Uncovering the I AM

Chapter Two Affordable Psychotherapy 2010 - Wakefield, Rhode Island Gerald and I, strangers until today, face each other, as instructed, seated cross-legged on the wooden floor, holding each other’s forearms. Naturally graying hair and deep furrows in his forehead make Gerald seem older than his 76 years. I, at 67, claim the saving grace of a bottled blonde, but sport laugh lines and similar creases. We are the oldest among the ten people in this one day retreat focusing on honest self-inquiry, held at a wellness center. We stare into one another’s eyes, as the moderator purrs, “Tell your partner of some transgression or omission in your life that you truly regret. Just state it, ‘I acknowledge that I threw the baby out with the bathwater, and I forgive myself.’ No explanations, no details; just say it, plain and simple. And feel it, folks, truly mean that forgiveness part. Your soul is asking this of you.” She adds, “The listener waits, but asks no questions in response to the acknowledged act or omission. It’s the forgiving yourself that’s the biggie here.” “And you listeners give eye contact and empathetic listening to your partner. Be absolutely present to him or her. If you truly want your money’s worth out of this day, you’ll each let your psyche push out of you whatever it is that’s loitering inside.” The other couples haven’t started yet, so Gerald jumps in first. After speaking, he seems genuinely consoled and relieved at having voiced his lifelong penchant for giving in to the insistence of others in order to gain approval or keep the peace. I am glad for him, silently noting the serenity he exudes. The rest of the folks are still dickering over who goes first, so I blurt out to Gerald, “I betrayed my religious vows as a nun in a two-year affair with another nun, and I forgive myself.” Shock widens Gerald’s eyes, but I plunge forward, “I acknowledge that I humiliated and hurt adolescent children as a teaching nun, physically beating them with a steel ruler, and I forgive myself.” “I forgive myself for being too fearful of living alone, and seeking out my partner in Old San Juan, after he deserted me on the island of Culebra. I forgive myself for living with him in a cockroach-infested back room rather than admit error of judgment to my family.” Gerald’s eyes momentarily flicker, but he instantly recovers. I mutter, “Then, against all reason, I married him. Wow! And I forgive myself for that!” By now Gerald is rocking back and forth slightly on his haunches but to his credit he has not faltered in his empathetic stare. I am energized by these admissions and Gerald’s painfully steadfast expression, so I hurtle onward “… I shot those sick, helpless dogs, and I forgive myself.” I tack on, “… and drowned those kittens at the dock.” There is only a tightening of Gerald’s fingers on my elbows as I rush into a litany: “… I tossed that injured puppy into a plastic bag and hurled it into the bay in the dark of night and I put down my three faithful dogs rather than allow my soon-to-be ex-husband to threaten me with hurting them. And I forgive myself for dumping their bodies in an open field.” Gerald’s fingernails now painfully dig into my elbows, but I can’t stop the projectile gushing of words, so I throw in, “…I borrowed my friend’s husband to father a child for me, and I forgive myself.” Gerald’s body noticeably sags. It goes limp when I tag on, “And I forgive myself for leaving that two year old baby girl sleeping in my car when I went in for a tryst with my lover, Violette, one night.” The other couples are still talking, so I stick on, “Then, back in the States, I sold my beloved companion, my African Gray parrot, to please my bisexual partner and I forgive myself. I sold my soul, actually, to this lover, yet wasted her time in a twenty-two-year relationship only to leave her finally three years ago, and I forgive myself for that, too.” Other transgressions bubble to the surface, the S&M stuff, the credit cards bills, the screaming arguments in front of my daughter, but there is no time for me to include them, as the moderator calls the group to reconvene. This is merciful, as Gerald’s composure has noticeably crumbled. He is cooked, shell-shocked. He never even heard the last cannonade of admissions. We return to our own backrests on the polished wood floor. I rub the indentations on my forearms where Gerald’s grip has left purpling bruises. Gerald has not made eye contact with me since the mention of the “husband borrowing.” When the retreat ends, I help put things away and don’t see Gerald again. I doubt I ever will, presuming that from his view, he’s heard the confessions of a religious nutcake, bisexual serial animal killer, hiding in Rhode Island. I smile inwardly at the scenario of Gerald fearing he’ll see my photo on an internet Wanted site and that his conscience will drive him to turn me in and be a witness at my arraignment. I, though, can drive home in light hearted peace, having finally begun to uncover the cesspool of guilt that has festered in my soul for years. I had just voiced, in laundry list fashion, various acts of mindless violence. I heard these actions in their raw ugliness, voiced them and saw horror in the eyes of a listener. I had admitted to arrogant disregard for the sanctity of life - both of animals and humans. I had faced the shame of ownership, without the softening of explanation or mitigating circumstances. This stream of confessions surprised me with its ferocity as it vomited from my depths. It was grace in action. I had finally begun to honestly view my past, to claim it, as the mosaic of my own personal choices. I saw with searing clarity that the offensiveness I was now openly confronting basically sprang from my need for outward control because within there was only chaos, not a shred of recognition that there was anyone in there.