Forgiveness is Not Weakness

She made every note stand on its own, the eerie airiness of her voice becoming the hallowing of the wind. Her tone then shifted, creating a blithe rendition. The radiating happiness in her words melted the very snow around her. She spoke of the end as if it were salvation, but then fear crept in. You could feel the darkness encroaching upon you, blocking your source of light. The iciness of the loneliness causing your heart to freeze over. And just as the cold numbs your senses, a warm spring breeze envelops you. Love then becoming the only thing you've ever known. As her emotions wavered, so did the world around her. The world she—I created for myself. A world created through the lyrical melodies and patterns, found even in the very soil we walk on. Everything has a voice, whether it’s immaculate or insignificant is dependent on how it's being used. In the past, my voice was but a whisper.

"How could you!? After all I've done for you, after all the effort I put into keeping you! And now you want me to give you away forever!? What have I done to deserve this—this is your fault! All of it! All those wasted years I could've been in school... You're my baby girl, not his! You're my, baby. So why... Why would you betray me too...?" Her voice was saturated in superficial sweetener and dramatized disparity. My hand shook with the nervousness her words brought out of me, her lies and manipulations coiling around my heart insidiously. My breath caught, swallowing as I choked back the words I desperately wanted to say. Slowly, the guilt and self-disappointment consumed me. It was my fault. Here I am on the phone with my birth mother asking her to sign the abandonment papers; in order for my adoption to be possible. All the memories of her acts of desperation as pitiful as the sweet nothings she whispered.

The seventeen years of abandonment engraved on my heart, made me realize that this relationship wasn't worth it. She wasn't worth it. The countless empty promises and wasted tears, and my jaded perception of family and commitment. My breath and hands steadied as my voice's sound barrier broke:

"Stop.... Stop! You have no right to say or act so immaturely, or talk of things you couldn't begin to understand. You hurt me, you hurt my mom, and you've lied to the point where Daddy can't stand the look of you. But despite all the things you put me through, I forgive you. I forgive you on behalf of all of us, because I want to move on without having your influence looming over me. Live your life with your husband, daughter, and son. That is your right. All I ask is that you allow me to live with my brother, my dad, and my mom." There was a gasp before the line went dead.

I haven't spoken to her since, and am waiting until my eighteenth birthday for my formal adoption. The trauma I suffered at the hands of my birth mother made me apathetic and emotionally detached. Singing provided me with the emotions I couldn't properly reciprocate on my own; the artist did the feeling for me. Not no longer, now I have my own voice. The pain made me further appreciate and realize the power and influence words have. The emptiness plaguing my heart dissipated along with my self-isolation. My progress stems from acceptance, acceptance stems from realization, and realization stems from experiencing the consequences of your faults. This realization has strengthened my heart and mentality more than words can express nor comprehend. I accepted my emotional weakness and vulnerability, and realized that they shouldn't be my limitations—but my strength. My fault was underestimating the effect relationships have on my life. Life isn't a story solely influenced, or written, by you alone.