Collateral Beauty: I Will Not Be Half Of Me

I hate dissecting forgiveness like it’s a corpse frog.

As if forgiveness were something you could pin to a tray beneath fluorescent lights and dissect like a frog in middle school science.

I don’t want to explain it. Or debate it.

I don’t want definitions, diagrams, or clean little answers.

Forgiveness is how I remain whole.

Without it, I am half of me.

And I don’t quite like being half of me.

A little backstory—

I had broken up with my boyfriend a couple months prior to the event in the story I am about to tell. He was great, but we were going in different directions. During our time together, he was wonderful.

Then, whether it was an attempt at revenge for the breakup or simply a hurt person making hurt person decisions, he made choices that changed my perspective on what people are capable of.

It made me realize that perhaps we never really know someone until they are no longer in our lives. Sometimes we meet them fully for the very first time when they leave.

This story is only a small portion of the chaos that unfolded after we broke up. The rest, I may never have the courage to share with an audience.

But this one—

This one I can tell.

This is not a story about a breakup.

In fact, this is a story about unrequited girlhood.

About stopping a cycle that should have never even started.

This is the story of the day I learned what forgiveness truly is.

It was a rainy afternoon at my college track meet.

I was sitting on the floor outside the locker room, hair damp from the weather, every joint in my body aching. My coach had insisted I stay inside until the medication kicked in so I wouldn’t faint again.

The week prior, I had been in an incident that almost claimed my life. But in my stubbornness—which I inherited from my mother—I insisted on still coming to support my teammates.

I was staring at the five pills that were my beaten left hand and the water bottle in my beaten right when I heard her shouting. The other woman.

“Sarah Ferguson, get up!”

She was storming toward me.

The other woman.

Who was also my team captain.

She stood over me, furious, telling me to get up, telling me I didn’t care about my teammates, that I was being lazy, spouting unkindness from her mouth like poison.

Her eyes were pink. It looked like she had been crying.

I later found out he had broken things off with her that morning.

Which also didn’t last long, because he later went back to her.

I tried to explain why I was sitting on the floor, but she wouldn’t have it.

So instead, I sat quietly observing her beauty.

Because even in her rage, she was beautiful.

So beautiful.

Her frame was small but strong. She had perfect eyebrows and eyes that were my favorite shade of brown.

In that moment, I realized her anger wasn’t at me.

She was angry with him.

I was merely the easy target standing in her way.

And somehow, it was okay with me.

If I were the place she had to put it for a while, I’d be a willing vessel.

It wasn’t her choice to be a rebound.

It wasn’t her fault that he changed his mind.

Then changed it again.

And again.

It wasn’t her fault.

She was just a girl who wanted to be loved.

And she deserved that—to be the only one someone thought about at night.

So I sat there with beaten palms, hoping the bruises on her heart would fade.

Maybe I had grown numb in the days leading up to that moment.

Maybe my near-death experience the week before made me feel there was already too much violence in the world.

Maybe I just wanted to break the cycle of this girl-against-girl bullshit.

I remember looking at her, wishing she’d stop being at the mercy of his indecision.

Wishing she would choose herself just as I had.

So I swallowed my five pills.

Then, against my coach’s orders, I quietly stood, smiled at her, and stumbled my way out into the rain.

I collapsed on the sideline.

Sat in the mud.

And I thought about all the people who haven’t gotten to love her yet.

I thought about the time I witnessed a giggling baby wave at her.

Thought about her dad hugging her tightly after her events.

She was someone’s baby.

I thought about her heart and how wildly big it must be to carry such a strong longing to be desired.

I thought about him and wondered why he couldn’t have just left her alone.

She was human.

And I would not take revenge on this human.

Because sour lips and a wicked tongue have never tasted good to me.

Because I refuse to be half of me.

Because no one harms another without first hating themselves.

So I sat there—mud-soaked pants, aching joints, a blistering headache, and blurry vision—taking in all this collateral beauty.

She was thinking about him.

But I was thinking about her.

I wish that she knew I was thinking about her.

We were just two pretty birds burdened by the other’s presence.

Two pretty birds tangled in the mud of his sorrow, suffering together.

Even if she didn’t know it, we were bound—sharing the sisterhood of his mess.

And suddenly, I didn’t feel so alone.

Most importantly, I wanted her to taste forgiveness from my beaten wings.

She has no idea that in her anger, she put the first stitch into my broken heart.

Because of her, I am now whole.

So,

Let them taste forgiveness from my beaten palms.

I will not be half of me for a lifetime.

Sarah Amoros