Slay Dragons of the Past, Find Forgiveness

I'm not really sure how to talk about this, because it is so intensely personal. But tonight, I had a lesson in forgiveness. I've read that there are no such things as small miracles--that all miracles are large. Here, there may have been a miracle. I talked to Issac's dad today for a surprising two hours. The conversation, at first, was typical, and I remembered why I avoid him:

Him: Hello?
Me: Issac wants to talk to you.
Him: Okay, thanks.
Me: Here he is.
Issac: Hi dad. I'm driving to mommy's house. In car. Vroom Vroom. Love you. Bye.
Me: Well, that's all, Issac just wanted to talk to you.
Him: Thanks. I didn't understand a word he said though.
Me: He said... (explaining). We were eating dinner at Cindy's house, with Cindy and Hayley. We're driving home right now.
Him: Oh, yeah, yeah...Cindy. Yeah...um, uh, Hayley didn't say anything about me, right?
Me: What? No... Hayley is nine years old. You must be thinking of her other daughter.
Him: Oh yeah... uh, nevermind.
Me: (falling into the trap. I don't want our worlds crossing.) Why, you know her or something?
Him: Uh, just forget about it.
Me: Whatever. (Thinking...asshole! Get out of my life and stop messing around with people I know!)
Him: (Laughing because he knows I'm upset).
Me: Look, so I wanted to talk to you about Costa Rica.
Him: What is there to discuss? I already said no.
Me: Well, I thought you might want to ask me some questions or something.
Him: Nope, I'm not letting my son go to a dangerous third-world country.
Me: It's not a dangerous third world country.
Him: Yes, Melissa, it is.
Me: No, Mike, it is not.
Him: Oh, so now you know everything?
Me: So now YOU know everything?

It proceeded in this way until he accused me of yelling at him and hung up on me.

I didn't care, really. As I pulled into my yard, I tried to let go of my dream and realize that if I want to go to Costa Rica with Issac this summer, or any summer, I'm going to have to be prepared to dig my ditches first with Mike. I might not be able to do it this year, I told myself. But miracles can happen. The time will come. I reminded myself to breath and held back the ferocious urge to dance around stomping my feet and swinging my arms like Rumplestiltskin.

When I was giving Issac a bath the phone rang. It was Mike:

Him: Look, Melissa, uh, did you get my message?
Me: No, I didn't hear my cell ring.
Him: Well, uh, I'm sorry I hung up on you like that. It's just that I can't handle you yelling and stuff.
Me: Look, Mike, nobody was yelling. It wasn't a fun conversation, but nobody was yelling.
Him: Well, you have an attitude with me all of the time. I don't want to argue.
Me: Well, YOU have an attitude with ME. I don't want to argue either.
Him: I just want to talk like adults.
Me: So do I.
Him: Whatever. I can just see you smirking and laughing with the guy who's over there right now.
Me: WHAT? Are you crazy? There's something wrong with you. You haven't changed at all, Mike. This is ridiculous. This is why I can't talk to you! It's so sick it isn't even funny.
Him: I know there is someone over there. I can tell by the way you're acting.
Me: Oh my god. There's not, but who even cares. You don't want to talk--you just want to argue. I have to go. (Click).

My conversations with Issac's dad always leave me feeling drained and edgy. Part of it is the unpredictability: nobody knows where it can go. I constantly find myself slaying dragons of the past, or more accurately, turning into one. I don't like the way my voice sounds when I talk to him: civil, but sarcastic. There is a definite edge under my tongue, one that cuts, bites, and scorns, one that says "I'm doing fine and meanwhile you are a homeless bum who hasn't paid child support in over a year and can't even get off his ass to find a job. Obviously, I'm better than you and you are nothing but scum." My tone makes it evident that I don't approve of him or even like him. All it takes is one wrong word from him and I'm all over him like grease on chicken. I'm the worst kind of bitch--the subtle you-can't-prove-it, it's-all-in-your-head type. The type of bitch that looks good on paper. The type of bitch that righteously deserves to be a bitch. There's no hiding it-- I'm angry.

And I should be. Mike has given me very few reasons to trust him. He's had drug addiction problems and violence problems and depression problems and family problems and every type of weird problem you could possibly imagine: any excuse to be a miserable, wretched victim. He's lied to me and threatened me and betrayed me when it mattered most. He's begged for my forgiveness time and time again and I've given it and given it until the day came that there was no more left to give.

Since then, I've survived by putting up a thick wall. We don't talk often. When we do, I try to keep it brief and to the point. But sometimes I want something, like to take a trip up north or to go to Costa Rica for a few months. Then we have to talk, because I have to get his permission.

I said sometimes I want something from him, but that is not true. I ALWAYS want something. I want to soften the crust of anger and bitterness and hatred that has been hardening around me for the last two years. I don't like carrying that around. I want to be able to trust Mike, to have faith in him, even to be proud of him. I want this so badly, and I feel like a fool for entertaining the idea of ever believing in him again.

But it is my spiritual challenge. I have to let go and let God. I have to take that angry, sick, disgusting tone out of my voice. I have to center myself and concentrate on who I really want to be in this world--not on what I deserve or what he deserves. I can't keep taking on the role of judgement. It's too much of a responsibility.

Not to say that I suddenly let him back into my heart and we're best friends and I'm loaning him money and letting him take Issac all the time and stuff. No way. I know my limits and my boundaries and what needs to happen for me to be comfortable. I'm also not going to do anything to jeopardize what I think is best for Issac. I'm not going to let Mike manipulate me again. Oh, no no no. But, still, I have to find a way to forgive him, because if I can forgive him, maybe I can find a way to forgive myself.

He asked me what it would take for me to trust him again, and I told him it would take five years of him not fucking up. And it really will; the past is the best indicator of the future.

In the end, our conversation went like this:

Me: So what I'm saying Mike, is that we can either go to court and have the judge decide if I can take Issac out of the country, or you can gift me with this incredible opportunity, and begin to make up for all the crap you've put me through. I'm a damn good mom to your son, and here is a chance for you to thank me for that.
Him: So, basically you're saying that I need to kiss your ass if I want your forgiveness?
Me: That's exactly what I'm saying.
Him: Okay, then that's what I'll do. Fine, go to Costa Rica.
Me: Thanks. See, it's working-- I like you better already.
Him: You are so shrewdly stubborn.
Me: I know.
Him: Do you remember when that horse bucked you off three times in a row, and you kept getting back on?
Me: Yeah.
Him: Oh gosh, I'll never forget that. It was good talking to you.
Me: Yeah, but not at first.
Him: I know you'll never be able to forgive me all the way.
Me: You're probably right.
Him: Well, God bless.
Me: Yeah, God bless you too.


Costa Rica, here I come!