Haunting Harry Regret Fest '17
I consider myself to be a prolific regretter. It often consumes me. Not a day really passes or has ever passed in my life, regardless of the circumstances, where I was able to get through three squares and a nap without regretting SOMETHING; even if that something were was the fact that all I did was make it through 3 squares and a nap.
How's that for circular? For my next trick...
I could probably find a way to rue the day I rued the day, or drown myself in regret over regretting the regrettable.
Sure, a large part of this constant, somewhat needless introspection is simply an controllable self-absorption; a compulsion to live within the world I've established in my head. You know, the one that revolves around ME.
I regret admitting that.
No, really.
Another may be the need to feed the beast. Whenever I feel stuck or trapped or angry or whatever, I can simply comb through the broken memory files in my head to find the one that may be the reason for my current situation. I jump back into that moment, turn down the lights and watch that event play in a loop, over and over again, and again, and again.
I over-analyze the mistake or misstep or error or judgment or REGRET until I'm sufficiently satisfied that it is indeed the reason for the season. I take it to heart, feel bad and lose myself in the muck.
I take SOLACE in the muck. I lap it up and stew in my own juices. The more time I devote to this "self-punishment" (comfort), the less I have to make an effort to change what's in front of me (that would be WAY too hard).
I need an editor. I regret not having an editor.
I would say, on average, that I engage in this activity several times a day, at the least. I become frustrated or pissed off or sad, see a potential opening for escape, avoid it and sink back into myself for some good ol' problem avoidance...
Ah...regret. My old friend (fiend).
I could sit here and tell you that the above is all true, and that my self-therapy session is nearing a close.
But that would be disingenuous. Sure, I do use regret as a tool for bypassing real action. And when I do, boy is it comfortable!
But regret isn't just a pudgy marshmallow beanbag chair protecting my fat ass from the truth. Neigh neigh. It's also an incredible motherfucker.
Sure, I regret the time I stuffed paper towels down into the heating vent in 3rd grade, losing the respect of my favorite teacher when I had somehow effectively blocked it from memory and failed to fess up (the disappointment oozing from her eyes was palpable...I'll never forget).
I regret that time at Boy Scout camp when I shoved the kid off the rock step, into a thorny painful-looking bush, because I THOUGHT he had been saying something mean to my friend (I'm still not sure he said anything).
I regret not taking a swing at the kid picking a fight in the junior high school basketball court.
I regret giving up on writing very early on in my life to simply lose myself in self-hatred and depression (an event that lasts to this day!).
I regret not committing myself to grades and classes and learning in high school.
I regret taking a year off between high school and college (only to further my isolation from the world, people, etc.).
I regret lambasting my sister with 100 "c" words during a drunken angry escapade.
I regret that kiss I failed to plant.
I regret that job opportunity I bailed on after college.
I regret, well, I'm sure you get the idea. The point, I guess, is that what most people call the course of life, I lovingly refer to as Haunting Harry Regret Fest (Enter current year); not just an albatross but an entire mode of living...one I seemed doomed to wear until my brain melts into jelly and oozes from my ear.
And it may be strange to write this in blog format, or to write any of the things I've written thus far in blog format, because I'm not really a blogger, or a writer for that matter.
I don't regret that, or this, for whatever reason. But there's always time. It can always be added to the list later on.
Maybe the regret syndrome I've always seemed to suffer from (from about the age of 12) is just a mechanism for avoiding the present, or a rationalization for failing to prepare for the future.
Or maybe it's simply just a built-in feature of this magnetic personality I carry around in my suitcase every day; the one that beams light and jelly beans and candy canes and love throughout the land, and that smells of lust and cherry cola).
Maybe it's just a motherfucker. I made the mistake of sitting next to him on the bus one day, and now the motherfucker follows me EVERYWHERE, harping on every little thing like a madman with a microphone...
Motherfucker. What a country.
Regrettably yours,
BP
Next Time, on Fidget Spinner...I discussing plugging the hole in my soul with more useless garbage (hint: it doesn't really work).
re ipsa loquitor
How's that for circular? For my next trick...
I could probably find a way to rue the day I rued the day, or drown myself in regret over regretting the regrettable.
Sure, a large part of this constant, somewhat needless introspection is simply an controllable self-absorption; a compulsion to live within the world I've established in my head. You know, the one that revolves around ME.
I regret admitting that.
No, really.
Another may be the need to feed the beast. Whenever I feel stuck or trapped or angry or whatever, I can simply comb through the broken memory files in my head to find the one that may be the reason for my current situation. I jump back into that moment, turn down the lights and watch that event play in a loop, over and over again, and again, and again.
I over-analyze the mistake or misstep or error or judgment or REGRET until I'm sufficiently satisfied that it is indeed the reason for the season. I take it to heart, feel bad and lose myself in the muck.
I take SOLACE in the muck. I lap it up and stew in my own juices. The more time I devote to this "self-punishment" (comfort), the less I have to make an effort to change what's in front of me (that would be WAY too hard).
I need an editor. I regret not having an editor.
I would say, on average, that I engage in this activity several times a day, at the least. I become frustrated or pissed off or sad, see a potential opening for escape, avoid it and sink back into myself for some good ol' problem avoidance...
Ah...regret. My old friend (fiend).
I could sit here and tell you that the above is all true, and that my self-therapy session is nearing a close.
But that would be disingenuous. Sure, I do use regret as a tool for bypassing real action. And when I do, boy is it comfortable!
But regret isn't just a pudgy marshmallow beanbag chair protecting my fat ass from the truth. Neigh neigh. It's also an incredible motherfucker.
Sure, I regret the time I stuffed paper towels down into the heating vent in 3rd grade, losing the respect of my favorite teacher when I had somehow effectively blocked it from memory and failed to fess up (the disappointment oozing from her eyes was palpable...I'll never forget).
I regret that time at Boy Scout camp when I shoved the kid off the rock step, into a thorny painful-looking bush, because I THOUGHT he had been saying something mean to my friend (I'm still not sure he said anything).
I regret not taking a swing at the kid picking a fight in the junior high school basketball court.
I regret giving up on writing very early on in my life to simply lose myself in self-hatred and depression (an event that lasts to this day!).
I regret not committing myself to grades and classes and learning in high school.
I regret taking a year off between high school and college (only to further my isolation from the world, people, etc.).
I regret lambasting my sister with 100 "c" words during a drunken angry escapade.
I regret that kiss I failed to plant.
I regret that job opportunity I bailed on after college.
I regret, well, I'm sure you get the idea. The point, I guess, is that what most people call the course of life, I lovingly refer to as Haunting Harry Regret Fest (Enter current year); not just an albatross but an entire mode of living...one I seemed doomed to wear until my brain melts into jelly and oozes from my ear.
And it may be strange to write this in blog format, or to write any of the things I've written thus far in blog format, because I'm not really a blogger, or a writer for that matter.
I don't regret that, or this, for whatever reason. But there's always time. It can always be added to the list later on.
Maybe the regret syndrome I've always seemed to suffer from (from about the age of 12) is just a mechanism for avoiding the present, or a rationalization for failing to prepare for the future.
Or maybe it's simply just a built-in feature of this magnetic personality I carry around in my suitcase every day; the one that beams light and jelly beans and candy canes and love throughout the land, and that smells of lust and cherry cola).
Maybe it's just a motherfucker. I made the mistake of sitting next to him on the bus one day, and now the motherfucker follows me EVERYWHERE, harping on every little thing like a madman with a microphone...
Motherfucker. What a country.
Regrettably yours,
BP
Next Time, on Fidget Spinner...I discussing plugging the hole in my soul with more useless garbage (hint: it doesn't really work).
re ipsa loquitor
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