On the one hand, I tell myself that given who I was, I couldn’t have acted differently in the past. There’s no reason to regret. In the present moment, I feel like I have free-will, but when I look over my life, it all seems fated.
Sometimes, a sense of loss overwhelms me and at those times I just give off an aura of sadness and despair. I wish there had been an intervention much earlier in my life and gotten me to psycho-therapy so I could learn new ways of relating to people, so I don’t just carry on the patterns of my parents.
Much of the time I spend thinking about the past is for the purpose of writing. So I use my regret and sadness and anger as fuel for creation.
I don’t endless replay scenes from my past unless I’m writing them up. I don’t spend much time thinking about what if. I don’t play out dream responses to situations I failed.
I write so much and so intensely as a compensation for my intimacy disorder. As a friend told me many years ago, “If you ever get healthy, you’ll write less.”
As I’ve gotten healthier over the past few years, I’ve blogged less.
