I’m not the forgiving type. I’m the “Let’s forget and fake move on” type. The type to not so secretly harbor what you did when I’m up thinking throughout the night. I was told forgiving means letting something go for the betterment of your spirit but misery loves company and I haven’t been ready to to be alone without my burdens from the transgressions from others. How else was I going to blame someone else for my shortcomings if I forgave them? How could I continue to to live life without playing the blame game for previous heartbreaks if I forgave them? Who could I chastise them for unresolved hurt and pain if I had forgiven everyone?
My first six months of my thirties seriously flew past me. Don’t get me wrong, I felt it go past me. Ever since the day I entered the “No Longer Twenty Something Club”, I have been hit with signs that I am older left and right.
Thirty years. That’s how long it took to me to admit that sometimes I’m wrong. I feel like I gave that up pretty early.
I’m not always right. Most of the time I am but there are rare moments when a playa slips up. Predictably, I would fight someone tooth and nail before I admit that I was wrong and probably being dramatic. But lately I’ve been self evaluating and with that comes admittance, ownership and change/growth.
Sometimes I’m loud and wrong.
He dug his hands into my hair. Past my kinky curls, straight to my roots and rubbed my scalp. And I let him. I regret nothing.
During one of our usual ‘binge watch a new show on Hulu’ nights, I got a dose of a simple but overwhelmingly loving moment of intimacy. I was laying on his stomach when he, while laughing at some ridiculous joke, slipped his hand into my hair and started rubbing my scalp. Before I could protest about the audacity of him putting his hands in a fresh twist out, I was comforted with a moment of bliss. Yes, bliss is the proper way to describe how I both my spirit and overwhelmed mind gradually calmed down.