On Being Unforgiven

Do you think Uncle Charlie will have forgiven you by the time I get married?

That question came from my boy this week. David has just finished sixth grade. He has not yet scheduled his nuptials, nor found the woman he wishes to wed. My son is, however, concerned that his mother’s brother — a man he rightly adores and admires — will not attend the wedding if I am there. It has been eleven years since my marriage to Charlie’s sister, Eira, ended, sordidly and publicly. It has been eleven years since I aired my misdeeds in an incontinent concatenation of confessions. It has been eleven years since I last spoke to Charlie.

Eleven years is a long time, especially when you are a boy of twelve.

David’s mother has forgiven me. We are good friends and excellent co-parents. Eira’s sister and other brother have forgiven me. Eira’s father died in 2007, but her mother has forgiven me. I am good with her various nieces and nephews and cousins. I am even good with Charlie’s wonderful wife, my children’s aunt. Charlie, on the other hand, continues to repeat he cannot and will not be in the same room with me.

I do not write to question my former brother-in-law’s judgment. I certainly do not write to condemn his choice. I write to note that it is difficult to explain the situation to children, especially when it comes to arrangements around family celebrations. I write to note something else: I am very grateful for Charlie.

When one has done a very bad thing, or a series of bad things, one should ask forgiveness. One should try to make amends, to make things right where one can. One should be very, very grateful when the people whose forgiveness you beg give it willingly. One should, I have learned, also be grateful when they don’t give it at all.

When someone doesn’t forgive you, or says that even after many years, they cannot be in the same room with you, you have a choice. You can say, “Well, that’s their problem. Everyone else has gotten over what I did. Why can’t they?” Or, you can say, “I accept that some people will never, ever be able to get past my actions. And this is an opportunity for me to continue to do the next right thing even if I am loathed, or disliked, or unforgiven.” My long and tortuous journey of redemption (whatever that means) cannot be contingent on the sustained applause and encouragement of every last person I’ve ever met in my life. My commitment to living and living well must continue even if there remain people from my past who are furious with me, who think I’m “a lousy no-good narcissist and manipulator,” who think that any claims I make to having changed are all part of a game and an act.

In recent years, I have written amends letters to many people whom I hurt. These include students I slept with, colleagues and mentees who felt betrayed, exes to whom I lied and upon whom I cheated compulsively.

I have discussed these letters with a Twelve Step sponsor first, and on most occasions, with my therapist. (I never write to anyone who isn’t aware of my misdeeds.) These letters follow a particular formula: I mention that the letter is long overdue. I mention the specific harm I caused. I mention how sorry I am and how eager I am to make it right, if possible. I mention that despite my past fragility, I am in a place where I am able to hear the anger of those who once loved me without going into a dangerous tailspin. I mention that there’s no obligation to respond, and I conclude by wishing them well.

Some people write nice notes back: “We both had our part, it was a long time ago, I’m glad you’re well. Nothing to apologize for as far as I’m concerned! Thanks for writing.”

One or two are very pleased: “I’ve waited for this for a long time. Let’s talk on the phone sometime? It would be good to catch up.”

One or two are still furious: “Fuck you. I don’t believe a word you say. It’s all just an act to you, you selfish asshole.”

One or two are polite but distant: “Thank you for writing. I don’t wish to have any further contact, but I am glad you are okay.”

Several have not replied at all.

I keep sending out the letters, as I keep remembering new people to whom I owe amends! I am 57, and divorced five times. My life was colorful, to use a cheap and inexact euphemism, and it was so for a long time. Every few weeks, I’ll find myself suddenly remembering someone from my past, and realizing that perhaps I owe another letter. Sometimes, I don’t write, sensing that any contact would be most unwelcome. (I have an uncommon name and am easy to find online. If they have something they really want to say to me, they will find a way.)

I tell my children that Uncle Charlie’s refusal to be in the same room with me is a reminder that some wounds cannot be healed. It is a cautionary tale about costs and consequences, a reminder that saying “I’m sorry” does not make all things better. I remind my children that as they grow, they may decide that they too need to be angry with me for a little while, or even a long time. I remind them though I dislike conflict, I am strong enough to survive their anger, even if it leads them to be distant for a season.

If you read what’s out there about me on the Internet, you will see that a great many people despise me. I do not say that to brag, or to complain, though I do get anxious when my past causes me to lose out on potential ghostwriting clients. I mention it because I have come to understand that it is necessary to learn to be at peace with being disliked. This isn’t about mocking the haters for hating. It’s about accepting that at least some of them have valid reasons for that hatred, and it’s not my job to convince them otherwise.

I have decided I need to hold in tension two competing ideas: I am justly loved by people who know me well, and I am also justly disliked by people who once loved me well. I have earned the love, and I have earned the hate. It’s my job to be grateful for the former, do what I can to acknowledge the justice of the latter, and find a way not to be incapacitated by ceaseless contemplation of my past sins.

I hope that someday, perhaps at a child’s wedding or a graduation, I will shake Charlie’s hand again. Until that happy day, I plan to do all that I can to avoid forcing the issue. I must be the man worthy of his forgiveness regardless of whether that forgiveness comes. I must be a good son, a good father, a good brother and a good friend even if a small army of those who once shared my life or my bed still think of me unfondly. I must understand and accept the justice of their anger without letting it lead me to self-loathing or despair.

That’s not always an easy path to walk, but I do my best, and it helps to write about it.