There’s nothing to forgive

Imperfect parenting isn’t a crime

Have you thought about whether you want to forgive your parents? Replied my therapist to the list of resentments (long) and gratitudes (short) towards each of my parents I’d written in a desperate attempt to “sort myself out” before arriving home in three days for a week-long visit.

At the time I dismissed her question. I was too angry to consider forgiveness. Months of therapy had unearthed evidence after evidence of the many ways in which my upbringing ensured my downfall—by which I mean a severe manic episode followed by a brief stint in a locked mental ward—at the age of 25.

I’d become the person I am now, a decade later, despite my parents. They broke me. I fixed myself. Why should I forgive them?

It’s a week later. I am home. And I’ve decided: there’s nothing to forgive.

There’s nothing to forgive

Four days ago, I pulled up in my airport taxi and mum rushed out to rubber-stamp my driver’s slip that he had to return to our complex’s security. Then she offered to wipe my suitcase down as I sorted out paperwork that had to be printed before the holidays—I’d arrived one day before Thai New Year—and regaled my skeletal dad, propped up on his hospital bed, with tales from the business flight I’d splurged on because economy seats were sold out.

A flurry of activity ensued—a trek in the humid afternoon heat to find the photocopying shop whose location I was convinced I knew yet failed to find, deflated walk home, long-awaited shower to cleanse myself of air travel—and so it was hours later that I first realised, flabbergasted: I was no longer angry.

For the whole four days I’ve been at home, I have felt no shred of resentment towards my parents. I can still recall every item from my “resentments” column, but they no longer evoke an emotional response. They’re just things that happened—a past that cannot be changed—and I’m now having trouble conceiving how angry they made me feel just a week ago.

My dad may not, may never, accept me for the adult I’ve become, clinging forever to that little girl who jumped into his bed on Sunday mornings and demanded to play. He’ll probably never say, “I’m proud of you.” He’ll definitely die from the cancer his prejudice against doctors—they’re all crooks—prevented him from discovering until it’s too late.¹

But, despite following his parents’ wish for a respectable, money-making education—he opted for dentistry—he never questioned my foolish desire to study languages. And when I won an all-expenses-paid scholarship to the UK at the age of seventeen, he congratulated me even though it must have broken his heart to send me so far away.

My mum may not, may never, ask me that simplest of questions: How are you? She’ll probably never initiate a hug or hold me close when I cry. She’ll definitely never be the kind of mother who takes me out to lunch, flies out to visit me in Ho Chi Minh City, lies to me that everything will be fine.

But she gave me seventeen years of her life so I could live mine unimpeded. She woke me up every morning, fed me, drove me to school in the city, waited the whole day, then drove me home, every day, without fail. She mends every item of clothing before I even notice it’s torn. She wishes me Happy Birthday at midnight, on the dot, every year. And every time I step foot outside, including this visit, I always find my sandals facing the right direction.

There is nothing to forgive.

Imperfect parenting isn’t a crime

Your parents did their best is a shitty thing to say to a person who grew up abused. But my parents were never abusive. They harboured no malice. And I have no doubt they wanted the best for me even when habit and ignorance guaranteed otherwise.

I understand why you left me for your partner, dad once confided. He gave you the love and affection I couldn’t give you, because I myself never knew love and affection.

My parents did what they thought was best, and what they thought was best was shaped by how they were raised and what their lives had taught them. It’s unreasonable of me to expect my dad to respect me when his parents never did, to expect my mum to tell me she loves me every day when my grandparents never did.

My parents’ parenting was not perfect. But whose is? Raising a child must be one of the most—if not the most—difficult endeavours a person can undertake. There are millions of decisions and even more pitfalls, all while fearing constantly for your child’s life.

My parents may not have given me the love and affection I still crave, but they gave me a secure roof, abundant food, unlimited clothing, and the first-rate education that set me up for a prosperous, successful life. I may decry the anxiety and paranoia I inherited, but I also have them to thank for my discipline and attention to detail.

I am me despite them, but also because of them. They didn’t do everything right, but they never meant to do wrong. Imperfect parenting isn’t a crime.

So there’s nothing to forgive.

What do you think?

I was expecting this week at home to be stressful, to have to hide my resentments behind pleasantries. I am thrilled this hasn’t been the case.

Would you forgive your parents? Is there anything to forgive?

Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with someone whose parents love them dearly though they may not know how to show it.

Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,

Val

1. Get your annual health checks. Even if you hate doctors.