I think I am ready to completely forgive.
Rationally I know that Roman did not have a choice in the matter. He did not choose to die in the same way that he chose to live. On the surface I know this.
And knowing makes my anger feel selfish, which in turn stalls my healing...leaving me frozen with guilty ambivalence. Yet logical or not - at times, I feel angry.
Even so, I can honestly say that I accept the way things unfolded because of the gifts that have found me in the wake of his death. Rationally, I can both reason how I managed to let go of aspects of my heartbreak, while also acknowledging the existence of concurrent burning inside me from time to time. And it is during my angry times, depending on the trigger, that I sometimes wish I could go back and change the course of my life and make different choices. As much as I would rather not admit it, at times, I long for what else could have been. And in truth, sometimes I actually regret knowing that Roman ever existed. Just as Roman was complex, so too is my grief for him.
While I have made peace with many of the errs he made in life, I would be remiss to discuss my path to forgiveness without first exploring my muddy resentment toward him for dying. I realize that misplaced anger is par for the gnarled course, so I appreciate that short of flipping a magical switch, there is no easy way to contend with it. I mean really, how does one contend with anger toward a dead person?
I'm still looking for the answer, though I realize it is part of a larger process. Consciously I see that there is much to be learned from Roman's life and loss. Still, like it or not - I'm also angry. This is all part of grieving, I know. Yet nevertheless, there are times when honestly, I wish I didn't.
