After Hiroshima: A Word From Our Sponsors

The dust seems to have died down, the flurry of emails have stopped. And I’ve done a lot of thinking since Monday. (yes, it was with the help of a Marlboro or two. Do you blame me? And yes, they tasted absolutely fucking disgusting and I felt guilty for cheating, thank you for asking)

Here’s the thing. I know that I should be big enough to say that all is forgiven, that despite the hurt and fury, the apologies which appear to be sincere should suffice to warrant letting it go. It, after all, should never be a question of weighing up the hurt vs. the weight of the apology and deciding whether the two are of equal measure before forgiving, and letting go. Because regret was expressed, and therefore, we are taught that that is enough.

But that’s in a perfect world, and if you’re a saint. And let’s face it, I’m about as far away from sainthood as you can get. If incorruptibility of the body was one of criteria for saintdom, mine would probably blow apart in a massive dust cloud the minute I expired, a la a staking in Buffy The Vampire Slayer (which is one of the coolest shows on earth, just so you know.)

I do not hesitate to say that I respect, and even admire the fact that the relevant parties have expressed their regret and given their apologies. And yes, in an ideal world, I’d say that it didn’t matter, and I’ve let it go.

But it does matter, and I can’t let it go. Not yet. The Boy was dragged into this, the love he has for me questioned in the most despicable way, and his secrets revealed, when he had nothing to do with this sordid production. (I hate that. A whole lot.) My best friend for eight years Judas’ed one of my deepest secrets for the thirty pieces of silver of someone else’s notion of intimacy. (I’m not so hot on that either.) Said someone thereafter published the information she had no right to be entrusted with in the first place, in the crudest way possible, in order to inflict as much hurt as she possibly could. I cannot fathom how anyone could go so low, to hurt not just me, but The Boy as well. (really, really not liking that a whole lot)

We’ve all done stupid things in love, so perhaps I can understand it. And when we hate someone, well, I suppose it’s just the other side of the coin, so I suppose the same logic applies. So yes, I do, to some extent, understand, although it took most part of a night to wrap my head around it. It didn’t help the white-hot rage or the numbing sense of betrayal though.

Like I said, apologies have been made. And I know I am supposed to be a better person than this, and to say "it doesn’t matter", because people have extended me such courtesy in the past. But I lack a sufficiency of desire or willpower to do so. I still do not know how to wrap my mind around all this, to make sense of the sheer fury and the disbelieving hurt. For all of you who expect or demand forgiveness from me, here, now, I’m sorry but I’m just me, and I can’t or won’t. The parties involved have done what they can, I suppose, to make it better. The inability to forgive, then, is my failing, I suppose, not theirs.

I will, eventually, find forgiveness, if only because I must (wanting to commit murder all the time in your head leaves very unattractive frown lines on your face. Oh, and yes, because it’s the right thing to do). But not right now.

To the Boy: Lest there be any doubt whatsoever, I am here because I love you. Very, very much.

To Raj: thank you for yesterday.

And to Ego, thanks to making me laugh so much at lunch. You have no idea how mcuh that was appreciated.