An avid mountain climber, my brother-in-law can put together a backpack with the minimalist of vital needs. The pack, however, is still painfully heavy. At least to a weak-backed person like me. I put on his pack one day and literally fell over backwards in the weight of it. That backpack experience is a metaphor for my experience with guilt.
I have spent most of my life feeling guilty. I thought the older I got the less the guilt would effect me. It has not. Guilt from being born a girl-my dad wanted a boy and told me so throughout my childhood. Guilt for having to ask for help-not knowing how to solve some things on my own. Guilt for getting sick-like I am somehow in control over that. Guilt for allowing myself to feel good when I accomplished something and guilt for pain when things have hurt me. I feel guilty for being tall, having a clear complexion, for spending most of my life being able to eat what I wanted, and now I feel guilt because they anti-psychotic drugs have changed that and my size has slowly increased. Guilt for having a husband who loves me-no matter how horrible I am and kids who aren’t on drugs (at least not now.)
It is as if a judge and jury have declared me permanently guilty in all I do and for who I am. That’s just for normal living. It does not include all the sometimes irrational and sinful things I do. Carrying myself under all this heavy guilt has left me exhausted, threatening the energy I need to help in my recovery.
Many times I have successfully removed the clothes, laying down the guilt of heavy feelings blanketing my soul. The lifted burden has engaged me in healthy thinking choices, and relationships. Unfortunately, like an addiction, I relapse back into its power taking it on each path I go. Generating the strength to discard comes in ceasing my negotiations with each activating attempt at control. Letting a different CD play in my mind (I would say tape, but I am trying to stay with the times) gives me back the power the guilt has taken.
An avid mountain climber, my brother-in-law can put together a backpack with the minimalist of vital needs. The pack, however, is still painfully heavy. At least to a weak-backed person like me. I put on his pack one day and literally fell over backwards in the weight of it. That backpack experience is a metaphor for my experience with guilt.
I have spent most of my life feeling guilty. I thought the older I got the less the guilt would effect me. It has not. Guilt from being born a girl-my dad wanted a boy and told me so throughout my childhood. Guilt for having to ask for help-not knowing how to solve some things on my own. Guilt for getting sick-like I am somehow in control over that. Guilt for allowing myself to feel good when I accomplished something and guilt for pain when things have hurt me. I feel guilty for being tall, having a clear complexion, for spending most of my life being able to eat what I wanted, and now I feel guilt because they anti-psychotic drugs have changed that and my size has slowly increased. Guilt for having a husband who loves me-no matter how horrible I am and kids who aren’t on drugs (at least not now.)
It is as if a judge and jury have declared me permanently guilty in all I do and for who I am. That’s just for normal living. It does not include all the sometimes irrational and sinful things I do. Carrying myself under all this heavy guilt has left me exhausted, threatening the energy I need to help in my recovery.
Many times I have successfully removed the clothes, laying down the guilt of heavy feelings blanketing my soul. The lifted burden has engaged me in healthy thinking choices, and relationships. Unfortunately, like an addiction, I relapse back into its power taking it on each path I go. Generating the strength to discard comes in ceasing my negotiations with each activating attempt at control. Letting a different CD play in my mind (I would say tape, but I am trying to stay with the times) gives me back the power the guilt has taken.