Cureless Remorse -- Living With Yourself

 

Remorse--is Memory--awake

Part One: Life LXIX

Remorse - is Memory - awake -
Her Parties all astir -
A Presence of Departed Acts -
At window - and at Door -

Its Past - set down before the Soul
And lighted with a Match -
Perusal - to facilitate -
And help Belief to stretch -

Remorse is cureless - the Disease
Not even God - can heal -
For 'tis His institution - and
The Adequate of Hell -

Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.

I've never understood people who consider their past and say, “I wouldn't change a thing.” Are they perfect? Are they so free of guilt that they rest assured their mistakes are acceptable as grounds for personal trial-and-error life lessons? Do they dismiss words and actions that harmed … even crushed others? Do they ever regret those immature, rash things they did in the past that were simply wrong?

I do.

When one of these offenses slips back into my consciousness, I feeling remorseful and ashamed. And then, I wish so much I could change the hurt I have caused. This has nothing to do with religious contrition or penitence. It has everything to do with being consistent to living a righteous life and owning my shame. I believe – like the speaker in the poem – that remorse is a “cureless disease not even God can heal.” Alson, I think it is a necessary malady and an important part of the human existence.

I understand I cannot change a thing. The past is in the past: nothing will alter what has been done. Very early in life I was introduced to Kahlil Gibran, Lebanese-American writer and author of The Prophet. His words have always been a comfort to me in times of need …

“The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.”

– Kahlil Gibran

However, wisdom and belief still do not stem the flow of memory. Apologizing, practicing gratitude, learning from the past, forgiving myself – I've done many things to ease the burden of guilt. Still, I need to be responsible for my many mistakes. And, perhaps Dickinson got it right – this remorse is “God's Institution and The Adequate of Hell.” The creator gave us a conscience that bears a load of regret, and that sets us apart from all other creatures on the planet. We are meant to be moral beings with judgmental memories.

The fact that painful truths of memory are always vigilant and easily lit with the slightest triggers makes remorse an appropriate earthly counterpart of hell. And, perhaps, these scars on our souls are wounds that should never heal because they serve to remind us not to engage in further questionable behavior.

Feeling regret reminds me to think carefully about my decisions and not make the same mistakes again. I think I learn something about myself when I feel regret although sometimes all I conclude is that the pain I feel reliving these errors is fair retribution for having committed them.

I have learned to employ a means of letting go. I find it necessary to do this at times to save my sanity. If you have ever found yourself on the brink of overwhelming regret, you realize you are worthless unless you find a way to face a new day and use your experience to move ahead.

My ultimate dismissal – letting go – is what I call “Fuck It.” This is not pretty, and it's not meant to be used for just any old mistake. To me, this is for the big sin for which I cannot excuse myself. This vow is for the monumentally regrettable action I took, tried over and over to amend, but that still gnaws at my soul and daily interrupts my life. After having suffered so much regret over this major mistake in my life that I get both physically and mentally ill, I have learned to say:

“Fuck it. I and no one else is perfect. I would change it at once if I could, but all of my further remorse won't cancel 'half a line.' So, yep, I was very, very wrong. I must own this mistake, and now I must swallow the pain of understanding the damage I have done and try never to make a mistake like that again. God will judge me after I die for my sin. However, here on earth I give up worrying about future contrition. I have to simply say, 'Fuck It' and return to keep on keeping on.”

This vow does not completely stop the pain of remorse, but, for me, it can reduce it to manageable levels. It's not about forgetting the mistake. It's about living with it; it's about moving on; and it's about hope for continuing to live a righteous life.

Ideally, we must limit our sins and mistakes. I can't imagine living a life in which I selfishly followed the whims of my id and my ego. I am a firm believer in doing the right thing. At times, this is extremely difficult, yet it is my obligation.

And, yes, I would change many things in my past if I could. I firmly believe remorse should be a part of everyone's experience. It's a stone cold reminder of our obligations to others. I have absolutely no reason to blame anyone else for the biggest blunders of my life. I caused my own regrets: I was fully conscious that I stepped over the line at the time I hurt those around me … including inflicting hardships on friends and relatives.

I want to leave the reader with one understanding I can guarantee. As I age, I can see more clearly the impact of my past mistakes. As I age, I also find myself having a growing sensitivity to the nature of a cruel word or a careless act. Things that I have done mean more now that I am a senior. The memories of things I did “then” but would never do “now” haunt me for good reason. I should have known better. If you are young and sometimes reckless, I can assure you a day will come when you will question how you could have once been so headstrong and heartless.

So, it is with a conviction to do better that I plot the rest of my 70-year-old life. Of course, I still make my share of mistakes; however, I am a more careful and cautious now because I am very mindful of Dickinson's “Presence of Departed Acts.” Occasionally I suffer through the memory of my most regretful sins – they can still elicit horror in their gory detail. I carry them with me as I should.

Thank God for poets who find the right words for every possible situation. They give us the strength to hold up our weary heads and walk on. With that declaration, I leave the last words of this entry to the voice of America, the long-departed Carl Sandburg, who shows us the gravel beneath our feet on the road that stretches ahead.

The Road and the End

By Carl Sandburg (1878-1967)

I shall foot it

Down the roadway in the dusk,

Where shapes of hunger wander

And the fugitives of pain go by.

I shall foot it

In the silence of the morning,

See the night slur into dawn,

Hear the slow great winds arise

Where tall trees flank the way

And shoulder toward the sky.

The broken boulders by the road

Shall not commemorate my ruin.

Regret shall be the gravel under foot.

I shall watch for

Slim birds swift of wing

That go where wind and ranks of thunder

Drive the wild processionals of rain.

The dust of the travelled road

Shall touch my hands and face.