People love to talk about how it’s better to go out on a limb than have the regret of not having done so. But what about the regret of having gone out on said limb, fallen, broken your fucking neck and then being up to your broken fucking neck in pain, bills and regret?
I’ve been away from writing for quite a few days now. Apparently my getting laid isn’t so good for this blog… my sexual frustration did kind of lead me to start writing this, so that makes sense. But here I am. I looked at my “stats” and saw that I’ve had 3 visitors today, and with 1 being from South Africa and 1 being from Canada, my thoughts turned to regret.
I moved to South Africa for a man when I was 30. He turned out to be truly despicable, he was cheating on me and wouldn’t even tell me if he had been safe, said it wasn’t any of my business, despite the fact that he had been fucking me in the ass without a condom. Thank fuck I didn’t get AIDS.
So that is a regret. I was unsure if it was the right thing to do but I didn’t want to regret not trying so I tried. And I regret it.
I moved to Canada for a man when I was 39. Older and just as stupid, apparently. He was not despicable. But it wasn’t right. I knew before I moved that it didn’t feel right. But yet again I thought I should try so I wouldn’t regret not trying. And I regret it!
I had lost both my parents when I was 37 (mom) & 38 (dad), as in they died, not I wasn’t sure which aisle they were in at Safeway. I was devastated. I still am, I miss my mom every fucking day, and I lament the fact that my dad never loved me and now never will. I was not in a great space those years. When I met the Canadian I thought it was going to fill the hole in my heart, in my life, to be with him. And he actually is a very good man. But I have never been so bored in my life. I was catatonic. I shut down. I had blown up my whole life and didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have my mom to help me get back on my feet like I did with the South Africa disaster.
I gave up my rent controlled San Francisco apartment to move to Canada, and my Pilates practice that I ran from home. When I went back to SF the rents were going crazy, from always being crazy already. After 2 years of hard work to get my life back I realized I would not be able to afford even a shitty studio in the Tenderloin. This led me to move to Portland. This all I often regret. I’m still, 4 years after moving to Portland, trying to build a life that I’m happy and proud of. Not very successfully, sadly.
No on talks about the chances they took that didn’t pan out and fill them with regret and questions like “Did I ruin my life forever?” “Can I ever get my shit back together again?” and my personal favorite “Why am I so fucking stupid?” plague me. I’ve kind of been hermiting for a few years now, afraid to even try too much of anything for fear of regretting actions I can’t undo. I’m coming out of my cave and trying to open up to life again but it’s hard to trust people. It’s hard to trust myself.
I wish I was smarter. Or at least had better judgement. Or was maybe psychic. I want to know that something I do won’t tear the fabric of my life apart and leave my ass flapping in the wind. If I start worrying about what I didn’t do having such dire consequences I’ll stop being able to leave my house. But I don’t want to live in fear. I want to trust myself. I want to feel like life is something beautiful to enjoy, not a choose your own adventure novel that I’ve made every wrong possible choice in and am now dead in a ditch somewhere. But this is an improvement from a few years ago when being dead in a ditch somewhere sounded better than living my life. I guess that’s improvement.
p.s I would actually love to know who in Canada and South Africa are looking at my blog, I half wonder if it’s these exes, which is insane but just how my mind works.