Acquiescence..

I have never been good at cutting ties. In the complex web of human relationships, I have gotten caught in things; knots and shreds where friendships ended and relationships soured. The world says let go, rebirth, forget; but I have hung in there, holding on far longer than the other person after their hand loosened. I have dealt in these ways because the persistent act of shaping memories into stories and feelings into art can be cleansing. Often, this penchant for remembering shines a light on what was. But these lean moments when we hang in there to see what might happen can also curl into alleys of recollection, where nostalgia bolsters the self, serving as both a bandage and prison.

I knew from an early age that I could not let go: departed friends, damaged relationships, connections clouded or curdled, remained etched upon me, as if I retained certain warmths if I could but catch them, certain spirits if I held close, invalidating the losses as they sharpened instead of fading, the suffering unyielding.

Nostalgia is a seductive con man and a deceitful friend, I realise because there is no salvageable living memory that is not eroded and autopsied when it is summoned again. And again, I am drawn to those darkening alleys that beckon towards a simpler and greener day. There is safety and succour in repetition. But the roads of the past are always dark and dingy, and lonesome. And the overgrown vegetation is only reassuring for as long as the echo of laughter chokes the space between chapters and vibrates where old conversations lingered before.

It is not like I am holding a grudge ; in fact, I rarely do. But there is a certain merit to harbouring a quiet hatred for those who have done you wrong. It is a flame that burns steadily like a bonfire one can sit next to and enjoy the odd glow that comes from it on the coldest of nights. it is a flame that isn’t burning me up from the inside out or boiling me in impotent fury. It is just there, like a low-grade fever, but it is steady. It is reliable. It is a reminder that while I might be fickle, I still do not forget easily, and I definitely do not forgive easily. It turns out that forgiveness is one of those bona fide virtues of, say, God or the big superhuman archetypal figures who are all-knowing and benevolent and invested in my personal wellbeing, scoring points with me for a lifetime of hatred. I am not God, nor do I aspire to be the person blessed with the grace and talent to forgive and forget. I am very much a human whose great flaw is getting beaten down to the point of being broken when wronged, and so it turns out that bathetic stubbornness is the very best I have going for me because I am a work in progress and therefore even the smallest standing requires that even I acknowledge and salute virtue when it presents itself, when grace and goodwill knock before entering.

Oblivion is a piece of cake. With the passage of time, faces lose their clarity, names disappear under lips, and the circumstances surrounding what was might take on a fuzzy quality. But to forgive? To forget the grudge, to give up the right of retaliation? For me that seems a taboo, a dishonouring of my suffering. It would feel like invalidating the pain I felt, and I am not ready to do that. I have what remains of myself: good and bad, and that is my good and my bad.
The good memories I hold on to. They are my gems: precious and irreplaceable. The laughter shared with friends; the touch of a lover; the little joys of life in the company of others: these are the pleasures I feel proud of. They remind me that, among the sufferings, there was pleasure too; that, when all is said and done, life can also be suave and kind, despite the cruelty.

Yet the good memories, they are quite different. They are scars, telltale signs of where I have been, what I have gone through that quietly transform me, turning me into a hunter, a man intent on dispensing justice, making them pay for the day he wronged me. Not vengeance in the sense of bloodshed or cyclical hatred, but closure, justice. This one is me when I am alone, with my bad memories, the scarps and clefts that nobody knows about.

It is a journey you take by not clinging and clutching at your memories or letting them go altogether; and discovering that your past is a part of and not a substitute for yourself, for you are a sum of your memories and, if they are all good, you would be a saint; and if they are all bad, a sinner. I am shattered fragments of stammering friendships, some that ended for reasons that come back to shame me; some that ended for reasons that brought relief. Relationships that ended without fondness or a wish to keep talking, connections that taught me my own indispensability. Betrayals that, when I summoned the courage to confront the betrayers, either made them apologise warmly for the hurt I had experienced or brought down upon myself both full-throated abuses and non-responses.

But, I am not stuck in history. I know I need to grow and to make new memories and new connections. It is a juggling act, past and present, needs from before and needs now, letting go of: not the memories, but of my grip on the memories. Learning to live in the now is easier, maybe, than it sounds. The past keeps echoing, but the echoes are becoming fainter.

In the end, mine is a story of acceptance. Acceptance of the fact that I am flawed, that I have been wronged, and that I have wronged others. That I have cherished memories, and horrific memories too. That forgiveness is a choice, not a command, and that if anger makes me better, then it is good medicine. Acceptance of the fact that I am human, and in my humanity I find my power.
It is hard to walk away, to keep going after all this. But I can take the first step, and the next, find joy in the afternoon and evening, and learn to live with the morning I would leave behind. To hold on and let go. And, perhaps, I will find the peace I seek not in oblivion, but in remembering the whole of it: the good, the bad, and more.