Copyright ©Arlene R. Taylor, PhD
www.arlenetaylor.org     Realizations Inc

The woman made her way slowly and haltingly into my office and sank into a chair, obviously in great discomfort. Attractive, in her early forties, her mahogany hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. As she began her story, tears coursed silently down her face and fell into hands clasped tightly in her lap, hands that showed signs of arthritic disfigurement. Slowly, haltingly, the story emerged. A decade earlier, Jaylee had returned home from a meeting to discover her husband in bed with the babysitter.

“I’ve tried to get over it,” Jaylee said. “We got a new bed and redecorated the room. We went to counseling. I’ve tried everything. I really have! Nothing worked. Every time I look at him, I see in my mind’s eye, the two of them in our bed amidst rumpled sheets. To add insult to injury, the doctor recently diagnosed me as having an autoimmune disease. I am always in pain. Everything about my body aches. That makes everything worse.”

“Have you tried changing the picture in your mind’s eye?” I asked. “Every time that old picture pops up, have you purposefully replaced it by thinking about something else and creating that picture?"

Jaylee shook her head. “I don’t cotton to that phony psychological stuff.”

I smiled. “It’s brain function stuff, and everything begins in the brain.”

“Whatever,” she said, rolling her .eyes. “As I said, I have tried everything, but nothing has helped. Finally, I told him to move out.”

“How is that working?” I asked.

Silence. More tears.

“It appears that you are still sad,” I said. “It’s been ten years since the incident occurred. What are you still sad about?”

Her entire demeanor changed in a nanosecond. Her black eyes flashed fire and indignation. “What do you think I’m sad about?” she shouted. “Are you a complete moron? He ruined my life. That’s what I am sad about!”

It appeared that sadness was the least of it. More anger than sadness leaked out as Jaylee raged about the gross injustice of life. After all, she was the victim here. She had been a good wife and mother. She did not deserve this. Repeat, SHE did NOT deserve this. Finally, she wound down, took a deep breath, and sighed.

“Are you by chance stuck in the cycle of rehearsing?” I asked.

“What do you mean ‘rehearsing’?” Jaylee demanded. “I plan to tell my story to anyone who will listen for as long as I live!”

“For what purpose?” I asked. “It is a done deal. Are you playing the victim card for sympathy or pity?”

Jaylee glared. “I’m trying to help others,” she blazed. “I never want this to happen to anyone else. Yesterday I was ticked off, though. A woman in the doctor’s waiting room fell asleep before I could finish telling her all the details. How rude! Anyway, I always feel better after I tell my story.”

Suppressing a smile, I pictured the scene in the waiting room. “Help me understand how repeating all the gory details of your story will help prevent something similar happening in another person’s life?” I asked. “Is there something you could have done to avoid your husband becoming involved with the babysitter?”

Silence. That cold glare.

“You may indeed feel better after rehearsing your story,” I said. “When you tell your story in living color, you relive it and trigger the emotion of anger. As anger arises, adrenaline is released. As adrenaline rises, dopamine is released—which makes you feel better, momentarily. People often become addicted to their own adrenalin and dopamine.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to believe that what happens in my mind can impact my body like that, do you? I’m smarter than that!” Jaylee’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Have you ever wakened from a scary dream in a cold sweat, your heart pounding, gasping for breath?” I asked. “Perhaps you dreamed you were falling through space or that you were being chased and running for your life? Your brain perceived the event and your body reacted as if the event were real, pumping out adrenaline and cortisol.”

Jaylee continued to glare at me balefully.

“When you tell and retell your sad story, and it is a sad story, as if it happened yesterday, your body reacts as if the event were happening all over again.”

This time Jaylee waved her hand dismissively.

I tried another tack. “Have you forgiven your husband?”

“Are you joking?” she snorted, shaking her head. “Nope, Nada, Zip. Oh, he asked me to forgive him, multiple times, but it was all just too egregious. It’s too late now, anyway. He remarried last month. Besides, why should I forgive him? He doesn’t deserve it.”

“None of us deserves to be forgiven for our mistakes or faux pas,” I said.

“Faux pas!” Jaylee fairly screamed the words. “Did you say faux pas?” You must be kidding! What he did was absolutely unforgiveable. He ruined my life. He owes me. Faux pas, indeed!”

I squelched another smile. My French heritage had bubbled up before I’d considered that the word indiscretion might have been a better choice. “You could still forgive him,” I said. “It’s never too late. The individual in question could have died, and you could still forgive—unless you are looking for revenge. You forgive for you—and for your health and well-being.”

More silence. More glowering.

“Forgiveness does not mean that you deny the other’s responsibility for injuring or hurting you. I does not mean you condone injurious behaviors, minimize and justify the wrong, or excuse the act,” I explained. “It certainly doesn’t mean that you choose to reconcile or remain in an abusive relationship or environment or that you waive your right to justice and appropriate compensation.”

.”What he did was not fair,” Jaylee said. “What part of that do you not get?”

“It was unfair,” I replied. “However, unforgiveness is injurious to your health. When you forgive you are choosing to be healthier. The act of forgiving allows the body to turn down the manufacture of catabolic chemicals and instructs the subconscious to banish negative thoughts from the mind. Forgiveness has less to do with others and everything to do with the you. Studies have shown that the who forgives benefits the most. Forgiving appears to be crucial to healthy living.”

Jaylee continued to glower.

“Think of it this way,” I continued. “Forgiveness is a gift you give to you. It is a way to stop harboring destructive feelings that sap health and happiness. A way of helping yourself to feel better. If you choose unforgiveness, you will likely be the one who pays most dearly.”

“I told you. It’s not fair. What he did was not fair or right,” Jaylee said.

I nodded in agreement. “What he did was not fair or right. Forgiving him doesn’t make what he did fair or right. It doesn’t erase what happened. Forgiveness is about you and your health.”

“I don’t feel like forgiving him,” Jaylee said. “I told you. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“You do not forgive because the other person deserves it. You forgive in order to let go and move on with your life. Feelings follow thoughts. As Dr. Wayne Dyer put it, ‘If you want to change the way you feel, you need to change the way you think.’ Change your thoughts and you change your feelings.”

Jaylee shook her head forcefully. She would have none of it. Rising from the chair, she painfully made her way toward the door.

“Think about it,” I suggested. Her parting comment sounded like, “I’ll think about it and let you know.” It was difficult to be sure. Her words sounded like they were being forced out through gritted teeth.

Days passed. The weekend came and went and was followed by another yet and another.

On morning I noticed a message on my phone. I heard Jaylee’s bitter voice: “I’ve decided. I won’t do it. I’ll die first.”

The line went dead.

Jaylee may well die before her normal life span has been reached or may exist in a state of pain and ill health. Such devastation might have been minimized if not completely avoided had she been willing to forgive. Bitterness can be very destructive to one’s health. It can be more destructive than the event or betrayal itself. It is expensive.

As long as you refuse to forgive, who and whatever happened will occupy a rent-free space in your mind. (Isabelle Holland)