Just before New Year's, a woman we will call Annette decided to respond to a letter of apology she received from a once-close friend, whose name was Not Darla. It seemed like a good time. Not-especially-great 2021 was ending and the please-let-it-be-better 2022 was about to start. Why not begin the year with clear air?
Annette took Not Darla's apology out of her briefcase, where it had been for a little while.
OK, for two years. Annette had been carrying around Not Darla's apology for two years, occasionally thinking about what to say in response, and then just allowing the letter to sit there, responded to many times in her mind but never on paper.
At any rate, Annette finally reread Not Darla's letter and spent a few days cogitating on what to say in return. Then she crafted a kind and heartfelt response and dropped it in the mail.
The incident that started all this took place many years before, and the gist was this: Not Darla experienced some terrible losses — the kind that can really unmoor a person and open the door for serious mental health symptoms.
Annette really loved Not Darla. She was the kind of anchor friend we expect will be there forever and always. But Not Darla had been saying some concerning things, and Annette woke up one day deeply worried that Not Darla might harm herself. When she drove to her home to try to check on her and persuade her to get help, Not Darla experienced the visit as an outrageous intrusion and betrayal. With a few sudden, harsh words, Not Darla brought the guillotine down on the friendship. It happened so fast. And it seemed so permanent.
Annette wrestled with the predictable emotions. There are usually feelings of anger and grief, then periods of I-don't-care-anymore. Sometimes the messier stuff just gives way to "I miss my friend" before swinging back to self-righteousness. How could someone we love suddenly decide we are unnecessary? This experience can be as hurtful within platonic friendships as it is in romantic relationships, and that describes Annette's feelings during the years after Not Darla slammed the door shut.
But then, years later, came Not Darla's letter of apology and deep regret. She did not ask for anything — certainly not a rekindling of the friendship — but she wanted Annette to know that she was truly sorry.
Annette tucked the letter in her briefcase, fully intending to write back, and as we know, eventually she did.
And now I have to stop to say that my entire interest in these events lies in the detail of Annette holding onto that letter for two years before answering it. She neither shoved it in a drawer to be forgotten nor tore it to shreds, nor even did what I am sure I'd have done: responded immediately, like a wanderer in the desert who finally happens on a jug of water. Annette carried Not Darla’s apology around for exactly the amount of time it needed to be carried. Until the world shifted. Until it became easier to respond than to bear the burden of silence.
Annett’s two-year wait might look like epic procrastination, but to me it's a master class in effective self-preservation.
We all have baggage. Every one of us has been injured. We are haunted by damage done to us and by the guilt from damage we've inflicted on others. We carry it and carry it and carry it until we're numb. We carry injury long after it would be simpler to say, "This is how I got hurt."
Or worse — we adopt the pain as our identity. Grief has delusions of grandeur. However large or small it is when it starts out, it wants to be everything. Grief wins when it turns into our favorite story about ourselves.
We know those people. I've been that person.
Anyway, what I loved about Annette in this incident was that she carried around Not Darla's letter until the moment she didn't want to carry it any longer. Then she wrote back to Not Darla, and set down her burden for good.
By the way, Not Darla wrote back again right away. Even after a two-year delay, she was happy to hear from Annette. Warmth and kindness were exchanged. Who knows, maybe the groundwork was laid for a renewal of the friendship. That isn't appropriate for every situation, but in this case it could be just right.
Life is a short trip across an ever-changing landscape. People can perpetrate injuries that seem, in the moment, absolutely unforgivable, the final straw, etceteraetcetera. Then, weirdly, time goes by and those so-called unforgivable transgressions grow smaller, and seem dumb and vague.
I've been known to nurse a grudge or two in my day. I'm trying to be better. At the very least, I want to remember that I am the one who decides how long to carry around a grievance. At any moment, I can loosen my grip and just let it drop.