In 1992, I went to Bosnia in the heart of the war with a flack jacket and helmet. I've been through the hollow echoes of 9/11. I've been to Katrina where I warmly opened my arms out to the returning refugees for the Red Cross. A week ago, as Hurricane Sandy thrashed against the windows of my powerless fourth-floor apartment in the West Village, I have never been as afraid as I was -- never.
Some of my female friends had warned me that when they hit their 50s, a cloak of invisibility descended upon them and men began to stare through them. I refused to believe them. I mentioned women like Raquel Welch and Sophia Loren in my defense. Then I looked in a mirror and realized that I didn't look like Raquel or Sophia even when I peaked at 17.
I've forgiven lots of folks over the years, but I haven't forgotten the reasons why I had to forgive them. Allowing someone access to my heart after having it trampled isn't an act of forgiveness as much as it is an act of faith, and I'm not certain I have that kind of faith in anyone who already betrayed me.