Guilt is a four-letter word in my books.
It’s the one thing that drives me mad about myself. I feel guilty about everything and it’s a terrible affliction that only I can control, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The minute I stop feeling guilty about one thing, another one pops up to fill the void. Apparently, I once ordered two tons of guilt to fall on my shoulders every January for the rest of my life and I have since lost the order form to cancel it.
Everyone feels guilty about something. And those who don’t, feel guilty about it. They know they should, so what’s wrong? Are they not sensitive enough? Are they cold fish? Are they sociopaths?
The only thing that gives me comfort is knowing that most humans running around this Earth are busy with this mental condition as well. But how did we get this way? What comfort do we derive in ruminating about not spending enough time with our kids, our parents, our grandparents or our friends or our pets? The only thing it does is make us feel lousy about ourselves.
Then, a talking head comes on television to tell us we should be taking care of ourselves first. If we don’t look after ourselves, how are we going to look after anyone else? So, there’s something else to fret about. I’m not just ignoring my posse, I’m ignoring moi.
I should be going to yoga retreats, or meditation retreats, or spa retreats or retreat retreats. But even if I could afford to, should I spend that money on myself when the kids could always use some, or Hubby needs a new lawn mower, or another charity needs it or one more crowdfunding message pops up?
When should we stop feeding the birds? They are outside now looking forlornly at the feeders. How can you ignore a bawling fat cat, even when you know he’s fat? How do you say no to a cashier who asks you to donate to the IWK, or the Salvation Army, even though you’ve given donations five times this week?
It’s impossible not to feel like a heel if you don’t have a hot meal on the table when the troops come in the door. Or if your kids have more than one hole in their socks. Or if you can’t make a baseball practice because you’re on a stretcher in the emergency room.
It’s always the same when my sister or Hubby’s brother call us from Ontario.
“When are you two coming up this way?”
“Hopefully this year. How are the grandchildren? They must be three by now.”
“Adrien is going into junior high, Chloe is off to space camp this summer and the baby starts kindergarten in the fall.”
“You’re joking?! How’s Snoopy?”
“Snoopy’s been dead for five years now. You haven’t met Sherman yet, our now middle-aged bull mastiff.”
Good gravy. Now I’m mad at everyone for putting so much pressure on me. I can’t be everywhere at once! I have important things to do and important places to go. I can’t think of any at the moment, but still.
The guilt that’s bothering me the most lately is trying to decide what to do with my mother’s glassware. She left me an entire credenza filled with cornflower blue glasses. Glasses that are too small to be meaningful in today’s mega, gallon-sized world. And I know for a fact that my kids don’t want them. The glasses stare at me when I’m watching television. “Don’t you dare throw us out! What would your mother say?”
The fact that I can’t remember my mother ever using these glasses, except for maybe Christmas dinner, doesn’t help. I could give them away, but that would be like throwing my mother out the door in a blue box on recycle day. I can see her now, calling for help from the curb.
It’s the same thing with our parent’s old photo albums. I could never throw any of them out, which means my kids will be stuck with 20 boxes of pictures and a lot of them will be of people they never even met.
Funny how I don’t feel guilty about that. It’s payback for all their junk I still have cluttering up my house because they don’t want it cluttering up their houses.
Lesley Crewe is a writer living in, and loving, Cape Breton. These are the meandering musings of a bored housewife whose ungrateful kids left her alone with a retired husband and two fat cats who couldn’t care less. Her novel, Beholden, is being released this fall.
