Guest Post: Freedom in Forgiving by Rachel from Mediocre Mom

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2:30 AM, September 5, 1993. “Beth, Mom just died.”

And with her, my whole world. I was ten years old. Up to that point, I thought my life had been normal. Two parents, an apartment, a school I loved. Sure, my dad alternated between alcoholism, verbal and emotional abuse, and a gambling addiction, but whose didn’t?

My mom was my saving grace. She was love personified. I could have faced anything with her. When we found out the cancer had come back, we were assured it would just take an operation, maybe some radiation. But after surgery, the news we got was that she would have several months to live. When you’re ten years old, it’s hard to grasp what that really means. It feels more like you’re like watching a Lifetime original movie, than living your life, one nightmare after another.

And then, she was gone. And in my naivety, I thought it would be just me and dad. He’d step up to the plate. He’d have to, because now he was the only parent I had left. A few years later I’d realize how stupid I had been.

At my mother’s memorial service, my dad’s old flame came to share her condolences. So began my father’s downward spiral into dating with a side of cocaine. I didn’t think anything of the nights he would be gone until morning, or the hours he spent in his room, or his … just not being there.

In the meantime, I was falling apart inside. I have three girls, all of whom I gave birth to naturally. I would experience that pain a thousand times over before I would return to the heartache of losing my mom. My dad had an escape though. Though I was still too young to pick up on the clues, he was fast becoming a full-blown drug addict.

He ended up marrying the woman who is now my stepmother, and I lived with them and her son who had recently gotten out of prison. My days were no longer filled with cookie baking, snuggles, and Mommy-daughter dates. I now lived on a warning system: my step-mom would be home soon. Did I clean the house? Were things prepared for cooking dinner? Had I taken care of the animals? Because if I wasn’t ready, we all had to face the rage. Screaming, yelling, slamming, throwing, breaking, swearing, berating. Sometimes they directed it at me, sometimes at each other. But if she directed it at my dad, he made sure I knew it was all my fault. One time, when she stormed out of the house, he turned to me and said, “There, are you happy? You made me lose my wife. Again.”

Was Mom’s death my fault? Had I done something to make her sick? Was it my fault that he and step-mom were so belligerent? I should have been better. I should have done more. I should have said less. I should have just kept quiet.

This went on for a while, until one night, I began planning my escape. My Grandma and Aunt lived not far from home. I could run away in the middle of the night, and if I made it to their house, we could lock the doors and keep them out. Thankfully, I never had to go through with it. The next day I did something to set her off, and she began tossing pieces of broken glass at me down the stairs. My dad sent me to the car, brought me to Grandma’s house, and effectively resigned his position as my father.

I spent the next 10 years or so continually hoping he’d actually show up. That when he said it on the phone, he wouldn’t just be trying to shut me up. That he’d realize that I was more important than getting high. That I was his daughter, and I was worth the sacrifice. It doesn’t work that way though. He had made his choice, and I wasn’t it. My mother had died. I was broken, and he left me. He got rid of me so he could live his life the way he wanted.

By the time I was 15, I felt as though all the love had been stripped from my life. I spent hours sobbing on the floor of my bedroom, pleading with God for something to give, something to change. And slowly but surely, it did. I stopped being weak. My dad wasn’t worth my tears. I would get hard. I would build walls. I would keep people out. Because if you don’t let them in, they can’t hurt you. And I would be hurt no more.

As I waved goodbye to childhood, graduated college, and began a family of my own, I started realizing that my bitterness was my strength. The problem was, bitterness is a tricky thing. It lets you trap the ones who have hurt you. But it leaves you trapped in return. It is a burden you carry with you every day. Living in bitterness is not empowering. It is not freeing. It left me feeling as though I constantly had to bear the pain of my childhood, show the scars of my rejection. And despite all my efforts in carrying that around, my dad seemed unaffected. It didn’t make him feel guilty. It didn’t make him realize that he had given up his own daughter for the sake of one more high. He couldn’t have cared less. I was the one carrying the heavy load, not him.

So I began embracing the idea of forgiveness, though I did this with no small amount of reluctance. It took two years of prayer, encouragement, and tears to finally reach that place. But one day, I realized something: I wasn’t angry anymore. I had prayed through it, let it go, and embraced the idea that his rejection didn’t have to define me. There may be no other moment as freeing as that one.

People will hurt you. They will disappoint you. They may abuse you, abandon you, forget you. But they do not define you. They do not make you … you. Someday, those people may realize what they did, and they will have to begin the journey of forgiving themselves. It is no easy road to travel.

But if you wait for that day – when they truly apologize – you may find yourself forever trapped in your own bitterness. Forgiveness doesn’t make what they did acceptable. It doesn’t make them right. It doesn’t even make them remorseful. But it made me free. And it can do the same for you.

My name is Elizabeth Renker, and I am a 28 year old wife and mom to three amazing girls: a seven-year-old genius, a three-year-old terror, and a one-year-old ray of sunshine. I have a degree in Biology, I am a science geek to the core, and a pure coffee addict. I spend my days changing diapers, chasing toddlers, washing unending piles of laundry, and clinging to whatever sanity I have left. I am also a science and math tutor, church volunteer, and currently training for my first 5k for charity. I blog over at Confessions of a Mediocre Mom, tweet at Mediocre_Mom, and post tidbits of my mediocrity at Confessions of Mediocre Mom on Facebook. My family is everything, and I wouldn’t trade my life for the world.