On Forgiveness
S has remembered more details: a child prostitution ring, who knows how many rapists. How they hoped she'd get pregnant, and that the baby would be a girl. She cannot forgive them unless she gets justice, she says, so we are on that road: in the next week, we'll hear back from a police officer in the city where she grew up, find out for sure what our first step is, but it looks right now as if she will need to tell her story to a local officer. Luckily, I know most of them, so we will be able to make this happen in a way that feels as safe as possible for her. But what happens next, I can't control. All of it, so out of our control. I have told her it's OK to stop at any time. I have told her that she does not have to take this on. I have told her I'll be there for her, no matter what she decides.
She wants to know if she's allowed to cry. She wants to know if I'm sure I'll always love her. She wants to know if I'm sure it was her fault, any of it.
And, perhaps most importantly, she wants to keep other children safe. We have reason to believe that some of her abusers could still be abusing children. "It's not about revenge," she tells me. "It's about kids being safe."
That she's able to think about others when she's barely making it through the day--when she's down to half days at school and hasn't had a day in weeks that has not included shaking and tears--is a miracle.
Another miracle: even though she has faced the worst abuse imaginable, she wants to make amends to people she hurt along the way. At the top of the list was a social worker named M--she still remembered his first and last name--who removed her from her home. I remembered his name appearing multiple times in the records. I also remembered that her bio family had brainwashed her to believe he was the devil, and that she was terrified of him. At first, I blew her off--I'm sure he knows you weren't able to think straight back then, sweetheart, I said--but she persisted, so I decided to see if I could find him. I did, and sent him an e-mail saying that S was grateful for what he'd done for her, and sorry that she'd been so cruel to him. I also gave him a very brief update on her life--like five sentences.
What transpired next was a miracle I can't even begin to explain. When he heard from me, he sent me a long e-mail, which included these words:
"Tell S from me that she has nothing whatsoever to be sorry for. Tell her to
release the guilt she feels the same way I released her, so that she could
ultimately find you. Tell her that hearing from her and knowing that she has
found happiness is the greatest gift I have ever received. Tell her that I
know how much she loves her brothers and how hard she tried to keep them safe.
Tell her that she is the bravest and strongest person I have ever met. Tell
her that when I think of her riding on a horse, I see a warrior princess who
will fight for what is right and good. Tell her that the dragons she is now
facing [her memories] are no match for her."
There was so much more, but this part was my favorite, and S's. She smiled widely when I got to the "warrior princess" part. This phrase was especially poignant because S once had an elaborate fantasy world, where she would escape when she felt unsafe, which meant she was in this world most of the time. Even now, remnants of this place are still with her, still come to the surface in scary times: she's a princess in a perfect, pink world, and everybody loves her, and she can have anything she wants.
When I told M of her reaction, he wrote back, "I chose the phrase "warrior princess" very deliberately, because I hope it will help her to understand that the fantasy world she created to protect her heart is in fact real - that it worked - and that because of it, she is alive. She can now use that world, and the confidence she found it it, to emerge whole into the world she now shares with you. The difference is that in the other world, her role as a princess was a passive one. Just a princess. Now she is a warrior - a brave and noble soul. She will face these dragons, and defeat them."
While we've been careful not to discuss any details of her abuse--we are worried that our contact could be misconstrued later by a crazy defense attorney, if this goes that far--we are communicating as friends now, people who care about each other and both love my daughter. I am lucky.
I am lucky, so lucky. I need to write these words.
Don't get me wrong: I'm lonely at times, still, longing for a real community of friends here who have the time and energy to be there for us and who are closer to my age (my college student and long-distance friends continue to be my best support, for better or worse). I'm still crying almost every day.
But I'm also lucky. I now have a great online community of parents who really get what I'm going through; they've been immensely helpful. I am taking a parenting class online with other parents of traumatized children, and I've learned so much already, applicable instantly. The support group for parents who have adopted older children here in town has let me weep in the corner of our local diner, and wept with me, and provided encouragement--and to think at one time I did not trust them or think they could help. I am slowly developing friendships with new people, too, who have not backed away from the intensity of this time in our lives--and renewing friendships with long-distance friends.
Since I started these efforts--and since we survived that hard four days of hell I wrote about in my last entry--there has been no violence or yelling, only time talking honestly, weeping or laughing together. We are on a road to healing. And, yes, forgiveness.
Maybe some things can't ever be forgiven, not completely, but what is forgiveness if not a giving of oneself for another person? What is it if not my ability, in times of this much grief, to find a way to connect when so many people I used to feel close to aren't available? What is it if not S's ability, in times like these, to think of others rather than only her own suffering--to want to reach out the M, to want to help keep other children safe?
I think of the woman who poured expensive, fragrant oil over Jesus' feet and wiped it with her hair. In the Greek Orthodox church, that story is commemorated today, and we are all anointed with the oil of healing. There are two accounts of this story, but in one of them, the woman was a harlot, and the disciples grumbled that the oil would have been better used if sold and the money given to the poor. But Jesus said, no, this was done to prepare me for my burial. What she has done will always be remembered.
I think of the intimacy of that act. I think of how intimate it felt when I was anointed by a priest on Holy Wednesday--the last time was more than 10 years ago, now--and how I could feel that oil on me for hours afterwards. A blessing, fragrant, divine. I was perfect exactly as I was. If we were closer to a church, if there was no school or work tomorrow, that is where I would have been tonight.
I want S to feel that, too. Interestingly, she has decided to become Greek Orthodox, and has even asked a friend of mine to be her godmother. (She will always have the godparents who anointed us with holy water at her adoption party--but to be Greek Orthodox, she needs a mentor of the same religion). I have such mixed feelings about the church of my childhood. I love the rituals, but hate much of the dogma. And yet...
And yet, I am remembering the blessing of oil, looking forward to our trip to the nearest church, three hours away, for Good Friday, when we will duck under Jesus' tomb, say a prayer, and leave church triumphant, hopeful. I am looking forward to the darkness of Pascha's midnight, the passing of the light.
I am looking forward, ever forward, but staying grounded, right here, right now, breathing deeply. We will be OK.
She wants to know if she's allowed to cry. She wants to know if I'm sure I'll always love her. She wants to know if I'm sure it was her fault, any of it.
And, perhaps most importantly, she wants to keep other children safe. We have reason to believe that some of her abusers could still be abusing children. "It's not about revenge," she tells me. "It's about kids being safe."
That she's able to think about others when she's barely making it through the day--when she's down to half days at school and hasn't had a day in weeks that has not included shaking and tears--is a miracle.
Another miracle: even though she has faced the worst abuse imaginable, she wants to make amends to people she hurt along the way. At the top of the list was a social worker named M--she still remembered his first and last name--who removed her from her home. I remembered his name appearing multiple times in the records. I also remembered that her bio family had brainwashed her to believe he was the devil, and that she was terrified of him. At first, I blew her off--I'm sure he knows you weren't able to think straight back then, sweetheart, I said--but she persisted, so I decided to see if I could find him. I did, and sent him an e-mail saying that S was grateful for what he'd done for her, and sorry that she'd been so cruel to him. I also gave him a very brief update on her life--like five sentences.
What transpired next was a miracle I can't even begin to explain. When he heard from me, he sent me a long e-mail, which included these words:
"Tell S from me that she has nothing whatsoever to be sorry for. Tell her to
release the guilt she feels the same way I released her, so that she could
ultimately find you. Tell her that hearing from her and knowing that she has
found happiness is the greatest gift I have ever received. Tell her that I
know how much she loves her brothers and how hard she tried to keep them safe.
Tell her that she is the bravest and strongest person I have ever met. Tell
her that when I think of her riding on a horse, I see a warrior princess who
will fight for what is right and good. Tell her that the dragons she is now
facing [her memories] are no match for her."
There was so much more, but this part was my favorite, and S's. She smiled widely when I got to the "warrior princess" part. This phrase was especially poignant because S once had an elaborate fantasy world, where she would escape when she felt unsafe, which meant she was in this world most of the time. Even now, remnants of this place are still with her, still come to the surface in scary times: she's a princess in a perfect, pink world, and everybody loves her, and she can have anything she wants.
When I told M of her reaction, he wrote back, "I chose the phrase "warrior princess" very deliberately, because I hope it will help her to understand that the fantasy world she created to protect her heart is in fact real - that it worked - and that because of it, she is alive. She can now use that world, and the confidence she found it it, to emerge whole into the world she now shares with you. The difference is that in the other world, her role as a princess was a passive one. Just a princess. Now she is a warrior - a brave and noble soul. She will face these dragons, and defeat them."
While we've been careful not to discuss any details of her abuse--we are worried that our contact could be misconstrued later by a crazy defense attorney, if this goes that far--we are communicating as friends now, people who care about each other and both love my daughter. I am lucky.
I am lucky, so lucky. I need to write these words.
Don't get me wrong: I'm lonely at times, still, longing for a real community of friends here who have the time and energy to be there for us and who are closer to my age (my college student and long-distance friends continue to be my best support, for better or worse). I'm still crying almost every day.
But I'm also lucky. I now have a great online community of parents who really get what I'm going through; they've been immensely helpful. I am taking a parenting class online with other parents of traumatized children, and I've learned so much already, applicable instantly. The support group for parents who have adopted older children here in town has let me weep in the corner of our local diner, and wept with me, and provided encouragement--and to think at one time I did not trust them or think they could help. I am slowly developing friendships with new people, too, who have not backed away from the intensity of this time in our lives--and renewing friendships with long-distance friends.
Since I started these efforts--and since we survived that hard four days of hell I wrote about in my last entry--there has been no violence or yelling, only time talking honestly, weeping or laughing together. We are on a road to healing. And, yes, forgiveness.
Maybe some things can't ever be forgiven, not completely, but what is forgiveness if not a giving of oneself for another person? What is it if not my ability, in times of this much grief, to find a way to connect when so many people I used to feel close to aren't available? What is it if not S's ability, in times like these, to think of others rather than only her own suffering--to want to reach out the M, to want to help keep other children safe?
I think of the woman who poured expensive, fragrant oil over Jesus' feet and wiped it with her hair. In the Greek Orthodox church, that story is commemorated today, and we are all anointed with the oil of healing. There are two accounts of this story, but in one of them, the woman was a harlot, and the disciples grumbled that the oil would have been better used if sold and the money given to the poor. But Jesus said, no, this was done to prepare me for my burial. What she has done will always be remembered.
I think of the intimacy of that act. I think of how intimate it felt when I was anointed by a priest on Holy Wednesday--the last time was more than 10 years ago, now--and how I could feel that oil on me for hours afterwards. A blessing, fragrant, divine. I was perfect exactly as I was. If we were closer to a church, if there was no school or work tomorrow, that is where I would have been tonight.
I want S to feel that, too. Interestingly, she has decided to become Greek Orthodox, and has even asked a friend of mine to be her godmother. (She will always have the godparents who anointed us with holy water at her adoption party--but to be Greek Orthodox, she needs a mentor of the same religion). I have such mixed feelings about the church of my childhood. I love the rituals, but hate much of the dogma. And yet...
And yet, I am remembering the blessing of oil, looking forward to our trip to the nearest church, three hours away, for Good Friday, when we will duck under Jesus' tomb, say a prayer, and leave church triumphant, hopeful. I am looking forward to the darkness of Pascha's midnight, the passing of the light.
I am looking forward, ever forward, but staying grounded, right here, right now, breathing deeply. We will be OK.
Comments