…because sometimes forgiveness is toxic.
So the doctors fucked up. And I mean, royally. For ten years. Dozens of them, I saw one after the other. I knew what it was–symptoms were classic of an autoimmune thing very close to the one I’ve had–and managed–most of my adult life. I told my wonderful, kind, open-minded PCP and he didn’t even question my opinion…he thinks I’m smart, see. But then he made the terrible decision to refer me to the experts and that is when everything went to hell.
Don’t worry; I won’t bore you with the details. Bores the shit out of me, too. Reader’s Digest Condensed version: literally more than 2 dozen doctors, scores of MRIs, CTs, ultrasounds, oceans of blood tests, EEGs, EKGs and two surgeries. By all rights, I should be glowing like Chernobyl. Ten years, this went on. Believe it or not, in life I’m a pussycat. I respect professionals until they convince me they’re quack assholes and even then, I won’t hate on them…
…unless they patronize me. Then it’s on. And you know who some of the worst ones were? WOMEN. Never mind–I’ll save the Overcompensating Penis Envying Professional Bitches for another time. Most male docs were fairly respectful, though I did have to straighten out one idiot by saying: “Just because you’re an expert in your field doesn’t mean you’re an expert on my body”. Presumptuous little shit.
So…ten years. In that time, I lost a damn well-paying job with full benefits, a two-story house, my savings, my retirement and, eventually, my beloved state. Granted, I met my Significant Other (I know; I hate that prissy-ass description, too, but my only alternative would be Gender-Discreet Life Companion, and that’s just gross)–heretofore now known as SO–who is wonderful and somehow fell in love with my rickety ass and restored my faith in humankind, etc etc. Not making light; this person is worth it all.
By this point, I could barely even stand to look at doctors. I told SO and the rest of the family: this is it. No matter what this guy says: this is where it ends. And lo and be-fucking-hold, all it took was routine blood work for him to say, “It’s that autoimmune disorder you said you had ten years ago (I’m paraphrasing…stay with me). It’s pretty clear in the work up. You mean…not a single doctor caught this??”
Okay, let me clue in the healthy people out there: that is Doctorese for, “Jesus Christ, what a bunch of incompetent assholes!!” Doctors don’t badmouth each other; they’re like cops–they look after their own.
So here’s the grand total: ten years, lucrative career, loss of respect from people who thought I was a pathetic hypochondriac, several psychiatric referrals (suggestions which were soundly rebuffed), lost my wonderful shabby house; forced into a traumatic move to state I loathe, located in the middle of Hopelessly Mainstream Decent People who find me appalling and who bore…the…shit…out of me; tens of thousands of dollars AFTER INSURANCE that I sure as hell could use now; no career prospects and, the piece de resistance, permanent, serious, irreparable damage…which all could have been avoided with one…single…prescription.
Yeah. I’m feeling pretty goddamn provoked.
So somehow it came up in conversation with this young, naive, Neo-hippie girl-child, much-loved by the SO, thus tolerated by me–who deigned to give me a lecture on forgiveness. “Over time, that bitterness will eat you alive!”It took an elaborate change of subject on SO’s part and a small hole I literally chewed into the side of my mouth to stave off this overwhelming urge to eat her granola head alive in one magnificent chomp.
No. Hell no. You don’t forgive that shit. Ever. When somebody or many bodies inflict that much damage on you–be it physically, psychologically, spiritually…whatever–that is earned enmity. They launched an assault on you. I don’t care if it wasn’t deliberate, incompetence is no excuse…and so much the worse if it was intentional. Resentment is your friend. Rage keeps you alive and it prevents anybody from ever harming you in that way again. To do any less would be to dishonor your soul.
And does anybody even dare chide a man to forgive the people who fucked him up? Au contraire, mon frere…if anything, their burden is to avenge any and all slights. Even the ridiculously trivial ones.
Back in my pagan days (which were short-lived; I just like saying, “Back in my pagan days”, because it makes me sound more interesting than I really am), I struggled with that whole, “whatever you put out comes back threefold”. First of all, I chafed at the moral restrictions; if somebody is a dick, then I need to dick them back in kind. It’s reflexive…and goddamn satisfying. Nope–big spiritual no-no according to the Wiccan crede…which frustrated me to no end. It just seemed terribly impractical. For example, suppose you want to put a love spell on somebody (and it’s always a love spell…don’t kid yourself), you weren’t allowed to “focus the energy” on any particular individual, because that was “spiritual manipulation”; all you could do was put a spell out there for somebody…somewhere…someday to find you…
What a lot of shit.
I was relatively still happily married then, so I could afford the smugness, but that also meant that if somebody hurt my child, for example, I wasn’t allowed to hex somebody out because then bad energy3 would come back at me. So, what’s the point? Even Christians pray for specific things, for god’s sake (pun unintended). By the time I figured all of this out, I didn’t believe in Wicca, karma or any other brand of metaphysical bullshit–science became my god. I just stuck around because pagans can party like MOTHERFUCKERS. Best parties I’ve ever attended were post-Sabbats. Even better than parties I’ve attended–excuse me, soirees I’ve attended–thrown by gay men…and that’s saying a LOT.
By the time I discovered Z. Budapest–badass Bitch (calm down–the capital B Bitch is an honorific…get used to it), Feminazi founder of Dianic Wicca aka fuck you and your karma and fuck no, men aren’t allowed in this here coven…I was done. And that’s too bad, because I love Z’s ethos. In her Holy Book of Women’s Mysteries, she includes a righteous ritual to hex rapists. And just to clarify this shit for any timid Wiccan holdouts, she says: “Cupcakism, turning the other cheek, is not for witches”.
“Cupcakism”. I’ve never fallen in love with a woman, but any woman who can coin a balls-on accurate term like Cupcakism…well, I would at least buy her a drink.
And then the actual spell…fuck ME, that’s what a goddamn hex should be: malignant, pitch-black energy directed to break bones, permanently maim, cripple…KILL. I mean it was UGLY. And it fucking well should be. What the fuck good is forgiveness? What kind of threefold bullshit are you supposed to put out there when you have been outraged in permanent ways? Don’t you DARE forgive a rapist. If you can’t love yourself–and the self-revulsion that accompanies rape can be a definite goddamn obstacle–then picture it happening to your best friend. Your mother. Your brother. Your child. Would you ever forgive somebody who devastated the soul of somebody you loved? If you can, then fuck you and stop reading my blog…I’ve got no use for weasels.
If not–and OF COURSE not–then don’t you dare forgive anybody who harms you in serious, maybe permanent ways. EVER. Fuck cupcakism. Fuck victimhood. Stop being a martyr and hate the people who nearly destroyed you.
So forgive this, motherfucker.