Compunction..

There is an unrelenting guilt: a constant, violent criticism of self that chases me like a hare and nibbles me to death like a snake. And, it is entirely self-created, the guilt of day to day, trivial episodes, blown out of proportion, that back burner and pile up into a crushing load of regret. It is the guilt of not getting back to a text or missed calls. It is the crushing swirl of what I should have said, or the way I said it, that overshadows the present and infects it with the irrelevant, the long dead, the not yet come.

A particularly torturous memory is of waking up to seeing that someone had texted ‘hi’ just six hours before she died. If I had answered her, if I had asked what was wrong, if I would have checked to see how she was. Too many ifs, just too many. This is the hell of derealisation. The feeling that my thoughts are slipping, like sand, through my fingers. I think of someone far away calling for me, and long to respond and see them safe but I am cautious not to move too quickly in case it is not real. I am conscious of ‘what-ifs’ and ‘if-onlys’. These are possible worlds that I cannot turn into fact. I must live with the regret of not having been there. This is the hell of dereliction. The reminders that things could have been different, that the future was never secured.

Incessant analysis is part of who I am. I have always overthought things, and although it has certainly become more of a supporting characteristic as I have aged, it is little more than a persisting flu that has hung around for years. I am not referring to a full on psychological ‘problem’ but the tendency my brain has for dissecting a conversation, or an interaction, in an attempt to recreate it, apply hindsight, and generally be critical of either me, them, or, frankly, anyone involved. I will replay words I uttered; the tone I used and how that inflection might come across; the way I might have appeared, to then invariably beat myself up for having likely made an absolute prat out of myself. Did I say the right thing? Was it the right reaction? Did I give the wrong impression? Careful examination of the past does little more than prevent one from enjoying the present and, what is worse, set up future interactions in the same self-consciously trepidatious and poised to implode manner. The fear of saying the wrong thing, or how someone might interpret something said by the ‘wrong’ person, seems to have become a self-perpetuating disorder.

The pressure from it all: be it the boss, mother, office security, even the guy who drops me home daily: perpetually adds to the sense of guilt I feel for not living up, or the constant need to live up to those possibilities and prevent the negative consequences of me failing. My fear of being a disappointment to someone, at some level, is central to every encounter or engagement, at every moment of the day. It is hard to picture it any other way, whether at work or in my personal life. It is hard to see myself as a person capable of failing. It is as if the very thought of letting people down goes beyond the possibility of humiliation, reaching the depth of depression. To be completely honest, I always end up playing to whatever fulfils the expectations of people from the world I move in: colleagues, manager, family, parents: however valid or not the expectations may be. And all this, at the expense of numerous sacrifices to make myself available to meet the demands of those around me.

This everyday habit of re-reading every conversation and text message, replaying words spoken earlier in the day, scrutinising every iota of communication with others is the tip of a never ending  cycle of self recrimination. It is never enough to simply dwell in this feeling alone: it is a vicious cycle, which feeds itself back into itself becoming the sole source of its own nourishment.

The self-recriminating individual exists in a constant state of anxiety from anxious discussion about the actions they perpetrated and their motives behind them. This anxiety does not just cause me to mentally suffer, but it adversely affects the quality of my life. Because of this, it has been difficult to maintain close relationships with people, which is hard to admit because I am one of those individuals who are socially bonded and friendly. I can walk miles for a meet-up with anyone; it is the simple things like wondering whether this step might accidentally trap me in a stairwell of anxiety that I will invariably fall prey to. It is like walking on eggshells, ever conscious of the possibility of my impending collapse into the pit of my inescapable guilt.

But, breaking out of this walled-in prison is not easy. This is my brain: who am I to question it? I am learning to consciously catch myself every time my mind starts overanalysing something, castigating me for what would normally be seen as a ‘normal’ error. I am going easy on myself, knowing that no one is perfect; that I do not have to have the answer to everything all the time; and that it is a very good thing that I am not everywhere at once. I am ‘being the worse me’. I am trying to let myself be human.

It is going to be a long road, towards encouraging myself to be compassionate and accepting, and stopping seeing the guilt and dregs of my imperfections as a burden rather than the evidence of the humanity I am born with. It means unlearning the study of my faults and the practice of feeling displeased with myself, to be able to be free in the present with a clear slate. I am not expecting myself to reach this state overnight, but I am looking forward to the day when the great guilt, the clenched and pointless fists of anxiety, will be allowed to float off from me in wisps like I am letting go of the barge at the end of a terrible festival.