You Thought You Loved Me

I think I was born feeling guilty, which is to say I popped into the world the ideal future Roman Catholic. My parents say that when I was little, I used to cry when I even considered breaking a rule. It was kind of an easy tell, as you can imagine.

They would kindly ask me if I was thinking of doing something bad, and I would wail, “Yes!” and then I wouldn’t do it.

This doesn’t mean I have refrained from sinning throughout my life. I have heard that “to sin” means “to miss the mark,” and I don’t know if that’s true in the etymological sense. But it feels true, and while feelings aren’t facts, this one will suffice for now.

I am, in the main, a decent human being. But I have done shitty things on purpose, and I have done shitty things by mistake, and I have done shitty things just because I had the time that day and needed to entertain myself.

I don’t feel good about any of it. And I do not quite know how to forgive myself for anything ever, although I am trying. I have too often jumped to “forgive” others when, really, I was just making nice.

I am going to break one of my own cardinal rules of writing here, a thing that I tell people when I teach writing (Promotional break: if you need that sort of teacher or coach, here’s info on how to work with me.)