I have a hard time forgiving some people. I pity them so I’m halfway there, but the meter’s stuck. I try to forgive all the men and female friends I’ve loved, who haven’t been able to love me in return, and the broken people who can’t rise above their own inherent anger, addictions, lies, and distrust.
My struggle with forgiveness led to research. One blog claimed it’s torture and we should combat it with love. Yeah, sure, but let me sing the Essex’s song from 1963, Easier Said Than Done (#1 in the charts for two weeks). Many days it’s just about me, and I have to absolve myself for my own wayward choices.I want to forgive myself for screaming and begging God/HigherPower/Aliens to stop sending me the horrible information I received about murders. The pictures that detectives showed me will forever sear my brain. My plea worked, since I haven’t done much of it for sixteen years.
After long discussions and the sharp mind of a gal pal, I strive to understand hurtful behavior, but I only get bits of clarity. Why might not be part of the story. If I stick to the facts, I realize most people are kind to old Jan. They help me, love me, trust their children to my care, and make me feel like a million bucks.
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