The Schopenhauer Cure(107)
“Harsh, yes,” interrupted Gill, “but necessary. It was good medicine. It got me started on my path—do you realize I haven’t had a drink since that day?”
“Thanks, but that’s not what I’m apologizing for—it’s what’s happened since. You have changed: you’ve been present; you’ve been more upfront and more straight with me than anyone else here, and yet I’ve just been too self-absorbed to acknowledge you. For that I’m sorry.”
Gill accepted the apology. “And what about the feedback I’ve given you? Was any of it helpful?”
“Well, your term chief justice shook me up for days. It hit home; it made me think. But the thing that sticks most in my mind was when you said John refused to leave his wife not because of cowardice but because he didn’t want to deal with my rage. That got to me, really got me thinking. I couldn’t get your words out of my mind. And you know what? I decided you were dead right and John was right to turn away from me. I lost him not because of his deficits but because of mine—he had had enough of me. A few days ago I picked up the phone, called him, and said these things to him.”
“How’d he take it?”
“Very well—after he picked himself off the floor. We ended up having a nice amiable talk: catching up, discussing our courses, mutual students, talking about doing some joint teaching. It was good. He told me I sounded different.”
“That’s great news, Pam,” said Julius. “Letting go of anger is major progress. I agree you’ve too much attachment to your hates. I wish we could take an internal snapshot of this letting-go process for future reference—to see exactly how you did it.”
“It was all nonvolitional. I think your maxim—strike when the iron is cold!—had something to do with it. My feelings about John have cooled enough to step back and permit rational thought.”
“And what about” asked Rebecca, “your attachment to your Philip-hatred?”
“I think you’ve never appreciated the monstrous nature of his actions to me.”
“Not true. I felt for you…I ached for you when you first described it—an awful, awful experience. But fifteen years? Usually things cool in fifteen years. What keeps this iron red-hot?”
“Last night—during a very light sleep—I was thinking about my history with Philip and had this image of reaching into my head and grabbing the entire awful cluster of thoughts about him and smashing it on the floor. Then I saw myself bending over, examining the fragments. I could see his face, his seedy apartment, my soiled youth, my disillusionment with academic life, I saw my lost friend Molly—and as I looked at this heap of wreckage I knew what had happened to me was just…just…unforgivable.”
“I remember Philip saying that unforgiving and unforgivable were two different things,” said Stuart. “Right, Philip?”
Philip nodded.
“Not sure I get that,” said Tony.
“Unforgivable,” said Philip, “keeps the responsibility outside of oneself, whereas unforgiving places the responsibility on one’s own refusal to forgive.”
Tony nodded. “The difference between taking the responsibility for what you do or blaming it on someone else?”
“Precisely,” said Philip, “and, as I’ve heard Julius say, therapy begins when blame ends and responsibility emerges.”
“Quoting Julius again, Philip, I like it,” said Tony.
“You make my words sound better than I do,” said Julius. “And again I experience you drawing closer. I like that.”
Philip smiled almost imperceptibly. When it was clear he was not planning to respond further, Julius addressed Pam: “Pam, what are you feeling?”
“To be honest, I’m floored by how hard everyone struggles to see change in Philip. He picks his nose, and everyone oohs and aahs. It’s a joke how his pompous and trite remarks arouse such reverence.” Mimicking Philip, she said in a singsong cadence, “Therapy begins when blame ends and responsibility emerges.” Then, in a raised voice: “And what about your responsibility, Philip? Not a goddamn word about it except some bullshit about all your brain cells changing and therefore it wasn’t you who did anything. No, you weren’t there.”
After an awkward silence, Rebecca said softly, “Pam, I want to point out that you are able to forgive. You’ve forgiven a lot of things. You said you forgave me for my excursion into prostitution.”
“No victim there—except you,” responded Pam quickly.
“And,” continued Rebecca, “we’ve all taken note of how you forgave Julius, instantly, for his indiscretions. You forgave him without knowing or inquiring whether some of his friends were injured by his actions.”
Pam softened her voice. “His wife had just died. He was in shock. Imagine losing someone you had loved since high school. Give him a break.”
Bonnie pitched in, “You forgave Stuart for his sexual adventure with a troubled lady and even forgave Gill for withholding his alcoholism from us for so long. You’ve done a lot of forgiving. Why not Philip?”
Pam shook her head. “It’s one thing to forgive someone for an offense to someone else—quite another thing when you’re the victim.”
The group listened sympathetically but nonetheless continued. “And, Pam,” said Rebecca, “I forgive you for trying to make John leave his two young children.”