Coming Clean

This post is very difficult for me to write. But I have to. A few days ago I mentioned that I was having problems of nearly every kind of nature, and I would like to discuss my personal ones because I have to say it and acknowledge it so I can move past it. I need to put it out there. So, I am. I am declaring this and trying not to care who knows it.

Long-time readers of this blog know that I have a secret that makes me feel embarrassed. The other people who know it don’t make a big a deal of it like I do, but to me it has been so huge, I can’t get past it. But I have to get past it. I have to move on. So, I am going to divulge it.

But first some background into my secret and what it does to me and why I am declaring it. First, why now? Well that’s simple. Best Friend the other night pointed out to me that I need to love myself for everything that I am as well as everything that I am not. As long as I stay ashamed of this part of me, I am going to be ashamed of myself. And how can I be truly happy if there is shame underneath. Then, within days, Romey pointed out on his blog that he doesn’t think I know how great I am. Romey, you saw right through me, didn’t you? You’re right, but I’m trying so here I go.

Best Friend’s boyfriend told her that there was a village in Australia where everyone knew everything about everyone else—no secrets. Without having to hide or feel shame from secrets, people were happy. They just were. So, here goes.

Ready? I am 26 years old. I haven’t been in a relationship. I’m afraid of men, or I tell myself that I am. Do you see where I am going? I am the big V…that’s not good enough. I have to say it. My name is Cheryl, and I am a virgin. For so long I have hated it and I have just gotten older and more ashamed. Then the other night I got to a point where I realized that I am being ridiculous. Because for one thing, I am defining my self-worth based on sex, which isn’t a good thing to do.

I am ignoring everything I have to be proud of–graduating college, having a job and supporting myself, being a good person, getting published, having excellent friends all over the place–for this one thing that I am not proud of and I have no reason to be ashamed of it. It simply is what it is and it can’t be changed, not in the sense that today this is what I am. I can’t get into a time machine to change the past. Only work on the future. Not too mention that this does not make me any less of the following: attractive, intelligent, funny, a good person, talented, valuable. Once I got that, I could tell myself to stop. So I have. I know that it’s ok to be me, all of me. I know that the really important people in my life will not judge me for it, or hold it against me. They will love me and accept me for all that I am and all that I’m not, as long as I do.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to take a nap. That was a lot of unloading. Thank you for reading.

Coming soon: my spiritual crisis. All this coming clean feels good; it’s quite a relief.

W.W.C.D.?

Just before I left for the holidays, I was perusing the books at Barnes and Noble. I found myself, for personal reasons that I may get into later, in the Judaica section of the store. Of all the many books on Judaism, one caught my eye and, ironically, it isn’t really about Judaism at all. The Sunflower is a book of multiple essays. The first, longest, and catalyst essay is by Simon Wiesenthal. The remaining essays are written by a variety of people–Catholic priests, Jewsih scholars, theology professors, the Dalai Lama–all in response to the questions and problems Wiesenthal posed.

This book has me thinking and I can’t stop. Which means I have to write a bit about it. Wiesenthal was a prisoner of a concentration camp during the Holocaust. One day, his work detail brought him to his old school, which was being used as a hospital for the Germans. A nurse saw him, asked if he was Jewish, and then took him into the hospital and to the death room of a Nazi soldier, a member of the SS. Wiesenthal sat there as this man, who was raised Catholic then joined the Hitler youth and SS against both parents’ wishes, confessed to an absolutely horrible crime against what was essentially a village of Jewish people.

Then, the man asks Wiesenthal to forgive him. Wiesenthal remains silent. The essay goes on to see Wiesenthal agonize over his decision, talk about it with his friends back at the concentration camp, even discuss it with others when he is moved to another camp, and after the war is over. Eventually he visits the man’s mother and faced with her blindly believing her son was a “good boy” he still remains silent, unable to tell her what her son was. Wiesenthal wonders if he did the right thing…what should he have done? What could he have done? Then asks, what would you do?

What would I do? I have found myself examining this question: What would Cheryl do? (WWCD?) I don’t really know. The book presents lots of responses and the thing is, I am not sure there is a clear answer. I think part of the problem is that this man was raised Catholic and I can tell you from experience that the Catholic views of atonement and forgiveness are much different from Jewish ones. That’s part of the problem…these two men see forgiveness differently.

And can one man really forgive another for a crime against yet others? Can I forgive someone for a murdering someone else? Why should I have to if they are strangers to me? Just because Wiesenthal was Jewish doesn’t mean he could/should/would speak for all Jews, including this Nazi’s victims. That’d be like asking me to forgive the murder of some woman I never met, just because I, too am a woman. You’re making people one mass group and not individuals, which is what the Nazi’s were oh-so-good at doing. That doesn’t look much better.

Generally speaking can we forgive anyone for mass genocide? Some religions claim murder is unforgivable, because the victims can’t offer forgiveness and the perpetrators can’t atone. Some religions would leave forgiveness to God anyway, that it’s God’s ultimate decision to forgive or not. I guess because I don’t have the answers to these questions, I wouldn’t know whether I could or would offer forgiveness. I probably would be silent too, and hope that just saying it gave the man whatever he was looking for. Yes, I would hope he found some sort of peace. He might not have granted peace to others, but if I helped him find some, well that makes me better than a Nazi and I can deal with that.