I don’t hate you. Don’t get me wrong, I could talk myself into it. But I don’t want to.
Okay sometimes I want to. Sometimes I think it would be easier to hate everything about you. To hate the things you said or the things you did or the way you made me feel.
But would that be easier? To fill my heart with so much bitterness and resentment? Who would that really be healing?
And so I don’t want to hate you. And I don’t want to love you.
I once packed a bag and left with a pair of heels and a pair of running shoes. What I didn’t take into consideration is how often I walk to the grocery store or to meet friends for coffee. I forgot there was a middle ground between heels and sneakers. A middle ground between love and hate.
It’s not indifference—that’s counter to love perhaps more so even than hate. So maybe it’s acceptance. Acceptance that we did the best we could. Acceptance that comes after heartache. After grief for the lives we won’t live. After apathy as the survival mechanism of choice. After an ache of numbness that feels like nothing and everything all at once.
Rather, what if my middle ground was gratitude? What if it was just wholly appreciative of what was? What if it let go of everything else and chose to say thank you. For the lessons. For the experiences. For the tears. For the joy. For the laughter and the memories and the dancing. Thank you for teaching me things I didn’t know I needed to learn.
I don’t hate you. And I’m grateful for that.
from the archives
