We all know the feeling. The one that rubs us like salt in a wound, that has us doing the Mr. Grumpy Pants routine more than we’d like. For something we did, something we think you did, something we shouldn’t have done, something we didn’t do enough of, something we’re doing better than everyone else. I’m sure if I wanted to write a listicle on the subject, it could fill a page. Maybe even stretch into infinity. Who knows? But that’s not the issue here.
The issue is why does this emotion exist at all?
Throughout history, I imagine the topic has crossed many a great mind. Freud, for starters, viewed guilt as a national phenomenon. Nietzsche, on the other hand, insisted this emotion to be unnatural. A learned state of being. “In this way, man wounds himself, this master of destruction, of self-torture.”
Self-torture
I think that’s a damn near perfect description for such a waste of energy. A regret that has no business in our day-to-day. Accomplished by nothing more than a simple shaming device that weakens the spirit to ensure things stay just the way they are.
Our own personal prison of status quo
Coming from Jewish roots, I grew up believing guilt was something to be tolerated. A time-honored tradition passed from generation to generation like my grandmother’s secret recipe for Mandelbrot. Ironically, I also believed it was synonymous with child-rearing. My mother did it flawlessly to me, my grandmother did it to her. And as screwed up as it sounds, I guess I imagined that if I too wanted to be a good parent and have such wonderfully well-disciplined children, all I needed to do was take up the reins. Develop this particular skill set and when my time came I could stand on the shoulders of giants waving my “best mother of the year” award for all to see.
Little did I know then weedling the blame-game finger at one’s young had nothing whatsoever to do with being Jewish. Just being a parent.
And all denominations were welcome
It’s crazy how easily guilt finds its way to our door. And equally crazy how easily we let it in. How we let it capture our sense of obligation. How it becomes in time this permanent fixture on the shelf of our self-esteem until something snaps inside and we finally say, fuck it. I’ve had enough.
For some of us, it takes a lifetime to get to this point. I imagine it might have a lot to do with age because the older we get the less we give a poop about meaningless things and the opinion of others.
But the thing I want to stress here is, eventually, we do all get there. You know, maybe it’s just part of the territory or maybe it’s God’s way of saying, thanks for enduring all those baloney sandwiches and guilt-trips I plopped on your plate.
Either way you look at it, braving the wrath of guilt is a major feat. Empowerment over yourself and those demons that rule you. A beginning, because everything has to start somewhere. Joan Didion once said, “the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life is the source from which self-respect springs.”
This is where we start to rebuild. From within. Making the foundation once again strong. Finding the right tools, the right perspective to ensure the walls remain upright. Solid. After wading through the wreckage, deciding what we want to toss into the dumpster and what we choose to cherish, wrappers and all, that the light bulb finally comes on. A path illuminates. One which brings along a magnificent joyfulness in having the opportunity to be ourselves and be okay with who that person is and the decisions we make moving forward.
For me, this is the stuff of rare insight I wish I could have told my younger self. That and a million other things that I suppose would’ve saved me from a lifetime of grief.
I realize after years and years of knowing only one thing, emotions fuse together. With guilt comes shame. The two wield this double-edged whammy of a sword that not only marginalizes us but paralyzes us and the whole of it becomes this unbearable thing which makes it that much harder for us to let go.
To be someone different. To look at the world differently.
It’s never easy saying no, especially to the people we care about. But it’s one of those self-preservation tools required. And putting ourselves last each and every time, or at the bottom of the rung, comes with a price. A hefty price. No matter how you look at it.
When I was married, when my children were young, I didn’t feel as if I existed. My husband, my children … their needs came first. Mine didn’t exist at all. I was too busy doing and being everything to everyone — caretaker, official nose-wiper, housekeeper, expert Mac ‘n Cheese lady, errand girl —out of some distorted sense of duty pounded into my brain from an early age, that I forget what I wanted. What I needed.
But then I remembered. And that too came with a price and a very important lesson.
Those that love you, like you, respect you … will understand. And if they don’t. Well, then I say, screw them! They are people who don’t deserve you, who weren’t now or ever Team You.
And that’s the whole enchilada. Slipping into that number one slot isn’t an act of selfishness or defiance. It’s a declaration. A mantra. A breath of air. A step in the right direction.
We’ll never truly live a guilt-free existence. That’s not reality. The world is not a perfect place. But it’s the only place we’ll ever call home. And as Anne Lamott with all her humorous wisdom so poignantly pointed out, “into every life crap will fall.” And when it does, try and remember guilt doesn’t always have to be part of the equation. The puppet master pulling those strings only has the control you give it.
So don’t. Go on. Cut the strings. Eat the damn cookie. Trust yourself to be yourself. Somebody fighting to do their best, be their best day and night.
Peace y’all!
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