I’m sorry,

Ripping…tearing…

It will never happen again.

I’m sorry,

Shattering…cracking…

The words pierce my skin.

I’m sorry,

Snapping…splitting…

Please understand.

I’m sorry,

Hesitation…dispense…

I didn’t mean to hurt you.

I’m sorry,

Observing…listening…remembering…

The words he says.

I wrote this poem in an English class when I was in college.  That was at least two decades ago.  At the time I wrote it, I thought I knew the value of an apology.  I thought it was a step toward forgiveness and healing.  I thought saying “I’m sorry” would fix everything.  But today I realize I was young and naïve.  An apology doesn’t always make someone feel better. They aren’t designed to heal. Instead, it is an acknowledgment.  Some apologies acknowledge a bad or mean behavior.  Some apologies admit something. Some apologies are thrown around when an apology isn’t even warranted.  One thing all apologies do is invoke an emotion.  I don’t hold grudges.  In fact, I pride myself on my ability to forgive swiftly and completely.  However, I never thought an apology would enrage me while simultaneously breaking my heart.

Last year, in the middle of a deadly pandemic, I met a wonderful man.  A kind, thoughtful, generous, goofy man whom I quickly grew to love and adore.  We had an impulsive and fleeting romance; you know the kind they write bestselling novels and block buster movies about.  And yes, you guessed it, the kind that ends tragically. 

The tragedy isn’t a result of someone dying or some unforeseen turn of events that precludes two lovers from being together.  The tragedy is a direct result of one person sabotaging himself. You see it happening.  You know exactly where it is headed, but like watching a bad car accident, you’re powerless in changing the outcome.  Not because you’re idly standing by.  You’re doing everything you can to prevent it, you frantically turn the wheel, you slam on the breaks all to avoid inevitable doom.  But you my darling are not driving.  You have no control over the wheel, their thoughts, their actions, their behavior, their foreseen trajectory.  All you can do is stand there in utter disbelief and watch as the wreckage takes place right before your eyes. Every single day for six long, drawn out, painful weeks, that’s what I witnessed.  More candidly, that’s what I lived through. 

For six weeks, I was criticized for everything I did, said, didn’t do, didn’t say.  My entire existence was brutally judged.  Throughout it all, I stood my ground.  I stayed true to myself.  Mostly because I don’t know how to be anyone else.  I don’t know how to act different.  Being myself meant I had to pick me.  I had to stand my ground and demand that I am treated exactly as I deserve and accept nothing less.  I couldn’t waver, not for one second.  Because if I don’t know how I deserve to be treated, no one will know how to treat me. 

As you probably predicted, as accurately as you can predict a spinning car will hit anything in its path, the relationship ended as swiftly as it began.  I had no emotions, no tears, no sadness. After six weeks of relentless criticisms, I could no longer love this man. Instead, I was annoyed at the inconvenience of having moved twelve hundred miles and the knowledge that I had to piece my life back together again after six excruciating weeks of what felt like six years in the Twilight Zone.  Since his self-sabotage started immediately after I moved in, I had six weeks to process everything.  I was convinced that I was processing it all very well.  

I subsequently discovered the reason of his self-sabotage. On some days it enraged me.  On most days it gave me solace that I had no control over the outcome.  We were clearly in route to the path of destruction from the day we met.  The short version is, he wasn’t honest with himself or me. 

After I left, we had numerous conversations related to the logistics of my move.  He was once again kind, thoughtful, generous, and extra helpful.  At first, I thought it was all out of desperation to get rid of me.  Until one day it dawned on me and I sent him a text that said, “I guess you did actually love me”.  His reply was simple and precise “no question”.  My heart stung at the sight of those words.  Hours later he said the infamous phrase, “I’m sorry I failed”.  That was the first time he apologized.  I hadn’t been expecting or waiting for an apology.  

For over five minutes, I read the words over and over again expecting them to change right before my eyes.  Each time I read it, it felt like a hammer was smashing my heart into tiny, stabbing fragments.  Part of me wanted him to take it back.  I didn’t want him to acknowledge he did something wrong.  I wanted to go on believing he was oblivious to what happened.  That he too was in the Twilight Zone watching powerlessly, unable to change the outcome.  I wanted him to feel like me.

My blinding tears coupled with my shaking hands made responding an arduous task.  I simply thanked him for his apology and assured him that I appreciate it.  Over the next few days, his first apology morphed into a second even more sincere apology, followed by a long conversation about what went wrong.  I mustered up the courage to ask him if there was anything I could’ve done different, better.  I expected a painful, critical thesis of all the ways I could have saved our relationship.  His response wasn’t what I anticipated and has left me confused, “I don’t think so, you were true to who you are.”  

On the one hand, I am thoroughly pleased with and proud of myself for my unwavering conviction…but on the other, I’m confused and saddened by that fact.  I know he means I was honest.  He could’ve done better.  He could’ve singlehandedly changed the trajectory of our future, by simply not lying.  So, when I read and hear the words “I’m sorry” in this situation, it doesn’t give me solace…instead there is a ripping, tearing, shattering, cracking, snapping, and splitting of my heart.