We all have shameful things in our past the memories of which will torment us because we know that we cannot undo them or erase them. Shame is a domineering mistress, and self-forgiveness is not something that we develop organically, rather it is a skill that once acquired has to be practiced over and over, and I am not sure that we ever master, but we can get better at it.
Relationships can both be our greatest source of joy and the bane of our existence. Most of the shame or guilt that I carry stems from my perceived failure to maintain an enduring relationship. It is yet another tug of war between my head and my heart. My head rationally understands that one person is never responsible for the failure of a relationship, It takes two, and fault is not the correct word in the first place. Incompatibility is very probable whenever two individuals who have different backgrounds and who perceive the world through differing lenses come together. Negotiating the differences is a huge challenge. Sometimes it is successful, other times it is not, but when it is not, it is not an issue of blame or fault finding, it is an issue of incompatibility.
Good on my intellect for that insight! Unfortunately, my heart translates information quite differently, and it has chosen to plague me with an amalgam of guilt, shame, distress, a tendency to revisit unceasingly all of my failed relationships with “what-if’s,” and, peculiarly, a pining for what was or might have been.
Once upon a time, a girl met a talented, intelligent, eclectic, intriguing man. He was an art photographer who earned a living working with his hands as a mechanic, and he sculpted on the side. He came from an artistic and very political large Irish family, and although very close to his family, he was the black sheep in many ways. He lived in what can be describes as a quaint cabin near a stream in a wooded area with railroad tracks in the distance. He was that brand of virility that hunts, and fishes, and camps in a tent.( as opposed to my preferred method of glamping) In a previous life, he had been a DJ and shared my passion for music. He had a vinyl collection that numbered over 2000. He smelled like fire, and pine needles, and some rustic cologne that gave me a sense of comfort every time he walked into a room. I fell for him when he recognized the line I quoted offhandedly from an obscure poem that I love by Frost. I said “Some mystery becomes the proud,” and he replied without skipping a beat “but to be wholly taciturn in your reserve is not allowed.” I later discovered shelves of poetry in his house, the pages well- worn that had been passed down to him by his father. His father also passed down to him a legacy of alcoholism. He had been 27 years sober when I met him, a survivor of the disease that claims so many and releases few. Unfortunately, (and this is strictly my opinion backed by some research, and experiences that I had via witnessing AA meetings first hand), AA helps many to deal with their alcohol addiction; however, at the same time, it does not address or encourage individuals to seek help for the underlying reasons for the addiction. The disease alters brain chemistry such that addicts are more prone to become addicted should they start drinking, it DOES NOT, however, drive people to the liquor store to buy booze or cause people to drink. Other issues in the individual’s life or family structure lay at the root, and if those issues are not addressed, addicts continue with the inability to regulate their emotions, with risk taking behavior, with substituting the drug of choice with other addictions, explosive anger, low self- concept, low threshold for rejection, hypersensitivity etc.
So there I was loving this person and his family. I do not know how to love any other way than unconditionally and with every fiber of my being. It is how I am wired. Not to play armchair psychiatrist, but his parents had gotten divorced when he was six. It affected him profoundly as did the fact that his father did not show up for scheduled visits, instead leaving him hopeful and expectant waiting for hours only to be rejected, stood up, and heartbroken time and again. His mother did the best she could raising a small boy alone on a less than adequate salary. He was what they called “ a bread bag kid,” because they couldn’t purchase new boots every winter, so they stuffed bread bags in his shoes to keep them dry which no doubt precipitated his sense of shame and not being “good enough” being the poor kid in school. They hunted and fished to survive. He blamed his mother because she worked a lot to support them, and that meant she was absent, and even though she tried to see to it that he had mentors (Big Brother/Big Sisters) and family, children need somewhere to vent their frustrations, and she was available. He also blamed himself for the divorce I think. His anger turned to rage in adolescence, and his outlet became alcohol. One night in a fit of drunken rage and self-loathing, he tore his mother’s house apart ripping up family albums specifically tearing his own face out of every photo. That outburst initiated his being placed in rehab and started his recovery process. The anger, self-loathing, insecurity, and fear of rejection simmered right beneath the surface feeding irrational thought processes which resulted in the relationship we had ending after four years. He interpreted my intelligence as condescension, my natural inclination towards witty sarcasm as belittling, my penchant for discussion as treating him as though he was “an idiot.” Compliments were processed with caution and suspicion. He could not believe good things about himself and did not trust them coming from an outside source. He was a beautiful soul plagued by demons for which he never received help.
Love is patient, love is kind, love hopeth all things, believeth all things, endureth all things… I lived it until the enduring part wore me down. He was good to me. He loved me. This I know, but the unprovoked anger, the feelings of unworthiness, the insecurity, and the low self-concept were all things that preceded my existence in his life, and issues that were not mine to address. He needed counseling to heal from the lingering pain that manifested as anger, and to learn how to receive love. My brain knows this, and it also knows that my leaving that relationship was the right thing to do; however, my heart still misses him and his family. My heart still worries about him and questions whether I could have been more patient, shown more empathy. If he had suffered a physical illness I would have stayed and nursed him through it, so why did I not “’til death do us part” love him as unconditionally as I professed to have done?
His art still hangs on my walls. I still have access to his mother even though out of loyalty to him she will not talk directly to me, but rather leaves comments on my social media page. The past week for whatever reason he has been in my consciousness a lot. He is one who does not under any circumstances forgive. I am dead to him and in his mind I abandoned him probably just like his father did years ago and therefore I am public enemy number 1. That torments me. I failed him somehow and living with it hurts me ever so much more than it does him.
Coming off Citalopram / Antidepressants
Horrible off sertraline 
Off-topic: The pileated woodpecker
Tapering off antidepressants 
Wanting to get off drugs
