I Fucked Up Thoroughly and Regret It Deeply.

I'm flogged by regret, an almost nonstop ribbon of internal discourse that flavors everything I filter and process, almost all interactions, and most certainly, how I view my current position in life on a more macro level.  My default is self-blame, assumption of inadequacy, and intense disassociation.  It is difficult to embed myself, find meaning, and feel excited in a way that is not put on, manufactured, or that doesn't immediately collapse into meandering highly self-critical metaphorical lashings of self.

It is impossible to shake completely, coming back at moments when I feel like I've shed it, finally, and making its way into the crevices that I was too slipshod to fill completely with consistency.  See, I can't do anything about it--my years of being ridiculously self-absorbed, unknowingly gorging myself on all sorts of somewhat evil consumptive pastimes, and being an asshole, even and especially when I thought of myself as completely garrulous, hugely social, and friendly to the tee, well--those years cannot be undone.  I cannot choose to make better decisions. They won't unfold.  . I changed the course of something that had promise and allowed open and authentic possibility, and turned it into something else; something with walls.

Not that I'm really terribly unhappy with where things are! Although I know it doesn't seem so when re-reading the above. Or that I don't feel, even, that my sense of regret is really an insidious sense of wanting to have more, do better, and generally feed the old selfish self that lurks never-ending in the sewer pipes of my daily dreams, the self who desires power for power's sake.  And yes, I'm entirely too hard on myself, almost all the time, and yes, I can see this behavior in others and absolutely give them solid real advice when I tell them not to be too hard on themselves.  And so. There is no conclusion here.  Sorry.