Forgiving Myself

Did I listen to Molly as well as I should of?  No.

Did I understand the clues she was dropping about her suffering?  No.  Did I take the time to attempt to imagine what she might be experiencing?   Not really.

Did my pride in her many – many – accomplishments blind me to her mounting disintegration?   For a long time, it did.

Did I really understand – as opposed to know – that mental illness is potentially fatal?  Absolutely not.

And yet. 

Did I love her and give her everything I knew how to give?  Yes.  And did she love me?  Yes, again.

Did we have fun together and laugh and make wonderful memories?  We did.

Did she learn and grow and travel and experience the world?  In spades.

Did she love, and was she loved?  Absolutely.

I gave everything I knew how to give for 17 years…  and she returned those gifts with love and humor.  I was not perfect, but I did not cause her death and I do not hold myself responsible for it. 

There is pain in looking back with hindsight, because I see things differently now.  I know that in calling my attention to a news story about a girl we didn’t know who died in a very unusual car accident, Molly was trying to tell me something.  In insisting that she would not be able to go to a good friend’s graduation party (with no good reason), Molly was dropping a hint that I couldn’t hear.   There was another hint when she took so much comfort in learning that there was mental illness in her biological history; maybe I should have pursued that more.

I can see – it’s like a magnifying glass – that I was not perfect.  And I forgive myself for that.