guilt

Guilt is like a boat anchor.

Your life boat bops along until, sploosh, the anchor drops, grounding you to a spot in the ocean. It's maddening, because you were on your way to somewhere. You can see a faint shoreline in the distance - you don't know what it belongs to, but you know life is supposed to take you there and you're stuck.

I have some slack in my anchor rope, so I can go for a little while before being jerked back. And I get mad at the rope. I get mad at the view that stops changing. I get mad at the fish.

But my boat is flawed: it has holes. It's not so bad when I'm moving because the water doesn't have a chance to seep in. Now I'm stuck and my feet are getting wet. Insecurity has punched a hole. Low self-esteem poked one. Anger another. Avoidance managed to rip a big 'ol festering hole.

I get mad at the water coming in. I get mad at my bucket because it doesn't scoop enough water out. It's not fair that my boat can't go.

And I have rocks.

I have a love-hate relationship with my rocks. I need them. They're pretty. They make me who I am because no one else has these rocks. No one else made the same decisions at the same time in the same place with the same people. But they're heavy. If moving, my little boat would bear the weight more easily, but we're stalled. They make the water come in faster than my stupid bucket can empty. I swear at the Relationship rock for not helping me dump water. I kick the Job rock (again) for not improving the view. I focus on the Zachary rock hoping my little boat problem will solve itself, but my boat starts to sink. It's bad if I sink, but somehow it's worse if my rocks sink.

So, I'm alone in my boat of rocks, scrambling to stay afloat. The original plan of actually getting somewhere has become a pipe dream. But fighting on the water for so long, I fantasize about land. I'm a good swimmer. I could abandon ship and swim to shore. Maybe I could even carry a rock or two; I think I know which are more important than others. The idea of swimming to shore and getting a new boat (with no holes) is very appealing. So appealing in fact, that I replace frantic scooping with lovely daydreaming.

With another yank from the rope, the Zachary rock falls off its seat and onto my big toe. Yes, this hurts. I start to yell and blame the rock, but quickly notice barnacles and bird poop all over it. I gaze around my boat and see all of my rocks show signs of neglect. Wow, how much time has passed? They're not so pretty now. I would be embarrassed if my heart wasn't breaking at the sight of them.

My fantasies fade and it's a shock to return my mind to my little boat. I know now that I have to get my boat moving. Or I have to plug the holes. Or both. And I have to clean my rocks. And get the water out. I have a lot of rocks...maybe I throw a few overboard to lighten the load. My situation feels no less overwhelming than it did. In fact, it feels worse. And I don't know where to start...

I could go on about having bursts of energy where I dump water with one hand, clean with the other and swap my toes around the boat plugging holes, all the while bracing for the jerk, but I won't. I could also tell you that these bursts are matched with pitiful lows where all I can do is scoop and cry (adding to my water issue). I'm slowly learning that no amount of juggling fixes the fact that you're anchored and have holes in your boat. I could focus on cleaning my rocks, but in my heart I know they'll get yucky again.

So what do you fix first: the anchor, or the holes?