In Corners of Bitterness

Originally published on TinyLetter

You may have heard the wise old adage “Bitterness is like drinking rat poison and expecting the rat to die.” This little piece of wisdom has been altered in various ways by various authors and speakers over the years, but replacing “bitterness” with “resentment” or “grudges” does not loosen the grip behind its intention. I hold this saying close because I am an expert in resentment. Ask me why I am mad at a person and I can string you along with a saga that boils down to a brief moment six years, three weeks, and two days ago. This, my friend, is not something I am exceptionally proud of.

In fact, a lot of my inner journey and work have taken me on routes to confront the corners where these little moments live. It could be those six years later (hell, one moment took me over ten years), but out of an unshakeable conviction, I have found myself sitting before a blank screen, writing out that I am sorry for the pain or hurt I caused. This act is not easy and it should not be; it is, however, a bit like letting the light in on that very space that sat dark for so long. Other corners, though, remain untouched. Mostly, they’re made up of many moments all hitched up together, like a train stuck in a tunnel.

Upon approach, those corners show a fragile relationship with my mom. A confused, heartbroken friendship with a church that was once such an integral part of who I was and am today. An anger that rides the waves to an internal current. 

I write this little confession to you today because I am the fool walking around drinking the rat poison, waiting, waiting, waiting for the thing that will never come — an “I’m sorry.” or “Yes, we are/were hypocrites.” or “Police across the country have been defunded and here’s the new plan!” Instead, the thing itself creates its own little chasm and story within me. I pretend and play the part I need to, all while harboring this deep, now-malignment bitterness.

When I think of someone letting go of the things that have long haunted them — the buried secrets, regrets, and resentments — I picture someone on their deathbed. A hand folded onto another, quiet whispers to a trusted one, inner chambers unlocked, and light bursting in. What is it about death’s final call that brings us to these last confrontations within ourselves? What takes so long? I don’t want to be chained down by what I hold in now, and I don’t think you do either. The representation of death from Jesus, I believe, is one of the many secrets behind the Cross itself. It is a secret of survival, a strength that only weakness can reveal.

I think we can find this in the eyes of those who survived the shooting at Emanuel AME Church. Or to forgive without the “I’m sorry” from the person who brought harm. Sending a question of forgiveness in the direction of someone I have harmed. Praying and wishing all the best to those who wear the hat of hypocrisy. Lastly, letting anger crash upon the shores to do its work, absorb, and continue on.