“So tell me what you’re feeling.”
I look out the window and try to find the words. “I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to have this. I wasn’t sure I wanted it. I wasn’t sure Ideserved…to be happy, to feel hope again. To feel…wanted, I guess. The accident changed everything, and for a long time, there was no room in my life for…feelings.”
“For love, you mean.” His eyes meet mine. Deep, dark, soft, inviting me to fall into him and never surface again.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “Do I even believe in love? I don’t know. How could I ever love you when I don’t even like myself?”
“What’s not to like?” he asks. “You’re strong, you’re smart, you’re beautiful. You’re a survivor. You’re funny. You’re brave. You’ve been through hell, you never gave up, and you’re still here.” His eyes cut to mine, serious and intense. “We’re more than our mistakes, Annika.”
“No, of course not.” I shake my head. “You’re an amazing man, Chance.”
“So, if you can see me as amazing, even though I’ve done some seriously fucked-up things—if I can be forgiven and deserve to be seen as more than just the worst shit I’ve done…then you can damn well give yourself that same grace.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“No? Why not?”
I shake my head again. “I’m not…I’m notgood.”
“Whoisgood? Fuckin’ nobody, mama. Ain’t one single goddamn person who’s ever lived beengood, unless you believe in Jesus. The rest of us are just different shades of fucked up. You gotta forgive yourself, Nik. You can make amends all you want, with your mom, your sister, Kelly, anyone and everyone. That’ll make some space in your soul. But if you wanna get free of all the bullshit keeping you chained to feeling like a piece of shit, you gotta forgive yourself.”
My lip quivers, my eyes burn. “Have you? Forgiven yourself?”
He rolls a huge, heavy shoulder. “I’m workin’ on it, mama. It ain’t easy. I don’t think it’s a one-time thing. I think it’s a process.”
“Where do you even start?” My voice is low, cracking, breaking, hoarse. “Where did you start?”
He doesn’t answer for a long time. “I did some online therapy, actually. Legit, no one knows, not even Rev. But I did. It was just a couple sessions. I was having trouble sleeping, you know? Like, I’d lay there awake at night, wrestling with this shit. Hating myself. Going over all the awful shit I’ve done, replaying it and just…hating myself. I never let on to anyone that I was feeling any of that shit. I’m a master at acting like I’m fine, like nothing fazes me. But secretly, alone at night, man…I was fucked up. So I talked to this therapist via Zoom, right? He was a former soldier, too, so I know he got that part of it. And he had me write it down. Like, in so many words—‘I forgive myself.’ You gotta say it, mama. That’s what he taught me. You gotta make it real. When you make amends, you gotta say the words, yeah? Ask for forgiveness, so you can make amends and move on to the next step. Well, it’s the same for forgiving yourself. And no, it doesn’t magically fix anything. But it’s a start. And honestly, I think forgiving yourself is the hardest part.”
I mull that over, watching the scenery slip past the window. Chance gives me the time and space to sort through what he’s told me and how I feel about it—he just drives, radio off, silence simmering between us, his big gentle hand possessively and affectionately resting on my bare thigh, his fingers occasionally dimpling into the flesh and muscle, thumb rubbing in circles, back and forth.
I forgive myself. It’s nearly impossible to even think the words in the confines of my own mind.
I made mistakes. A lot of them. But…I was hurting. I was lost. I’m not making excuses, I just…yeah. Around and around I go, trying to justify and excuse the shit I did, and then getting angry at myself for doing it.
Eventually, I come to some conclusions.
I was in pain. I was angry. Confused. Lost.
That doesn’t excuse or justify what I did—nothing can and I’m not trying to. I did have reasons, right or wrong. But it’s done—I did what I did, and here I am, for better or worse. I survived. I’m clean.
I’ll never, ever go back to drugs.
I want to have a life—a semblance of normalcy. I want to have friends. A job.
I want…I want to be loved, and I want someone to let me love him.
I want that. Fuck, do I want it. To love, and to be loved.
I want….life. Not just existence, or subsistence, or basic survival. But a real, full life.
And the first step on the path to any of that?
I forgive myself.
I don’t need to write it down. I don’t need to say it out loud. It’s enough to know it, to speak to my own soul.
I forgive myself.
