I’m the type of person who seems to almost always believe that I’ve done something wrong. Even more so, I’m always apologizing. Seriously. I do it a lot. For being depressed. For cooking a meal that’s completely delicious (But I think is rubbish). For texting too much. For watching 17 episodes of Law & Order: SVU in a row. For channel surfing. For being quiet. For talking too much, most often about myself. For crying. For grieving. For flirting. For not wanting to be touched. For touching too much. For shutting down. For having an emotional outburst. For being me…

Ask anyone who’s known me for a long time, or anyone who’s been in seminary with me for the past two years. I talk a lot about the idea of brokenness. Broken people. Broken systems. Broken world. Broken churches. Broken relationships. Broken me. Most often, when I look at myself either literally in a mirror or figuratively through introspection, I only see pieces with cracks and jagged edges. Sure, every now and then I see those pieces mended together, but it’s usually with slow-drying kids glue rather than solder, super-glue, or fast-healing stitches. I rarely see myself as some wholly put-together person. Worst of all, instead of being able to look at myself and have the same response as my Creator—It is good—I frequently respond with the opposite. Realizing this reality as of late, I realized that I don’t need anyone else’s forgiveness…

I need my own…

For being gay. For being bald. For crying. For my laugh which I hate hearing on recordings. For my high-pitched voice. For wanting, no, needing a hug every five minutes. For not eating all of my dinner and then snacking the rest of the night like food is going out of style. For my addiction to cheese. For crying at the most random moments without knowing why. For feeling the need to talk about myself instead of listening to you. For my chronic urge to give advice. For not living up to what I think you expect of me without ever asking what you expect of me. For my only child tendencies. For my narcissism. For my addiction to showtunes and nicotine.

For wanting to walk down the street with you arm-in-arm when I know it’s not necessarily the safest or most ideal area in which to do so. For not knowing how to ask for help. For not knowing how I need you to help. For being more round than square. For interrupting you, not because I didn’t care what you were saying, but because something you said resounded so deeply within me that I couldn’t help but voice my immediate response. For calling you dear, love, hon, sweetie, beautiful, not because your name isn’t important to me, but because you are so much more than your name to me. For loving you too much because maybe you don’t want that much love. For not loving you enough because I’m in a place where I barely know how to love myself.

So if you know me, or ever encounter me, and I start saying I’m sorry and it sounds like I’m trying to get a response out of you, don’t feel obliged. Yes, there are times where I really do need to ask your forgiveness for something I’ve done wrong. Most of the time, I’m just in a place where I’ve found another reason I need to forgive myself, and I do so by saying I’m sorry. It sounds like it’s directed at you. Really, I’m saying it aloud/writing it because I need to see/read it in a tangible form. That’s just me.



~ by Michael O. on August 8, 2012.

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