Apologies and Baggage

The subject of emotional baggage came up a couple years ago while I was talking to the father of one of my Girl Scouts.

He commented that he's just too damn old to carry all that stuff anymore. It's too heavy.

Of course, me being, well, me, the idea that emotional baggage has actual weight stayed with me all day and into the night and I ended up writing about it.

I'm reposting parts of that post inside this post.

What prompted this voyage to my blog past?

It was this post from Jason .
Go.
Read it.
I will wait.
What he said really touched me, and unless your heart is a brick, it should touch you, too.

Are you back?

Okay.

I don't know if I have anyone to apologize to.
I've tried to be kind.
To be decent.
To have empathy and to be careful of other people's spirits.

I sincerely hope that I've never hurt someone in a way that will stick with them forever.

Since I've been hurt that way more than once, I don't ever want to be responsible for that kind of pain in someone else's heart.

But what's the other side of an apology?

Being able to forgive the hurt.
For me, forgiveness is much, much harder than apologizing.

If asked to forgive, I am graceless and abrupt and almost never sincere, although I try to at least look that way.

I don't want to forgive those who have hurt me deeply.
The minor things... I don't even remember them most of the time. I can easily accept those apologies.

But the life-changing hurts?
The things that ripped out chunks of my heart?
Left gaping holes in my spirit?

I'm still angry over those hurts. Furious.

Right or wrong, it's how I feel.

I've known a few people who don't carry a grudge.
I admire that quality.
I just don't think I have it.

Jason's post led to me thinking about my emotional baggage all over again and wondering if I could ever forgive the hurts.

I am carrying quite a lot of baggage. I spent a good portion of my first 20 years packing everything up and taking it with me... good stuff and bad.

My baggage used to resemble what's in the picture, except my cart didn't have any wheels. I was just dragging all those bags along by a rope, tied to my ankle.




















I've been tossing bags overboard for some time now. Tired of carrying them, tired of wondering what I could add to my cart if I had room.

I have a good man in my life, and he's been there the whole time as I've sorted through what I want to toss out and what I want to keep. By virtue of him being himself, he's added wheels to my cart.

He's not afraid to look through the contents of any bag I open. Not timid or squeamish. Even if said contents are putrid and disgusting after being locked up so long.

Eric never looks at me any differently. His love for me is always there... and he makes sure I always know it.

Because he's willing to help me and support me and love me through every ugly thing I bring out, I've been unpacking those bags for a long time.

I have opened some of the big suitcases and found nothing in them. The contents I had stored there turned to wisps of vapor and sneaked out through the little openings, I guess.

There are bags I packed away with horrible things in them. What's weird is, some of those bad bags have... changed.

They may not have turned good, but the contents are now more benign than malignant after many years of lying quietly inside without being stirred.

Some of the suitcases that look small on the outside are roomy on the inside. That explains why they're so heavy. There's a huge amount of stuff packed inside.

In a sort of weird, treasure-hunt way, there are bits and pieces of certain hurts contained in more than one bag. I have to rummage through a lot of bags to find all the pieces.

Occasionally, I think I've rooted out all the parts of a hurt, only to open an innocuous bag and find traces of anger mixed in with what should contain only happiness.

Evidently, I have a lot more clutter to clear out.

My anxiety and fear have increased exponentially from a 23 year old incident.

I can't go anywhere without the suitcase that is holding that incident.
I hate that.

And if I hate it so much, why am I still hauling it around with me?
I don't know.

That memory has so much... power over me.
So much of my current anxiety is based on just that thing that happened to me 23 years ago.

One could argue that the brutal bastard who hurt me won't do so again and that I'm guarded by a lot of people who love me and care about me.

One could say that I'm not the same gullible person today that I was 23 years ago... and that I'm no longer helpless.

That person would be right on all counts.
But knowing that doesn't heal what hurts me.

Thing is, we all have suitcases.

I'm sure you know at least one person who is carrying a suitcase so full and heavy that just the idea of trying to lift it is astounding. And you wonder how they do it.

Are some people just really strong and able to fling the weight around like it's nothing? Where does that amazing strength come from? Why do some people have so much of it? Why do others have none?

And if we were to forgive the hurts... even if we received no apology... ever, could we stop carrying all this baggage?

Imagine that.