Grow Up Already

 Sure, it has occurred to me on numerous occasions that I could forgive my childhood tormentor. It has been decades since our last contact, and there really is no reason for me not to stop looking for him in my rear view mirror. Literally. Like I should not expect to see his metallic blue Datsun sliding in behind my family's car as we travel the highways and byways of California.

I left him behind on the streets of Boulder, Colorado after all. Years and years ago.

Or did I?

When I think about bullies, I think about him. When I flinch in anticipation of being hurt, I am thinking of him. Memories from more than fifty years ago continue to haunt my adult life. Why? Because those were the psychic wounds, the ones that never fade. Not without some really invasive treatment.

Like forgiveness.

I awoke with a start early Saturday morning when I realized I could pinpoint a moment of empathy with they guy who has been at the headwaters of my river of self-esteem. Laughing as he relieved himself into those waters. 

But that's in my head. It's not real. It's the hole I dug for myself when I was still in kindergarten. I let him rule my world for more years than I care to admit. And he did nothing to deserve that spot. I put him there. I left him there, and it is up to me to exorcise him. Or what I have created.

That moment that woke me up? It was a dream reminding me of the football games we used to play in his backyard. It was where we could play tackle. Sometimes his older brother would play with us. His older brother was the athlete, a mild star in high school, and much better looking than either one of us young punks could ever imagine being. And as older brothers will, he was relentless in his criticism of his gawkier sibling. At one point, when a deep pass was dropped by the kid I had elevated to king of our neighborhood, his older brother picked up that dropped ball and heaved it at his little brother. It caught him full on, thrown at maximum velocity by a three-sport star. For a moment, tears began to well up in the eyes of the king of the neighborhood. He turned and walked away. He walked quickly between two houses, away from view. A few minutes later, he reappeared on the other side, behind us. He had, quite obviously, taken care to compose  himself before he returned. One of us started to make fun of the way he had walked out so we wouldn't see him crying. There was still enough authority in his act to squash this uprising. 

But I remembered it. And all these years later, it was the thing that brought me to the keyboard to write about it, nearly fifty years later. This one event does not excuse his behavior. It explains it. I will never know the full extent of the way my childhood tormentor was tormented himself. Those are the dreams that keep him awake at night. This one was for me, letting me know that I had lived long enough in his shadow. His thin, reedy shadow. And not because he demanded it, because even though he did, it wasn't his fault. He was acting out the way he learned to from his brother. For some reason, I let him be the boss of me. I let him inflict all manner of torture on me. Maybe because I felt sorry for him? Or because I needed someone to push me in a way that kept me from ever feeling comfortable in my own skin. 

I was the author of that legend. And now it's time to close that book. 

I forgive him. 

I forgive myself.

I'm looking forward to tomorrow.