Across my years, I’ve known this point too well. I’ve known it personally by keeping my distance from, at least, a few people. You know this as well, I’m certain. My chasms between myself and that other is, usually, well kept on both sides. Our ravine are often chipped away at by the fingers we have pointing at each other. Each of us, typically, hauled those boulders of memories out of the bottom but not to be rid of. Those are carted off to display, proving how right we were about them.
After beginning my various kinds of counseling, social worker and emergency interventions, I discovered other dimensions of resentment. For instance, I came to know what it meant to be pushed aside.
A teenager, with her mother beside her, cried out about being molested by her high school coach. Two things happened after that. Rightfully, we had her moved into the care of a female psychologist after that. However, when the school’s teachers and parents were drawn into conference, I was excluded.
I wasn’t offended by not being at the centered of the group. Our little teams’ founding psychologist and consulting psychiatrist were the right people, for the moment. However, none of those parents and teachers were later directed to me. It meant that those two gained all the income and prestige and my young family gained no improvement in our income.
My not wanting to be those peoples’ sole focus of attention was on the mark. I was just past beginning my career and needed to watch and learn from those with more than a few years of experience. However, I was deprived of a simple benefit. Why were none of those people who came to our clinic because of this unfolding trauma directed to me?
Here is where I began knowing what it meant to be professionally piqued. It is here that I, several years later, began needing to repent. While those memories are well retained even after losing a part of my brain, the true nature of those feelings were not owned for over a decade. I had not truly forgiven those two professionals for, yes, hogging the caseload. Even now, I am forced to, once again, face into the trident of anger, resentment and bitterness over that loss.
Each time this one and a host of other memories creep out of my memory’s rocks, I repeat the process . . . I, once again, lay those memories and feelings back down, but now focus on forgiving myself. Resentment isn’t part of those memories. It is accomplish through what I do with those memories.