Myself As Another

Second, guilt is something that requires projection. In order for me to feel guilty for something, I have to project that I’ve harmed the life of another person. And by that I mean daily life. Or at least often. Maybe she’s still angry with me for breaking up with her like an asshole. I was. Maybe he blames me for expecting to much in the absence of love. For contributing to a death unredeemed. More simply, in guilt, I project that the transgression still operates in another person’s life. And as long as I think it affects them, I experience a certain level of guilt.

So then what’s it for? It’s some sort of emotional governor that compels people to want forgiveness. “I chose what I knew was wrong. I knew it would hurt you. I would do it differently. I wish I could. I am sorry.” It’s an odd gift. Ridding something awful. Offering something of value. Hopefully, value. Maybe even hope. Maybe it’s hope against that fear that I’m not the person I wish I were. Not hope that I might be that person I wish I were. But hope for something else instead. It has to be unrelated. Guilt can’t undo an acknowledged wrong. Neither can forgiveness.

Actually, I don’t think we can rid these heavy guilts. Not if we really accept them. That was me who did that wrong. That was me who is now me. This me is either still that me or this me born of that me. I can’t undo something done. An honest person can’t undo the past. Unless then didn’t understand it and now they do. So pray that you don’t understand what you think are your transgressions. Don’t talk yourself out of them. Get to the honest intention. The responsibility. Too often, there, I’ve found my own wrongs. And guilt. I neglected our friendship when I met her. You needed me. I knew both. I decided anyway. And that is the me of which this me is born. Can’t be undone. And so I live with it. And it changes me. Colors the colors of my day. Green is a different green. Yellow is a different yellow. But cottonwoods are still cottonwoods. And bananas are still bananas. So the guilt fades, not away, but into the emotional noise of everyday. And eventually, there is only green. And there is only yellow. And then something reminds me of the transgression, and I remember the other green and the other yellow and the me I thought I was. The life you lived before something changed because of me. Nostalgia is somewhere on the other side of guilt.

I wish this weren’t the way I understand guilt. I wish it were something I could slough. Something I could leave behind. Forget. And sometimes there is. When something happens, and I know the effects of my wrong have subsided. It doesn’t always happen. Sometimes never. Sometimes I have to talk myself into thinking that it must no longer operate in your life, in hers, in his.

And then maybe forgiveness. Maybe theirs of me. Maybe yours of me. Maybe mine of me.