I do have some of Ash's views about regrets, that really, they are moments that have passed us by and dwelling on them doesn't accomplish much. Like Charlotte, I've regreted moments with my writings, either subs I never sent out or ones that I did when I knew they weren't ready. Like Garce, I have sat in an airport and regreted the route I chose (especially if it ran me through O'Hare). I agree with Lisabet on infidelity - it's more guilt than regret that I feel. And like Kathleen, I regret fear.
And fear leads to my biggest regret, the one that I almost hate myself for some days. My one major regret, that I still feel such shame about it that it hurts to even think about it sometimes, is never telling anyone who could do something about it that I was raped.
How's that for a week-ender. (Yes, I knew I would be addressing this when I proposed the topic).
Although, I am sure it doesn't come as a surprise to those that know some of my stories (both Diggin' Up Bones and a story in my Kinky Girls Do deals with a rape survivor), and who have read past posts of mine.
The shame doesn't come from having been raped. Please, let me say that right now.
Rather it comes from having been too damn terrified to do a single thing about it. I was so broken over it, since it was a boyfriend that did it, that I kept dating him for a while afterwards, forcing him to be the one to break it off. Hoping with every day that went by that finally that would be the day he would tell me we were through.
I was 16 at the time. I was the shy geeky girl that none of the guys really noticed, and I was naive as hell. I had only dated a few guys, and only been serious about one other. And up until this night, he had been kind, caring and loving. I still don't know what set him off, and I doubt I ever will. Certainly when I tried to bring up the subject, he never viewed anything as wrong.
It shaped me in ways I don't like thinking about. It's been more than a decade and a half ago, and I still have nightmares.
Thankfully, when I met hubby, we were able to work past it together. He was patient with me, and understanding, and mature enough not to push me past my comfort level. Instead, he let me more or less set the pace. I say more or less, because well, he did coax me out of my shell. Then again, he had to. If he hadn't, I am not sure that I would ever have dared trust again.
The regret lies in the knowledge that if he did it to me, he could have later done it to someone else. I have to live with that, wondering. Hoping and praying that it was an isolated incident, or that at least the next woman was strong enough to do what I wasn't.
I wish I had had the kind of relationship with my parents that I could have told them. But I never felt confortable. I always felt that somehow, something I did caused it to happen. And that would be pointed out to me by them, and that the pain and shame would destroy me.
The only thing I can do now is to try and raise awareness, through my writings. Through posts. And through conversations with my daughter, and one day, with my students.
So yes, I have regrets. And for the most part, they are benign. But that one ... it's a soul eater.