Forgive Yourself

How can you forgive yourself when the person you wronged won't?

By Dawn Friedman

When I was 16, my best friend was a boy I'll call Matthew. We met in summer school and bonded over comic books that he drew, bad poetry that I wrote, and a mutual love of music with depressing lyrics. Our friendship was intense but never romantic. We relied on each other completely, living from phone call to phone call and shoring each other up against the emotional dramas of late adolescence. Unfortunately, at some point along the way, my feelings for him began to be colored by jealousy and competition. His love and friendship were not enough; I wanted him to reject other relationships. When he didn't, I set out to punish him. He was bewildered and heartbroken, but I wouldn't let up on my demands. The year we graduated, our worlds began to widen. I alternately clung to him fiercely and pushed him away. One night I saw him at a bar with another girl. I was wearing a denim jacket with a painting he had drawn for me on the back of it. I left the bar, bought a can of spray paint, and obliterated the artwork. Then I went back so he could see it. I laughed and danced with friends, flaunting the ruined painting and sneaking glances to see if he noticed. If we spoke again after that night, I don't recall it—but I do remember the stricken look on his face.

Nearly two decades later, I was cleaning out a box of old papers and found a journal of Matthew's that he had given to me during the first summer of our friendship. Reading it, I realized how deeply my petty insults and neglect must have hurt him. I could see that his home life had been harder than I'd realized and that this must have made friendships even more important. As I flipped through the pages, covered with his scrawled handwriting, I felt an urgent need to apologize.

With the help of an Internet search engine, I tracked him down and sent an email. I told him I was sorry and that I hoped we could talk. I got no response but figured the email address was out of date. After more digging, I found a phone number and left a message on his machine. "Wow, what a trip to hear your voice!" I said. "I missed you!" He didn't call back. Finally, a month later, in desperation, I sent him a short letter. "You deserved better," I wrote. "I betrayed your love and friendship and I'm sorry. I made life worse for you and I regret it. I hope you can forgive me." I included a poem I'd written for him some years earlier.

About a month later, an envelope arrived addressed in that familiar handwriting. I opened it with trembling hands and found a short note wrapped around my letter and poem. "What part of no don't you understand?" He wanted nothing to do with me, he wrote. I clearly hadn't changed if I was expecting him to give me something (forgiveness) along with everything I'd taken from him. "I never want to hear from you again."

I sat down and started to cry. I felt as if I'd been punched in the gut.

What could I do now? How would I ever be able to move on?

Beyond I'm Sorry

My impulse to apologize was a sound one; in most religious traditions apology, forgiveness, and making amends are highly valued, as evidenced by the formal rituals that for millennia have marked those acts. In Judaism, for example, one of the holiest days of the year is Yom Kippur, the day of atonement. Observant Jews fast that day to repent their transgressions during the past year. Catholics confess their sins to a priest to receive spiritual guidance and forgiveness.

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