That Whole, "Seventy Times Seven," Thing

I looked up from my computer on Monday afternoon to see my ex-husband, standing in the driveway, watching me through the window with the look on his face that makes my soul want to run and hide because it knows it is about to be hurt. It was the same look he had when he would confess that he had been drinking again, that he had lied again, cheated again. It makes me immediately afraid.
I got up and went to the door, down the steps, stood in front of his face.
"She left me," he said.
He cried and cried and apologized for coming to me.

I don't understand how these things happen. How I end up sitting on the steps with the man who used to be my closest friend, dearest heart, sweetest confidant, and comfort him over the loss of one of the women who has caused me so much pain.
I blame it on forgiveness.

Had I followed my anger in those early days, instead of that voice that urged me towards forgiveness, I would have cut him out of my life. There was a time when he discarded India and me like emptied candy wrappers. His eyes were all starry and life with us only brown and difficult. But I do know a thing or two, and I believe a thing or two, and one of those things (or two) is that I've been forgiven a hell of a lot, and I've been asked to forgive a hell of a lot. So, I did. Or rather I do, as I've learned that forgiveness is not a "do it once and your done", sort of thing, as much as a "breathe in and out and forgive and forgive and forgive again", sort of thing. So, I end up in these bizarre situations, with people in my life that I don't know how to categorize or explain to others.

I haven't been "in love" with him for over a year, but I still love him and I still wish him well (most days), but forgiveness, despite what preachers might try to sell to us on Sunday mornings, is not free. I keep having to swallow my pride, adjust boundaries, rework expectations, cry at my losses, write a different version of my future. Some nights, all I feel for him is anger, and it feels good. Don't misunderstand. I'm not a saint. Nor do I think forgiveness means free range of my heart for him to wipe his feet on whenever he wants to. For me, right now, forgiveness means that I sit on the steps with him when he cries. That I try not to panic at the fumes of alcohol that are seeping out of his skin. That I pat his shoulder and tell him that it will feel like hell, but that it will get better, knowing that I know this is true because of what he has done to me.

My life is such a mess. I suppose it's because it is so full of messy people. Some days I feel embarrassed by how I, or the presence of these hurting people in my life must sound to people who don't know me. I hope that one day, all I will feel is proud.