Forgiveness, Eventually  − 9 August, 2007

It can be hard to forgive.  It is important that we try.  It took me decades to forgive my step-mom.  Last summer I finally forgave a neighbor for something she didn’t even know she had done.

Back in 2002 we had just gotten a dog, a lovable, beautiful, rambunctious one-year-old German shorthair pointer mix.  For the first several months, I was head over heels in love with her.  She was gorgeous and utterly lovable.  We did everything together.  I totally pampered her.  However, several months before we got her, I’d entered my third bipolar episode without realizing it.  Unlike my previous episodes, in which I’d gotten terribly depressed, this time I was getting high.

When you are bipolar II, you only get hypo-manic, not manic.  I had been having bouts of irritability and was having a lot of trouble sleeping.  I was finally realizing that something was wrong.  I’d never had a prolonged hypo-manic episode, so I didn’t know that’s what it was.  But my husband knew something wasn’t right.  When my parents visited in July, my mom suggested that I was having another episode.

My love affair with our pup was fading.  Her energy around the house made me jittery.  It was getting harder and harder for me to be around her, especially in the mornings and after work, when she was energetic and wanted to romp.  I would take her down to the park to let her run, but I no longer enjoyed playing with her.  My life was falling apart, and she was a constant reminder that I was completely on edge.

We hired a trainer, hoping to help her develop some manners.  She was not a bad dog, but all dogs need to be taught manners.  The work with the trainer went well, but my heart was still heavy with dread at the thought of being unable to escape our dog’s energy when I needed my environment to be calm and quiet.  I began to believe that we couldn’t keep her – that it would become utterly intolerable to have her around.  I knew it would break my husband’s heart to part with her.

We were part of a “dog group” that met in the park every Saturday morning.  There were 15 or 20 people and at least as many dogs.  Our dog had always played pretty nicely with the other dogs.  We were friendly with a neighbor who had a dog with even more energy than ours.  Our dogs were best friends.  I didn’t care too much for this dog because of her shrill bark.  An acquaintance of mine also attended the dog group.  I loved her dog, and would have traded our dog for hers in a heartbeat.

One Saturday morning, I mentioned to our neighbor that I might not be able to keep our dog because she was driving me crazy.  Our neighbor’s reaction was to say to our dog, “Oh, poor baby, you’re not going to have a mommy!”  I was stung.  I tried to explain how I was feeling, but my neighbor was concerned only about our dog.  Later the same morning, I told my acquaintance about my feelings, and she expressed compassion, saying that she knew it could be really hard.  That meant a lot to me.

After that morning, I stopped attending the dog group.  I didn’t want to see our neighbor.  I was terribly hurt by how she’d behaved.  I didn’t have the capacity at that time to put myself in her shoes, to consider that she had no idea what was happening to me.  For four years afterwards, even after I was over my bipolar episode and I had repaired my relationship with my dog, I avoided our neighbor.

Sometimes I would see her in the distance and turn the other way.  At a park, I walked right past her and her dog, only nodding and saying a curt “Hello”.  I knew that she had no idea why I was avoiding her.  It must have seemed very strange to her.  But all I could remember was her failure to empathize with me when I was hurting.  I would always compare her reaction to that of my acquaintance, who expressed empathy, even though she was as ignorant of my condition as my neighbor.

However, sometime in the fifth year, it got easier and easier for me to see our neighbor.  Then one summer evening, as I cruised home from an exhilarating bike ride, I saw our neighbor, and stopped to say hello.  We had a pleasant, animated chat, and I felt warmth towards her.  I had finally forgiven her.  It had taken five years, perhaps because I had not been trying.  I had believed that I would never forgive her.

I felt joyful, like a weight had been lifted.   I no longer had to carry around a grudge that only I understood.  I no longer had feel like a freak because I avoided someone who didn’t even know she’d done anything wrong.