Those Old Regrets

Daily, an old regret will surface, a sudden flashing of I Wish I Had Done That Differently. I’m the sort of person who likes to check myself, take inventory, and grow. I dig and compose a list of regrets, starting with childhood.

 Some make no sense. Like the time when I was five and my mother gave me one of her old compacts, a gold metal one with a cracked mirror. I was thrilled at the gift, for me, not my older sister. Such a pretty thing. I immediately opened and closed it, walking throughout the house, pulling the clasp open, and snapping the compact shut. Open, shut, open, shut. A sliver of the broken mirror got caught and flew into my eye. I found my mother in the kitchen and told her I had glass in my eye. She replied, “No, you don’t.” She didn’t look, but kept peeling carrots.  I could feel the fragment, resting in the corner of my right eye. I told Mom, pointing to the spot. She frowned, glanced at the eye, and said, “Don’t be silly.”

She didn’t believe me. I didn’t understand why. It’s not like I regularly lied to her. In fact, I told her almost everything.

 I walked away and worked at the eye myself, coaxing out the glass. Sure enough, a teeny weeny piece appeared, stuck to my wet fingertip. I went back to the kitchen and showed her. “You shouldn’t have been playing with the glass,” she said, her tone harsh. Then, “Go wash your hands.”

 I felt bad for messing with the compact, snapping it. Perhaps I could have closed it gently or simply looked at my fractured self and pretended to put on lipstick. I also felt horrible for whatever about me made my mother not kneel beside me with concern and help me.

Now that I’m an adult, logic tells me that my mother’s behavior was not my fault, I was a child. She failed in providing parental protection. But that incident wedged itself inside me back then, rubbing my heart and soul raw for decades. I was unlovable and I wanted to be loved.

Maybe the compact incident helped form my poor behaviors to seek approval from others, a chance to be recognized and appreciated. This led to another of my regrets. In second grade, I had a friend, Dale, who I walked home from school with for two years. A sweet boy with a slew of brothers and a sister, all of them alike with slim frames and dark hair. I’d go to his house to play. He and his siblings were kind and fun. He was not popular, being scrawny, awkward, and shy. I was not popular, either, being sullen, withdrawn, and needy.

A well-liked classmate approached me one day at recess and asked why I was friendly with Dale. She said it made me look stupid, her words hinting I would be accepted by her and the other cool kids if I rejected him. These fifty years later, I still play the scene over of Dale coming up to me that afternoon, ready to walk home together, me telling him “No.” He asked if I’d rather ride, maybe his mom would pick us up, and I said, “No.” I gave him no further explanation. A cold dismissal. He left, dejected, and we never spoke again.

Did my actions make any difference with the “in” crowd? No. No recognition or approval. No new invites or cafeteria buddies. I was still weird. And unhappy. And alone. I grieved the loss of a friendship I valued, but made no attempt to repair it.

 A few years ago, I happened to share with my therapist another long-held regret when I was nineteen of not attending my grandmother’s funeral. It was in Chicago. I lived in Texas. But I happened to be home in Missouri visiting that week. My grandmother was the one true gem in my childhood, but at nineteen I was afraid to leave my Missouri friends and miss out on potential outings. Also, I didn’t want to leave my husband alone with my mother-in-law. She didn’t care for me much for “taking my son away.” So my motive for not going came also from spite and fear.

My therapist let me berate myself about this old incident, but then asked what I could do to forgive myself, to let myself off the hook. Really? A way to let it go? She nodded. She said it’s never too late to move forward, that I could find a way to honor her.

I thought of a happy time with my grandmother when I was young. She had a squirrel that came to her back door begging for food, which delighted me. I thought my grandmother must be like one of those saints who animals are attracted to, and I brimmed with pride about her special gift.

As an amends, I bought a tasteful squirrel sculpture and put it in a tree by my front door. I said a few words of gratitude to my grandmother, thanking her for her goodness and sunshine. I told her I was so sorry not to pay my last respects. It was painful at first to see the squirrel statue each day when I came home from work, but then it began to make me smile, the surprise of it hidden on a branch, waiting to greet me.

That black hole in my chest slowly healed.

It reminded me I can still work on the others.

This week, I looked up Dale on Facebook. His photograph shows the same gentle smile and innocent expression.

It brought me to tears.

I wallowed again in guilt, the shame of my betrayal washing over me.

It took me a few minutes, but the solution came to me.

I sent a friend request