Regret.
Fortunate. That's what I instinctively connect to the word regret.
I am fortunate in feeling I have little to regret. It is possible that somewhere out in the universe someone believes I should regret more. And, as I read the dictionary definition of the word I come to understand that regret means much more than my brain had previously informed me of.
I suppose I should rethink what I hold as regret in my mind, in my heart. In looking back, I shall share my regrets in the truest sense-the ones I held in relation to my own definition.
The call for help that was not to be.
I sat curled tightly in my bed, pressed against the wall that heard everything. Frozen in my disbelief. Rattling with anger. Glued in place by my need for understanding. She was on the other side of the wall being beaten by her lover, by the man who came into our house to pose as father figure. She screamed. I shuddered, sold on the idea that it was ending. Now. Right now. This moment was the last of torment. Followed by another scream. Another blow that the wall could not shelter me from. I found myself racing through possibilities of what I could do. What I should do.
Run outside. Scream. Knock on the neighbor's door.
Pick up the phone. Dial. 911. Say...something.
RUN OUTSIDE! SCREAM! KNOCK ON THE NEIGHBOR'S DOOR!
PICK UP THE PHONE. DIAL. 911. SAY...ANYTHING!
But what if I was wrong. What if I had misheard. What if the mistake was mine. What if.....
I tossed and turned inside my frozen body for hours, days, years. Until finally I exploded. You told me it was my fault. You agreed that I should have called, run, shouted, protected, done..something.anything. I was broken. Regret would prove to be the weakest word for what I felt all those years. I let you down. I left you stranded. I was not worthy.
And now. I was pissed. How dare you place blame on me! Childhood. I wrestled my own regret and needed no more handed down to me.
Layers of regret. 17 years. Released. In a torrent of tears, yelling, disbelief, misunderstanding. Clarity.
A truth untold.
I'm gay. Two words that laid the foundation for a story I thought I was ready to tell. To a person I truly believed needed to hear it. My love ran deep for him. And although it had twisted to form a love that would no longer be connected to lover, I still felt depths of emotion. Connection. Love.
I'm gay. How long have you known? Forever. My lie. My story untold-unheard. There was more. There's always more. Forever is a word that should ..never.. be used.
The theme.
I recently came to realize that my silence puts me in spaces I wish not to be. I consider myself a truth-teller, but am quite clearly misinformed.
Omission. A way to say what you want to say without saying a word at all. At least that's how the story goes in my head. In ignoring you, not sharing my words-my truth, I find solace. Annoyance. And solace. I am comforted by the disappearing act. I am calmed by my deep breaths after hitting 'delete'. I am alone in my story. I am not truthful. I have not shared nearly enough. I am not open.
I regret the chain link fences I put up around friendships, around family members, around honest moments. I regret leaving out the pieces of myself that are most true. I regret removing myself from spaces without notice or warning or words. I regret learning my theme so late. I regret my theme.
I am sorry for my regret. I am sorry for those my regret has touched. I am sorry for allowing myself to live in dark spaces, turning off lights and shutting out guests. I learn my way forward, stepping into my truer self. Guided by values and presence of mind. I work to shed my regret and to step into the light.
I am fortunate in feeling I have little to regret. It is possible that somewhere out in the universe someone believes I should regret more. And, as I read the dictionary definition of the word I come to understand that regret means much more than my brain had previously informed me of.
regret: feel sad, repentant, or disappointed over
(something that has happened or been done, especially a loss or missed opportunity)
The call for help that was not to be.
I sat curled tightly in my bed, pressed against the wall that heard everything. Frozen in my disbelief. Rattling with anger. Glued in place by my need for understanding. She was on the other side of the wall being beaten by her lover, by the man who came into our house to pose as father figure. She screamed. I shuddered, sold on the idea that it was ending. Now. Right now. This moment was the last of torment. Followed by another scream. Another blow that the wall could not shelter me from. I found myself racing through possibilities of what I could do. What I should do.
Run outside. Scream. Knock on the neighbor's door.
Pick up the phone. Dial. 911. Say...something.
RUN OUTSIDE! SCREAM! KNOCK ON THE NEIGHBOR'S DOOR!
PICK UP THE PHONE. DIAL. 911. SAY...ANYTHING!
But what if I was wrong. What if I had misheard. What if the mistake was mine. What if.....
I tossed and turned inside my frozen body for hours, days, years. Until finally I exploded. You told me it was my fault. You agreed that I should have called, run, shouted, protected, done..something.anything. I was broken. Regret would prove to be the weakest word for what I felt all those years. I let you down. I left you stranded. I was not worthy.
And now. I was pissed. How dare you place blame on me! Childhood. I wrestled my own regret and needed no more handed down to me.
Layers of regret. 17 years. Released. In a torrent of tears, yelling, disbelief, misunderstanding. Clarity.
A truth untold.
I'm gay. Two words that laid the foundation for a story I thought I was ready to tell. To a person I truly believed needed to hear it. My love ran deep for him. And although it had twisted to form a love that would no longer be connected to lover, I still felt depths of emotion. Connection. Love.
I'm gay. How long have you known? Forever. My lie. My story untold-unheard. There was more. There's always more. Forever is a word that should ..never.. be used.
The theme.
I recently came to realize that my silence puts me in spaces I wish not to be. I consider myself a truth-teller, but am quite clearly misinformed.
Omission. A way to say what you want to say without saying a word at all. At least that's how the story goes in my head. In ignoring you, not sharing my words-my truth, I find solace. Annoyance. And solace. I am comforted by the disappearing act. I am calmed by my deep breaths after hitting 'delete'. I am alone in my story. I am not truthful. I have not shared nearly enough. I am not open.
I regret the chain link fences I put up around friendships, around family members, around honest moments. I regret leaving out the pieces of myself that are most true. I regret removing myself from spaces without notice or warning or words. I regret learning my theme so late. I regret my theme.
sankofa. go back. fetch that which risks being left behind. learn forward.
I am sorry for my regret. I am sorry for those my regret has touched. I am sorry for allowing myself to live in dark spaces, turning off lights and shutting out guests. I learn my way forward, stepping into my truer self. Guided by values and presence of mind. I work to shed my regret and to step into the light.
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