Can't Forgive

by Kim Goldman

  By this point in 2005, my marriage had crumbled and my future ex-husband had left. I was ready for the next chapter of my life and had started dating Vegas. That, along with the prospect of starting a new job, gave me a bounce in my step that had been dormant. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do yet, but I made the decision that I needed to break the ties that had connected me to Best Buddies and start to establish a different set of roots. So when the Youth Project called to offer me the position of executive director, I was elated. It was my time, my terms, my turf.

  But it was more difficult to leave Best Buddies than I thought. I had grown very close with my staff, which is the reason I stayed as long as I did. I enjoyed our camaraderie and respect we shared, but my decision to leave was right. I was excited to be starting a new chapter.

  * * *

  Walking into an existing organization with very little training and assistance, as I had at Best Buddies, is exhausting. I was hoping for a less labor-intensive start to my career at the Youth Project, but despite the rosy picture painted by the board, the Youth Project was facing a financial crisis. I had to focus immediately on fund-raising.

  I had left a position where, while fund-raising was my responsibility, I had the support of the national organization if I fell below my goal. I wouldn’t have that at my new job. We had no “Plan B,” no reserve to draw from, no sugar daddy to beg for an increase in our allowance. We only had the reputation of our services, the testimonials from our teens, and our own passion to bank on—but thankfully, that worked.

  After about nine months of begging, borrowing, scraping, and strategizing, we secured—for the first time ever in our five-year history—a financial contract with the school district that would provide us with a financial cushion and give us breathing room to focus on our programs.

  Since 2000, we had been providing free, on-campus, one-on-one and group counseling, crisis intervention, and education and outreach to junior and high school students (ages twelve to eighteen) in the Santa Clarita Valley, who were dealing with a range of life-challenging issues. You name it, we helped these teens work through grief and loss, difficult relationships, drugs and alcohol, goal-setting, depression, suicide, peer pressure, and more. We provided the tools they needed to build better communication, increase their coping abilities, and healthy decision making skills, so that they could lead a successful and fulfilling life.

  I finally felt the weight on my shoulders lessen when I looked at the bank account and it was hovering at $100,000. Now I could turn my attention toward the reason I came to this place: the kids.

  Not many people at the Youth Project knew about my personal background; I think it was months before the board of directors figured it out. One or two may have known, and assumed that the rest did, too, but nobody said anything. For once, I could make my mark based strictly on my own abilities, or lack thereof. Was I prepared for that?

  So much was happening during my first year with the Youth Project: my divorce was coming to a head, my father and I turned up the pressure on the civil suit with a new set of attorneys, the killer made headlines with Juiced (his lame video where he dressed up in different characters and pulled pranks on people), and then there was the infamous If I Did It, Confessions of a Murder controversy. It was an emotional Ferris wheel that never stopped to let me off. Meanwhile, I was managing my household, raising my son, nursing a broken heart from my break up, and receiving death threats and complaints at my office because of our involvement with the infamous book. Why I turned down the Xanax prescription, I will never know.

  * * *

  During all of this, I decided to add another layer to my otherwise full plate. I had been spending so much time in front of a computer screen and in meeting after meeting that I began to disconnect with the mission of our agency. The only way I knew to reignite the fire in my belly was to get my feet wet and really dirty, so I agreed to lead the Teenage Grief group at Canyon High School. I was excited, nervous, and ill prepared, despite fifteen years of living with intense grief and loss. I had never been a fan of support groups, let alone led one before.

  I walked into an empty classroom on my first day, ready to meet my students. Eight kids appeared: the boys looked like they just rolled out of bed in dirty, holey jeans, caps on backward, and T-shirts, while the girls looked like they had spent hours perfectly matching their purchased holey jeans with a cute top, sweater, and coiffed hair. Immediately I was catapulted back into high school and smiled at the picture of innocence standing in front of me, then shuddered at the sorrow that filled the room.

  I already knew a little about the kids referred to this group; two deaths of a parent within the past month; a few within the past year; a grandparent’s death a few years ago; and an uncle’s more than a decade earlier. I gathered the kids together, pulling their student desks into a circle to give the impression of closeness, despite how distant and closed off they all appeared to be. Then I sat on top of my desk, rolled up my sleeves, and began to talk about why I was there.

  “Hey there, so my name is Kim. I work at the Youth Project. Hopefully many of you know about us.” Silence. “Well, we come on campus and meet with students, like yourselves, who are going through a tough time either at home or at school, or maybe just want a place to talk and be around other kids going through the same thing.”

  “Yea, I know about you,” one girl interjected. “I get called into this group every year. I don’t know why. I am totally fine with my mom dying. I am going back to class.” “Well, thanks for coming and giving me another chance!” I replied. I continued with my speech about our services, and what I hoped to offer. “Each of you has been referred to this group because you have all suffered a loss in your life, some more recent than others. And yes, the people who have died are all different, and your relationships are all different, but the loss is the same. And so this group is to give you a place to talk freely about how you feel.” With that, two kids excused themselves from the group. “I’m good, thanks,” I heard them say as the door closed behind them.

  I started to get nervous; I didn’t want to lose any more kids. “Alright, so since I know a little bit about each of you, let me share some stuff about me. I am from Chicago, I like to write, watch hockey and basketball, and I, too, have lost someone in my life very close to me, which is why I wanted to lead this group.” A few kids started to soften after I mentioned my own loss; that brought me down to their level. Suddenly I was able to relate despite my “older” appearance and my assertive tone. I zeroed in on one student sitting in front of me. Christopher never picked his head up from the sketchpad. He was a sophomore. His father had passed away about two months earlier, and his counselor reported that Christopher was withdrawn and moody. Well, I would assume him to be withdrawn and moody; his father, whom he described as his best friend had died suddenly from a heart attack! But here, Christopher was quiet. He was sizing me up, as they all were, to determine if they would open their hearts to me. I don’t blame them; I do the same thing, and my loss was fifteen years old by this point. This group is going to be good for all of us, I thought.

  * * *

  The following week couldn’t come quickly enough. I was anxious to see how many kids would show up. Just three. They walked sheepishly through the door, hesitating, but they showed up. We pulled the chairs into a circle, and everyone assumed the same spot from the week before. Funny how that happens. I went around the room and did a quick check in. Christopher mumbled that he was “a’right”, Meghan repeated that she was over her mom’s death, and Jenny was very chatty about everything that had nothing to do with the loss of her grandmother.

  We started with a writing assignment, a letter to their loved one. I wanted them to include what they missed most, their favorite memories, what they had learned from their loved one, and anything else they wanted to say. I participated, too. We took about fifteen minutes, each of us writing at our own pace, while holding back or wiping away the tears. I resisted offering Kleenex;
I learned a while back that when I was in a moment of emotional outpouring, and handed a tissue or felt a hand on my shoulder, I stopped letting my emotions flow. So I assumed that would happen here as well. Instead, I gently nudged the box of tissues to the edge of my desk, suggesting that it was safe to take one if they wanted.

  Once I saw the kids put down their pencils, I asked if anyone wanted to read their letter. Radio silence. “Okay, I guess I’ll start. Dear Ron…” My voice started to tremble as I realized how vulnerable I had made myself in this letter. I was about to share with a few teens who had no idea that grief stays with them for their entire life, and how hard that still is after all this time. That was a big burden to unleash, but it’s the truth. In our first group, I had promised them that I would never lie or sugarcoat the long process of grief and loss, so I couldn’t turn back now. “Dear Ron, there isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not filled with an intense desire to talk to you. I still reach for the phone, and have to pinch myself to wake up from the daydream of talking to you. Sam is four years old now and you two would be the best of friends. I catch glimpses of you in him; it’s eerie and comforting in the same vein. I do my best to share stories about us growing up with Sam, so he can feel connected, but mostly because I am afraid I am going to forget what is was like to have a brother, and that breaks my heart slowly every day. But you’ve taught me to live each day to the fullest, always look at things with a positive attitude, so that’s what I am trying to do. I am hurting, but I take baby steps every day toward—I don’t even know toward what, but every day I honor you by waking up, ready to face the world, and doing my part to leave a footprint.” By now, I realize that I am letting the snot drip down my face, and it’s leaving a pool on my paper.

  Christopher nudged the box of tissues back in my direction.

  The students are looking at me, tears in their eyes but eager to read. They long for their loved ones at Christmas dinner, when Grandpa drank too much and knocked the tree over, or at their last football game when they caught a long pass thrown for the winning touchdown, or their first solo performance in the high school musical that he wasn’t there to see. Each story was more heartfelt than the next: raw, emotional, authentic, and mature, for teens whose median age was fifteen years old. I saw myself in them, naïve and childlike, but sophisticated at the same time, realizing how permanent and painful their loss is.

  All the letters were read. Then we sat in silence for a few minutes, to let the pureness of the hour permeate the classroom. Silence is healing for me, so I tested that out on them. I always struggle when people in my life, who see me in pain, want to fill the space with rhetoric. I am always grateful for silence. The group embraced my offer wholeheartedly: no fidgeting, no laughing, no looking at the clock; they just appreciated the quiet place in their heart and their minds. After a few minutes, I looked them each in the eye, smiled slightly, and said, “Thank you for your courage and for sharing your loved one with me. I am honored.” The girls got up first, smiled back, and said, “See you next week, Kim!” Christopher walked quickly toward the door, trailing behind the girls, then turned back and said, “Thank you, Kim, for sharing, too—later,” And he threw up his hand in a peace sign. My heart filled.

  But those were probably the last words I heard Chris speak for a really long time. Week after week, he showed up, but never uttered more than a grunt or a nod. Every week, we talked about whatever issues and concerns had come up for them. Whether or not these concerns were connected to the loss wasn’t important; these kids needed a safe place to talk.

  Meghan said she wasn’t allowed to talk about her mother in the house, because Dad’s new wife wouldn’t allow it. She assumed that because Dad got remarried and never spoke about her mother that he really didn’t love her that much. So she didn’t feel safe expressing her love for her mom and was beginning to hide out within the walls of her house. She was afraid that she would forget her mother. I, too, have that same worry. How do you keep the memories fresh, from fading? How do you keep your loved one alive in your heart and mind, when you can’t create new stories to tell?

  We talked a lot about how isolating grief can be, and how you can assume that those in your inner circle are “sick of listening” to every recollection you have. So we shut down, not wanting to burden anyone with our reminiscing. I wished I could make the group feel better, but it’s a crapshoot how any of our discussions would play out in their lives. They would have to surround themselves with loving, compassionate, willing friends and family who welcomed their storytelling hour. If they didn’t create those relationships, they would be very lonely; not everyone is comfortable talking about or listening to people talk about death.

  We agreed to write out our thoughts. The grief group knew that they had a safe place between these four walls to share every nook and cranny that they wanted about their loved ones’ existence, but when this group ended they knew they needed to re-create this space somewhere safe. A journal! Keeping a journal keeps the images fresh, crisp, and sharp, as if they were just taken. It keeps the details clear, concise, honest, private or public.

  I purchased everyone a journal. They quickly responded with a smile, excited to have something of their own. Immediately Chris began to draw inside the book, drafting an image around the word “Dad.” My heart swelled with pride: The group was impacting him; he felt safe here. The girls grabbed their books and doodled hearts and smiley faces with innocent bravado. “Until next week friends, fill your pages with love, honor, and reflection.”

  I was so appreciative to have this respite in my work week. Despite our heavy-hearted discussions, the outpouring of pain and tears, and the sometimes hopeless feelings that they never would be able to smile again, was the most refreshing part of my week. I looked forward to lending my shoulders of experience to lessen their pain, if even for a few minutes. Facilitating this group gave me purpose, reminded me of my own growth, and brought me back to that “happy place” in my heart where I had yearned to connect with for so many years. There was a shift in the air with these three kids, and even though I knew I couldn’t protect them from their future inevitable pain, I knew that I was instilling coping skills in them to help ease the fall. Having “Teenage Grief Group” on my weekly schedule made the day-to-day details of running a business seem less mundane.

  The ten-week session was coming to a close soon, and even though I had convinced myself that Christopher not sharing too much was okay, I was beginning to feel that I had somehow not reached him. I felt inadequate; I couldn’t get him to open up. I knew he was in pain; I could see it on his face, in his drawings, and feel his intensity when he sat alongside me. My ego was taking control of the situation; I wanted him to have a breakthrough. Each time we met, he’d mutter a few more words, but he never appeared distracted or disinterested. I decided on this day to talk about ghosts. If nothing else, I will just scare the shit out of him.

  I walked into group confidently. For a change, we gathered outside in the commons area on campus. I guess the students felt comfortable being seen with a “more sophisticated” looking girl—truth is, with my hair in a ponytail, jeans, and a T-shirt, I look young, so it was easy to fit in. We circled up, and before I could get a word out, Christopher blurted out, “So dude, were you on TV this past week? I swear I saw you with O. J. Simpson and that book thing. Right? My mom said it wasn’t you, but I was sure it was.” I looked him square in the eye, and said, “Yes, that was me.” “I knew it! I saw you on the news and I tried to convince my mom, but she thinks I watch too much TV and she just told me I was crazy.” The two other girls in the group were thoroughly confused. I was stuck between wanting to share and wanting to maintain some boundaries.

  This is a place I am familiar with, but I wasn’t expecting to share that with these teens. I didn’t want to lie, but was worried that their attention would shift. Delicate territory I am embarking upon. “I have shared with you that my brother was murdered in 1994. He was stabbed to death by a famous fo
otball player, and the trial was very public. His killer was found not guilty and now he recently wrote a book about ‘hypothetically’ killing his ex-wife and my brother.” “Your brother was killed by O. J. Simpson?” one of the girls blurted out. “Yes, he was.” The conversation continued for a few minutes with the students revealing that they were babies when that case was public, but they have seen the news and heard their parents discuss it. It seemed to all make sense to them now. Despite having a sibling who died, suddenly I seemed to be more legitimate in their eyes, because my brother’s death was something they could “recall.”

  As a counselor, it’s always a tricky balance to find areas to relate with clients; some would say that having murky boundary lines is dangerous, while others will argue that you need to know and understand your client, to recognize how much you should disclose. I am a mixture of both philosophies, but I would also add that I need to understand my own motivation for infusing my personal experience into a session. That’s where I sit with this group. I don’t believe that you have to have lost someone to show compassion and be supportive, but it certainly doesn’t work against if you do. I just want to keep myself in check, so that I’m not working out my own crap in a room full of teenagers whom I’m supposed to be helping.

  I repeated that I was, indeed, Ron’s sister and yes, he was brutally murdered in 1994. I apologized to them for not sharing all the details before, but I didn’t feel that it was important to reveal the particulars. It didn’t make my loss any more important than theirs that mine was on TV. I let the news hang in the air for a minute. In some ways I felt that I had betrayed them by not being honest; after all, they had confided in me about their family tragedies. I knew I hadn’t done that, but sharing such deep sorrow with people is disarming, and for much of my time with them, I struggled to keep my mouth shut. I was secretly relieved, because I had worked so hard to keep the details to myself. But now there was shift: I still needed to maintain control of the group and my own loss, but something was different.