Guilt

Guilt.  Here’s something I am so uncomfortable with and yet feel it too often.  Guilt about what?  I’m really not guilty of much, but I make myself feel guilty about much.  Not sure if that’s understandable?  If I forget to get something done, or if I procrastinate, or if I don’t call someone back right away.  These are all guilt creators.  Nothing major, but they cause my stomach to feel like it’s knots and those knots won’t go away.  I used to eat them and throw them up, but without that “out” now, I have to deal with them.  I have to face them.  I can’t hide behind the mask anymore.  Working out helps somewhat, taking time to be reclusive doesn’t.

It’s awful.  An example.  I don’t call my parents for a week.  The longer I don’t call, the more difficult it is to call.  I get nervous, afraid to hear a cold voice on the other line because I’ve been remiss in my duties as a daughter.  And every day that goes by that I put it off, the feeling gets stronger in my stomach.  So why, you ask, don’t you just make that call?  Exactly.  Simple answer.  When I do it never is as bad as I anticipated, at least not after the first few lines spoken that are obviously awkward.

Here I am 48 years old and I still feel guilt when it comes to doing things my parents wouldn’t approve of.  Can you believe it?  I had moved away from all the family for a while, including my children.  I have three.  They’re older now, but I just wanted a reason not to have to be there, to be judged.  Feeling intuitively what others think about you brings another uncomfortable feeling of guilt for not being to them what you want to be.

I don’t have an answer to the guilt factor.  That’s one I’ve never resolved.  I just live with the tummy knots, grin and bare it.  Anyone out there have a solution?

Anger

This follows boredom, and it’s short.  By the way,  I haven’t been bored lately.  So I’m going to write about #4 now on my list of 5.  Anger.  I let go of a lot of anger I used to have.  But back in my bullimiaddict days I felt it.  It was so deep in my stomach that I don’t even know that my bulimia managed to suppress it.  Maybe for a while.  I still feel it.  More now than then.  It’s that gut wrench.  It’s the anger that you want lash out at.  I realized though that there’s a way to do it that makes sense.  Working out.  And this is where I end this one.  Let go, let God.