Guilt

I was the first Clark grandchild.   I didn’t understand what that meant, until understanding didn’t matter anymore.   I got off to a bad start as a procreator of the next generation of Clark's, might even had been seen as a disappointment.   But it wasn’t entirely my fault .  I got off to an uncertain start because of my Dad.

Even though Dad was a loud-mouth bully, Gramma Clark loved him.  Of course, she had to; she was his mother after all.  And to be fair, he treated her well, or as well as he was capable of.  He competed for attention with his older sister (June); the middle sister (BettyRose) he was nice to when he needed a favor or an errand run; the youngest sister (Marianne) he ignored until she was old enough to run errands.  He got along with his brother (Clarence) who, though a year or so younger, was much tougher.  The baby brother (Bobby) he bullied unmercifully.

Then I show up, my Dad’s kid, gonna be just like his Dad, I guess some of them thought.  I wonder how many of the childhood rebukes and punishments I received, though probably well deserved, were directed more toward dear ole’ Dad, than toward me.  But not Gramma.  She was all a grandmother was supposed to be, from unconditional love to the smell of fresh-baked bread in her kitchen. 

 

I saw Gramma regularly after my parents divorced.  I lived with my mother, but Dad had custody on week-ends.  That meant my sister and I spent Friday night at Dad’ apartment.  Saturday morning he dropped us off at Gramma’s, and went about his business.  Sunday he retrieved us, and returned us to our mother.

As an adult my visits became sporadic, I might drop in to say hello, if I was in the neighborhood, but I rarely planned a visit.  My visits got further and further apart.  Often I thought I should go and see Gramma, it’s been a while.  But I never got around to it.  And before I did get around to it, she died.

I was sad enough about Gramma’s death, then I learned Gramma thought, because I hadn’t come to visit her in so long, she had done something to upset me, and she worried about what that might be.  So, there was the guilt that is part of the grieving process, and on top of that there is a layer of shouldacouldawoulda guilt.  I still carry remnants of it around.

Now guilt is good, if it helps you do better in the future.  Unfortunately, I learned about the concept of guilt in Catholic schools.  For grades 1-3, I attended St. Gerard's School.  My only memory of St. Gerard's is peeing in my pants. I don't recall whether my nun teacher refused to let me go to the washroom, or if I simply was afraid to ask.  At any rate, I pissed myself, and I was sent home.

But for some reason, I didn't want to go home until school was out, so I sat behind a door in the hall.  I was found, led outside, and sent on my way.  I still didn't go home.  I walked up and down in front of the school, until curious police officers passing by stopped and asked why I wasn't inside, instead of walking back and forth outside.  This was the first time I was brought home by the police.

But I'm straying from our topic, which is guilt.  I learned all about guilt from the angry, frustrated, disillusioned, blood-thirsty Franciscan nuns of St. Helen's School during grades 5-8.  These nuns dressed in traditional habits, that included a wimple and a rope belt.  The ends of the belt went to the knee, and from the belt, also knee-length, hung a heavy wooden rosary, both of which were used to chastise unruly children.

This was where I learned about guilt.  Not only that I should feel guilty about almost everything I did, or didn't do, or just thought about, but I was also taught to feel guilty about my parents divorce.  And they taught me very well.  Even now guilt plagues me.  I can work my ass off all day, and still feel guilty because I could've done more.  Shouldacouldawoulda is like a cloud over my shoulder.

There is only one person who can help me with guilt management, and I'm afraid I don't have much confidence in him from past experience.  And that person is me.