Guilt

I finally got an email from my parents. It was a simple email, inquiring about my sprained ankle and the flooding happening in Massachusetts. It spoke volumes in what was said and what was not said. The email seemed to say to me “We care about you. We are thinking of you. We love you.” It did not say “We got your letter. We had no idea that we hurt you. We are sorry.”

When I closed my email and went to bed that night, I left a door open and guilt snuck in as I slept. I awoke smothered in it and carried it around all day. A myriad of guilty voices spoke to me throughout the day, saying “I'm not trying hard enough to fix this relationship. It is my fault entirely. I should be grateful to have anything from them. Why don’t they love me? Imust be the good daughter.” The weight of this guilt was tremendous.

The guilt worked by separating my entire history into seperate incidents not related the the whole. Looking at such small sections of my life, it was easy to then feel guilty for my actions. Looking at only a fraction of the puzzle, the full picture was not evident and it was easy to see my actions as over the top. It was not until I was half way through my therapy session that I realized how guilt had disassembled my history and disarmed me. The second I saw everything together, the guilt vanished and I could cope with my parents’ limited response.

They may only be able to express interest in a small section of me. I can tolerate that to a point but if they slight my marriage, my history, or my homosexuality, I will tell them again. And next time, I will be on the look out for open doors that the guilt may sneak through.