What do you do with regret, especially when your heart is torn, and it is your own fault. That should be a question, but it is more of a fact for me today, in all its ugly truth. A mistake that, like a bad tattoo, will never go away and cannot be fully erased. When you rue a decision, it is forever. Time may blur its edges and circumstances might even make it matter less to others, but the pain is for as long as you continue to care. That, when love is involved, is at least forever.
I’ve never been one to dwell on the past, but my life has had its share of mistakes, mostly due to immaturity or masculine cluelessness. As I think about it, most of my regrets are from making things worse by not deciding until someone else did it for me, out of frustration and sometimes anger. Often the result has been worse than if I had acted when I should have known to. Trying to be nice, it turns out, may simply be cruel in the end. I feel that way today.
Today’s example matters less than finding how to go on, now that I let life decide for me. Living with your own remorse is cruel company. I suppose that no one would have been happy with whatever I had decided to do, but the same is true now and the problem is now out of my hands. Here in the South, the best someone might say about me is, “Bless his heart, he meant well.” Faint praise that may well be my epitaph.
I have no silver lining to end this post, only sorrow and regret. A hole left in three lives – in the hollow shape of a heart.
When all is said, and all is done, mostly we try not to cry.