Sometimes you have to forgive yourself...

It's after midnight and part of me doesn't feel like writing this. It'd rather just flop over and fall asleep. But the other part knows that it'd never be able to sleep without writing this out.

Ironically, my skin still bears the pen ink mark for Fighter Friday. This is in a way a fight, just not a fight against that. Albeit at it's most basic definition Fighter Friday is about choosing the reality of love over selfishness' controlling fantasy. But that in it's totality is another post for another day.

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I'd set my boundaries in my mind way before. But before I got around to clearly stating them, I'd find myself sitting stunned as yet another had been pushed down. Not that it may have done that much difference had I gotten around to stating them all. I'd stated clearly enough my views on kissing. But 70% of the time he acted like he never even heard me say it although I remember vividly his replies in the conversation.

However, I'd find a lot more than my "girlish" wish of not kissing til engagement pushed aside. I say "girlish" because at the time I often felt I was old-fashioned, too stuffy, etc. due to peer pressure - him being the peer mostly unknowingly exerting the pressure. He came highly recommended, loved by everyone I respected, and supposedly more mature and experienced. Sounds like dumb reasons in the modern, feminist movement riddled age. Trust me, 8 times out of 10 it still goes for something when you get right down to it.

I found myself stunned at the physical boundaries crossed without warning - well my naive self was without warning anyway. Again and again I'd shift my thinking, make excuses for him like different upbringing (strict v. not) etc. I learned to change my original dream or intention for what I was now forced to face was reality.

I'm an adaptable, positive creature for the most part and the offenses were small in the world's eye. Example: kisses. Besides what about kissing is not enjoyable? I am normal after all.

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I sat stunned. Leading up to the moment I had felt a sensation such as I had never felt before. I quivered and reached out for his hand in need of reassurance. Instead of reassuring me, it had reassured him by trick of fear. Now the closest tangible emotion I could label it is fear. Sitting there the moment after I assured myself that I was still a virgin.

I am a virgin.

Not all the the faith placed on him was for naught.

 But the little girl had died. Whatever had survived of her through watching the love of her life fight dragons and never win. Cherished ones grow ill. Relationships grow apart. Dreams overthrown.

Despite all that on some level I had a spark of childhood left in me. And I felt it die. It's probably alive down here somewhere but it'll be awhile before it surfaces. Yet somehow although I spoke and acted in what felt like a much older way, there was a simplicity behind my actions. Dull, flat, lifeless. Do nothing in haste. Just move and survive the next hours.

Maybe I understand a little how abuse victims feel... Maybe...

To some extent I'm still numb and stunned. I can't fathom how me and that poor little girl being acted on on a bright summer day in a semi public place are one and the same person.

But we are.

That's the part that stings the worst.

I can forgive him, do forgive him. I can justify and make excuses for him.

But I can't for me.

To an outsider it would be infinitely easier to make excuses for the person playing my role.

But no excuse justifies me to me. No reason. No amount of blaming him, even fairly.

I stand up for what's right. I have morals and character and decency. I grew up not being great at what other kids were - sports, beauty, relationships - but I grew up surrounded by elders who approved, a clear record, and the knowledge I tried my best and gave my all.

So no matter how much or little I had to blame, I couldn't bring myself to forgive me. No matter how many times I said "no," I could find enough times I hadn't to feel guilty. No matter how much actual sheer innocence played a role bigger than me, I always wondered if I could have, somehow should have compensated. No matter how much physical and mental force was exerted on me, I always felt angry with myself.

As I looked around me, I felt alone, violated to a certain extent, ashamed as though some awful lettering, I didn't even know what it read, was painted on my forehead. I wanted to scream that it wasn't my fault. That I was limp and and lifeless. But I still hated myself for being limp and lifeless. For all the stupid flirty things I'd said and done and trusted.

But sometimes you have to stop and forgive yourself. You have to accept your own plea for the blood. You have to recognize God already has the minute you repent and ask. You have to grasp how precious His sacrifice is. How insignificant it would be, if not downright useless, if we were as perfect in ourselves as we wish to be. How wonderfully precious He is! How much He loves His bride! He sees her in white, made spotless like Him, His own kind as Adam declared Eve flesh of his flesh and bone of his bone.

Sometimes we eventually have to let go and forgive ourselves to fully know and appreciate the depths of His forgiveness. Sometimes we have to stop being angry in order to bask in His love. For in that day of all glorious days when we are presented to our Bridegroom and truly fully know, there will be no anger, no shame, no bitterness.

Who knows? Maybe some day our story of failure, hurt, and/or loss will help some other weary pilgrim.

Sometimes we just have to forgive ourselves.