Wednesday, June 3, 2009
I like to say "I have no regrets" because it makes me sound like I've lived my life the way I've always wanted. That I've been brave and happy for much of it, that I've accepted loss with grace and integrity. I like to think that regrets are futile and the bad moments are as much a part of my personal history as the good.
But sometimes I regret.
Sometimes I wish I hadn't or had so much that my past feels like more of an open wound than a scar, still tender to memory's touch.
I regret saying yes and saying no. I regret not saying no. I regret saying I love you to him, and not saying I love you to some. I regret letting people close who proved themselves unworthy. I regret hurting him, breaking his heart, and nursing my wounds with someone new. I regret accepting people's faults more readily than they will accept mine. I regret the way I handled that, the people I told, the things I said to her, to him, to everyone. I regret keeping quiet when I wanted to cry out loud. I regret giving out my number and never picking up the phone. I regret picking up the phone every time he called. I regret the way I acted on her day because I was jealous and lonely. I regret ever feeling jealous. And lonely. I regret saying I'm sorry when I wasn't and not saying it when I was. I regret having anything to be sorry for. And I regret all the times I let him come back when I'd lost myself in his absence.
Sometimes the regret is masked in the present, dulling the pain of the past just enough to convince me that none of it matters anymore.
There are the times even future's promise can't anesthetize the ache.