What do you do when you’ve done something bad? Really bad. Not, like, the worst thing that’s ever been done. (Hello, Hitler. (Might as well prove Godwin’s law in my first post. (I’ve always been an overachiever.))) Moreover, what do I do, when I’ve done the worst thing I’ve ever done? Other than make sure nothing like it ever happens again.
I hurt someone, and I can’t make that not have happened, much as I wish I could. Much as I might have (read: definitely did) suggest building a Quantum Leap-type multiverse-hopping machine to allow myself to find and bodyswap a parallel universe Bree who didn’t do this thing as a potential coping mechanism to my therapist.
I was mostly kidding.
I’m usually mostly kidding. Or at least, trying to make the shitty reality more palatable giving it a punchline. This is a real, actual, therapist-validated coping mechanism. Whether it’s a good one is up for debate.
So here I am, in the aftermath. Trying a find a way to move on. Trying to find a way to make amends. Trying, still, to make the ugly truth more palatable. But it’s not really funny.
So, I guess this blog is me. Trying to be better. Trying to do better. Using this mistake, this, yes, self-loathing, as a sort of springboard to self-improvement.
A chronicle of my attempts to improve this fucked up brain and/or its weathered, wearied, damaged skin suit? Maybe. A review of various and sundry self-help books? Perhaps.
A written history of my attempts to at least leave this hunk of celestial rock hurtling through the vastness of space a little better, on balance, than I found it? And maybe, at some point, hate myself a little less? I hope.
I guess that’s Step 1. Find a little hope.
Better Living Through Self-Loathing 
All we can do is move forward – whatever direction forward happens to be for us – in the moment.
My crisis happened when I was 12: I said something that got recorded on a tape recorder, then played (multiple times) in front of my whole then-local extended family. After that, I was shunned… excluded from most family activities thereafter (I’ve attended funerals, and have left directly after ceremonies).
Funny thing is: the cousin I said those things about? We’ve been close friends even since then – they realized I meant nothing by my words.
I’m 48 now, and suddenly the rest of my family want me back in the fold. After 36 years, I’m expected to pick up and be engaged with the family as if none of this happened. Thirty-six years is a long time to let someone languish, so … no thanks.
I realized that sometimes you just have to make amends with yourself, and let that be enough. I’m still working on that to this day, so I feel you here. Oh do I feel you.
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