How many of you were born guilty? I know I was. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t think the problems of the world were my fault. Of course, I could also call this a sense of grandiosity—as if the world spinning on its axis depended on me to hold it in place.
I hadn’t heard from one of my stepsons in a while. He didn’t return my phone calls or email. Therefore I must be guilty of doing something to piss him off.
Get a life, some might say. We’re not all spending our days judging you. We have better things to do with our time.
Actually, being a little busier might help. When I’m in the thick of things I don’t have time to worry about whether I said or did the right thing or remembered a birthday or anniversary.
I forgot a birthday this month—maybe that’s why I think of guilt this morning.
Every year when I get a new desk calendar, I copy the birthdays and other important dates onto it from the previous year’s calendar. But this time I missed a granddaughter’s birthday.
I knew vaguely that it was in May, but thought that the reminder would pop up on my calendar like it does every year.
So no card or present from me will arrive on this granddaughter’s birthday.
Bad Grandma!
I wrote another blog about guilt recently and felt much better after I’d written it, as if writing one blog could absolve me of a lifetime of guilt.
I agonized for months about the stepson who didn’t return my calls. I built elaborate arguments and proofs based on real and imagined transgressions.
When I discovered this son was talking to other family members—just not ME—I knew for sure I must have done the unforgivable and was now cast out of his favor forever.
I will never be able to repair this relationship, I thought, and it’s entirely my fault.
I am always judging—myself and others—so if it wasn’t your fault, then it must be mine.
PS It was all in my head—relationship with son is fine.
She looks guilty to me.
