Regret Makes the (Wo)Man
Today at lunch, I said: "The people who say they have no regrets make me wonder if they've really fucked up before, or if they're just sociopaths who don't care who they've hurt. I don't tend to think of those folks as adults yet - like you aren't truly an adult until you know you've made a mess."
And I realized as it came out of my mouth that it was true - a deep part of me does feel that way, and has for some time. What's more, it wasn't just about knowing you'd made a mess, but about making a mess beyond your ability to fix, and having to own up to that, as well.
I recalled that while I was growing up, the elders in my life seemed to have a silent understanding. As I spoke, I could see my mother and uncles and family friends at kitchen tables, or settled around coffee at McDonald's, forming circles of which I wasn't truly a part. They knew they'd made mistakes - could not deny that there were errors, or be satisfied with chalking it up to a "learning experience," as though simple learning could wipe the slate clean - and it formed a bond between them. It was like a badge they'd earned, whether they liked it or not, and it changed them. Like parenthood. Like death. Like all the things in life that you can't take back.
When I was a teenager, I was almost militant about saying that I would regret nothing, because so long as I drew lessons from it, the experience was worthwhile (but then, at the time it seemed like I was militant about almost everything). In my hidden heart, I dreaded understanding the slumped shoulders of my elders first-hand. I feared having to point fingers at myself, knowing that I deserved the notoriety. I was horrified at the thought of ending up like my father, glancing through the ever-present smoke, staring off into nightmares of my own making.
I didn't want to hurt people, especially those I loved. Little did I realize that I already had, and would again, as a side-effect of the human condition. As I have learned to live with the regrets I hold now, I have drawn closer to being an adult that I've ever felt, probably the closest I've ever been.
For what it's worth, I've tried my best, and I've come to see that hurt, like blame, is a matter of degree. Most of us will acquire some and spread it around, if we live long enough - but it doesn't have to be as bad as the things my dad has done, nor do I have to carry my remorse like a cross, limping with it into forever.
I am teaching myself to live with it, and to make more loving and healthy decisions than the ones I grew up around. I am extrapolating from the role models I had and filling in the rest according to the kind of person I want to be, which also feels closer to what being an adult is all about.
Not that being an adult is a point of bragging. It's more like being at sea with others who are lost and trying to make your way, knowing that you are lost and having taken on serious water in the past. Having foundered, and almost drowned, and lost the maps you once relied upon. Knowing that some damage will always remain, but moving forward anyway.
And I realized as it came out of my mouth that it was true - a deep part of me does feel that way, and has for some time. What's more, it wasn't just about knowing you'd made a mess, but about making a mess beyond your ability to fix, and having to own up to that, as well.
I recalled that while I was growing up, the elders in my life seemed to have a silent understanding. As I spoke, I could see my mother and uncles and family friends at kitchen tables, or settled around coffee at McDonald's, forming circles of which I wasn't truly a part. They knew they'd made mistakes - could not deny that there were errors, or be satisfied with chalking it up to a "learning experience," as though simple learning could wipe the slate clean - and it formed a bond between them. It was like a badge they'd earned, whether they liked it or not, and it changed them. Like parenthood. Like death. Like all the things in life that you can't take back.
When I was a teenager, I was almost militant about saying that I would regret nothing, because so long as I drew lessons from it, the experience was worthwhile (but then, at the time it seemed like I was militant about almost everything). In my hidden heart, I dreaded understanding the slumped shoulders of my elders first-hand. I feared having to point fingers at myself, knowing that I deserved the notoriety. I was horrified at the thought of ending up like my father, glancing through the ever-present smoke, staring off into nightmares of my own making.
I didn't want to hurt people, especially those I loved. Little did I realize that I already had, and would again, as a side-effect of the human condition. As I have learned to live with the regrets I hold now, I have drawn closer to being an adult that I've ever felt, probably the closest I've ever been.
For what it's worth, I've tried my best, and I've come to see that hurt, like blame, is a matter of degree. Most of us will acquire some and spread it around, if we live long enough - but it doesn't have to be as bad as the things my dad has done, nor do I have to carry my remorse like a cross, limping with it into forever.
I am teaching myself to live with it, and to make more loving and healthy decisions than the ones I grew up around. I am extrapolating from the role models I had and filling in the rest according to the kind of person I want to be, which also feels closer to what being an adult is all about.
Not that being an adult is a point of bragging. It's more like being at sea with others who are lost and trying to make your way, knowing that you are lost and having taken on serious water in the past. Having foundered, and almost drowned, and lost the maps you once relied upon. Knowing that some damage will always remain, but moving forward anyway.