Some things are unforgivable

(unpopular?) thoughts on forgiveness

I have this list. It isn’t on my fridge or anything—it’s a mental list.

It doesn’t have a title, but perhaps you could call it a list of those who’ve wronged me (and my loved ones). I say that in jest (mostly). I’m not an angry, frothing, grudge-holder going around with a notepad, recording life’s little injuries. These aren’t the kinds of wrongdoings I’m talking about.

I’m talking about the kinds of wrongdoings that are difficult, if not impossible, to forgive.

The other day, I saw someone whose name is on this list—someone who has done terrible things that can never be taken back.

Someone who remains unrepentant.

We were in the same store together: She was grocery shopping for her family; I was grocery shopping too—shopping for one. When I saw her, I felt a spike of adrenaline that was so small, I barely noticed it. As I drifted to the opposite end of the store, I thought to myself Hmm no big feelings on my end… does that mean I’ve forgiven her?

Every so often, I think of people like this woman—the ones who have done things that can’t be undone, who have inflicted the kind of harm that leaves marks.

The kind of harm that kills.

I reached for my phone—did I need to tell someone? No, I decided. I didn’t need help with this. I put my phone away and continued shopping.

I held this woman in my mind as I moved through the store. I thought of the suffering she inflicted on my loved ones and on me. I thought of the apologies that never came and the amends that were never made. I thought of justice and peace. I thought of all the anger and resentment I never wanted but was forced to carry for so long.

I spread these things over the ground of my mind. As I considered it all, I paused over forgiveness. I imagined myself trying it on.

I do this from time to time, just to see.

Forgiveness is not an impulse buy, and I wasn’t going to put it in my cart just because it was there. I’ve made that mistake enough times to know better.

I imagined forgiveness as a sweater: I slid my arms into the sleeves, pulled it over my head, untucked my hair, smoothed the fabric under my palms.

Sometimes forgiveness fits. Sometimes it doesn’t.

This time, I didn’t need to turn toward the mirror; I felt the clenching inside me—I felt it saying no way.

I took the idea of forgiving this woman, lifted it off my body, dropped it on the floor of the stall, and walked away.

Some things are just unforgivable.