Art by Amy Schneider, see more at www.amyschneider.net
Friday, I had coffee with a good friend who had read that morning’s blog post, Heed the Niggle. “I was glad to hear you didn’t blame yourself for Michelle’s suicide,” she told me. “But how did you manage not to?”
Saturday morning brought a heartbreaking comment from a mom. “I too, ignored a niggle because it was too implausible,” she wrote. “My alcoholic daughter died at the age of 34 – but I really didn’t think it could happen. I am learning to live with myself. That’s about it.”
I love that kind of honesty. Both their responses seemed to invite a follow up post: Heed the niggle, yes. But how do you handle the guilt when you realize you didn’t?
I mentioned in Friday’s post that suicide wasn’t new to me. My father, who suffered from severe manic-depression as well as drug addictions, spent most of my childhood in and out of mental hospitals, missions, and halfway houses. He attempted suicide too many times to count.
Through it all, I still thought of myself as a daddy’s girl. I never stopped hoping he’d get better. When he was forty-seven, the age I am now, he finally succeeded at taking his life. Despite so many close calls in the past, I was caught off guard. For years, I wrestled with guilt. What could I have done or said differently?
Since his death, another family member close to me has threatened or attempted suicide many times. Two other people I considered friends have succeeded in taking their lives.
Given my history, and my failure to heed the niggle about Michelle, it’s fair to wonder how I could have not felt horribly guilty about her death.
I should clarify that at first, I did. I was sick with guilt, devastated by my failure as a friend. And had I still been drinking, I think I would have stayed that course. I would have gladly soaked in tubs of guilt for weeks, made the tragedy all about me, and used the drama as an excuse to drink.
But by then, I was beginning to understand that I was not just powerless over alcohol, but over other people and their choices. As a good friend pointed out, to imagine Michelle’s life or death hinging on me would be a gross exaggeration of my power.
She was right. Meanwhile, it was dawning on me that to claim responsibility or even partial culpability in Michelle’s death would reinforce a lie that had haunted me ever since my dad died: If someone you love commits suicide, obviously you didn’t love them well enough. It’s a convincing lie because we can always think of something we could or should have done differently.
I found myself praying that Michelle’s mother wouldn’t buy into that lie. I knew that I no longer could.
Early in recovery, I came across a quote by author Sister Mary Beckett about the difference between guilt and true contrition. “Guilt means you go on belaboring and…beating your breast and being ego-fixated,” she wrote. Contrition means that you’re “willing to forgo the pleasures of guilt.”
How dare she call guilt pleasurable? I thought. It’s painful and awful!
Now I think it depends on the kind of guilt we’re talking about. Guilt that comes from doing something you know is wrong is a gift from God, an invitation to repent and change course. And it’s never pleasurable.
But the kind of guilt Beckett was referring to is the kind related to failures in the past that we can’t go back and change today. The kind that, paradoxically, we luxuriate in as a form of self-punishment so that we can feel better for having paid a price for our mistakes. We tell ourselves that we deserve to suffer, but on some level our suffering is self-serving and helps no one.
I understand that brand of guilt. For much of my Christian life I was deluded into believing that guilty feelings in and of themselves had spiritual value, that they were a virtue. Wouldn’t God want me to be racked with guilt? Doesn’t that say something good about me?
Not really. In fact, it means that I am putting more faith in the effectiveness of my feelings of regret than I am in the effectiveness and power of God’s forgiveness.
On a more practical level, I’m discovering that when I am busy indulging in guilt, I miss the flow of grace into my life through which God can redeem the things I regret. When I take perverse pleasure in hoarding my mistakes, wounds, and losses, how can God turn them into something good?
Sure, we try to heed the niggle when it comes, we try to let God work through us to help someone in need. But it would be short-sighted to imagine that any mistake I make is more powerful than God’s ability to redeem it.
Of course, we’re talking here about things that are just too big, or maybe too fragile, for a blog. Everything I’ve said feels inadequate and vulnerable to misinterpretation. In case anything I said on Friday hurt, I hope something I’ve said today helps.
As always, I’d love to hear from you.
You are so spot on Heather. There are so many things in my life that I could spend endless time feeling guilty over…and it would be such a waste. At a point in my life where I seemed surrounded by alcoholics I spent some time at alanon. The experience was so valuable. The part about making amends where possible and then going forward especially. I try to live where I am today regardless of where I’ve been. The most value I seem to get from “where I’ve been” is when I find myself being critical of someone. I am reminded of my own frailty of decision making. Extended guilt does seem to be a denial of the extent of God’s grace.
Then there’s the issue of mental illness. After I worked with Dave (at the college publishing office while getting my psych degree) I worked in the mental health arena and in DC for the National Institute of Mental Health. Reagan was elected and the funds for mental health care were gutted. They have never recovered. My friend Sara was also bi-polar. Since those who need treatment are often unable to pay for it, our system leaves them without adequate treatment. Powerful drugs with powerful side effects are given to people who are unable to manage their own lives let alone their medications. And they’re put back out on the streets. Programs that used to support and care for people with mental health issues no longer exist. It just ties me up in knots. I try to extend grace to Christians who are so are so obsessed with the issues around “life” (code word) but never say a word about the quality of life we see around us as it actually exists. And I steam.
Grace to you Heather…this is God’s work. Lots of us might read more books if given to us in short chapters (the Patterson read). Love to you and Dave.
Christine, thanks so much for this meaty response. Wow, I have a lot of thoughts too about that issue. It was so hard with my dad. And one of the worst parts was that he was always trying to get into regular, versus mental, hospitals, but he had to hurt himself to get in. So he’d drink rubbing alcohol or overdoes or once, he swallowed some razor blades. Seriously. Once, when the Oregon State Hospital lost its accreditation for a time, meaning they weren’t getting reimbursed for my dad, a doctor actually took his disability money and bought him a ticket to AZ with nothing at the other end. I didn’t believe my dad’s story, because he suffered at times from paranoid delusions. I thought he was making it up. Then a worker from the hospital called and told me it was true. The doctor ended up admitting it on the phone with me, sobbing and saying he wouldn’t do it again. Long story short, we could have sued but didn’t. My dad was pissed at us for not suing and he took his a life a few months later after making it back to Oregon. Yikes. Anyway, I love connecting with you, Christine. Thanks for reading. Heather
I had missed Fridays post so just went back to read…again, loved it. Understandably, regret. Thankfully, no guilt.
As a former (dare I say recovered) hoarder, these words rang true: When I take perverse pleasure in hoarding my mistakes, wounds, and losses, how can God turn them into something good?
All we can do is recognize, acknowledge and plow through. Good to see you plowing!
Thanks so much for reading, Amy! I promise we go lighter on Wednesday.
Heather, what are your thoughts about the difference between “indulging in guilt” over past mistakes and grieving those mistakes and the losses they cost us and others?
Thanks for continuing to write about these topics–recovery truths apply to so many areas of life, not just addictions.
Oh man. I just typed a long answer and lost it. Anyway, I was saying that’s a great question and that there’s a fine line between grieving and wallowing. When I got into recovery and they told me not to regret the past, I didn’t get it. How could I not regret the past? I had so much guilt over my failures as a mom, wife, sister, friend… I’m not talking missed niggles, but missed part of my kids’ school years. I regretted so much. And I think that’s okay and normal. And I needed to grieve that. I also grieved the loss of alcohol, as odd as that sounds. But I think the thing I learned was that grieving was okay, but beating myself up wasn’t. Plus, it wasn’t fair to my kids to have to feel sorry for mom who feels so bad on top of everything else. It’s hard to get mad at your mom when she’s already kicking herself, which robs them of a healthy process of anger followed by forgiveness. I had to work hard not to circumvent that by all my bloody sorriness. Does that make sense? Grief, yes. But my kids didn’t want to see more self-centered wallowing, they wanted to see me change. The proof that we grieve is our willingness to dry our tears at some point and look around for ways to be of help to others and to be part of God’s plan to redeem our pain and put it to some purpose. Hope this make sense. Sorry for the long blab! Great question!! Heather
“The proof that we grieve is our willingness to dry our tears at some point and look around for ways to be of help to others and to be part of God’s plan to redeem our pain and put it to some purpose.”
I want to write that on my forehead. I’ve been wallowing lately and didn’t even realize it until I read this comment. Thanks.
Such insight here. And some lessons I’ve had to learn the hard way. I think I used to wallow in guilt about my sister because it was at least something I could do. Understanding that we cannot control others is huge and I’m thankful to be continually learning that.
“Too many times to count”…can’t tell you how many times I’ve written that about my sister.
Heather, I want to write how much I love your honesty! It frees me when you write like this.
~ Wendy
Wow, Wendy. We have a lot in common. I’d love to know about your sister. I am so glad you are reading! I need to take time to go over and read up on you and get familiar with your story. It’s so generous of you to be so supportive of me. Rachelle was asking today how the book is coming. . . book? What book? I blog now. I bet you know what I mean. Thanks from commenting and let’s stay connected. Heather
This blog has really helped me Heather, I also had an Aunt who committed suicide. I had just recently spoke to her son (my cousin) on FaceBook. I discussed with him that I hadn’t seen his mother in a long time and asked for her phone number. He gave it to me and I stuck it in my purse. I never called her, I ignored the niggle. Several months later I heard the news. I was devastated and tried to blame myself, that maybe if I would have called her and spoke to her, things might have turned out different. I finally realized, the truth as you stated in your blog. I am powerless over the actions of other people. Thank you for your Blog and your honest, truthful sharing. It’s a blessing. Lisa
Hi Heather! Your blog is meaning so much to me…………Love it…..
Keep up the fantastic work.
Your sister’s roommate………….
Ah, thanks! I think I know your name. And my sis is SO fond of you and grateful to you. I love that you are reading my blog. Thanks for the encouragement. Heather
What an inspirational post, so grateful you are my sponsor!
Cool, so I get to guess which one you are. . . Ha. I think I know. Love ya and thanks for reading!
thankyou for the post on redeeming regrets. i cant form the words to give a good reply, other then it helps. and draws me closer to the cross.
When I was in high school, one of my teachers encouraged us to come up with a saying to sign our friends’ yearbooks so we could go beyond the “stay sweet and have a great summer”. I came up with: Enjoy the good, learn from the bad and regret nothing.” I like it. Like all pat phrases it has limits or I’m old enough to not be able to say I regret nothing. But I do think if you own what is yours and accept its responsibility, then move on. If God is willing to forgive us, it seems we should forgive ourselves too. With suicide in particular, I think its so helpful to seek professional counsel. Those left behind can easily buy into the lie that WE failed to love correctly/enough. I took a class and a woman from the Suicide Prevention agency was a speaker. It was incredibly freeing to hear from her.
Charise, what a great point you make about seeking professional help. I wish I’d mentioned that!! I did seek professional help back in my twenties after my dad took his life. Totally a good thing. I love your motto! You were so smart at a young age. I love every time I see your face on my blog here. You are a good friend. Hope all’s well and let’s connect by email soon. Heather
I often ask God to redeem those things I’ve messed up, or think I might have messed up, especially when I honestly set out to do right. In our humanity, there will always be situations where we had good intentions, but failed to follow through, or followed through and still didn’t get it right. Praise God He’s big enough to handle it all. As my husband often says, “God is God and we’re not.”
Terri, I missed this comment yesterday. Thanks so much for being a reader and for retweeting too! I agree with what you’re saying. Yep, God is great enough.
When my daughter died everyone was shocked but there was my Niggle telling me “See…I told you it would happen.” I even told my best friend at Chipotle on North Academy two years before my daughter died I was afraid she would die. I can tell you where we sat. Which direction I was facing. What she was wearing, what I was wearing. That is all I said… the fear was bigger than I could express really. But I also added an addendum to that statement – “I mean hepatitis, cirrhosis, you know when’s she old or something…” in other words after I died. Denial or Niggle.
My girlfriend friend remembers my Niggle.
That daughter of mine never had a chance to fight for soberiety. She drank, then died.
I live with myself because I repeat the Serenity Prayer every day if not every hour. A loss of a daughter is not a Niggle it’s a Terror, day and night.
I am glad I found your blog. And do not, do not feel guilty about her suicide.
Oh, Sherry, thanks for writing! I am so glad to hear it. And I agree about the Terror comment. I can’t
even begin to imagine. I saw that you have a blog, too. I’m looking forward to reading some more there. I am
so grateful to you for being willing to talk about your daughter the way you did. Your comment really did
prompt me to do a follow up post because I realized how tender this whole area is. And how inadequate a blog is.
I question now whether it was even fair to do the original post. Anyway, I’m so glad you found me too! And it’s
funny you should mention the serenity prayer. I keep thinking I want to write a post about that. At first, I thought
it was the dumbest thing ever. Now I get it. Heather
That was such a powerful post last week … I’m glad you added even more to it. So glad God offers grace … and I think your words and this story will minister to a lot of people
“Not really. In fact, it means that I am putting more faith in the effectiveness of my feelings of regret than I am in the effectiveness and power of God’s forgiveness.”
I am there. How do I get out?
Every day is an endless flood of tears and sadness and aching inside that won’t end.
I read scripture. I pray. It seems to life then comes racing back.
I read this and I know I need to move past it. I try. I end up right here again. By here I mean in this hell of regret. It’s hell. I know he doesn’t want me here but how do I move past it?
My whole life is a mess around me. I look all together from the outside but on the inside it’s a heaping pile of crap. I hate it. I hate what I have done to people. I hate where I am because I was so stupid. I shouldn’t stay in this place of payment because it negates His forgiveness, but that doesn’t make the place I am at improve.
“On a more practical level, I’m discovering that when I am busy indulging in guilt, I miss the flow of grace into my life through which God can redeem the things I regret. When I take perverse pleasure in hoarding my mistakes, wounds, and losses, how can God turn them into something good?’
So how do I stop hoarding the mistakes, wounds, and losses when they are all around me?
How?
Wow, great questions. I am sorry you are dealing with all this. I can tell you’re in so much
legitimate pain. I think you shouldn’t be too hard on yourself if you feel stuck in regret and pain. That you see it, that you wrote this, that you want to change–all that means you are in motion already. If you ask me. I’m no expert on any of this, but I do what it feels like to feel as if you hate yourself. As an alcoholic I wreaked a lot of havoc and pain for some people close to me. I wish I could have coffee with you and talk. I hope you are seeking some outside help, if it’s at all possible. And I’d also recommend a support group of some kind. I like twelve step groups, and there’s one for just about anything. I love your honest in this note and I can tell that God’s at work in your life in spite of all the pain. It sounds like you are at a bottom of sorts. I hope so much that you will find a way to surrender all this. Almost every time I am in pain or fear I usually find that I am resisting something, that I am living in fight mode, that I am angry and pushing back when I need to collapse into surrender and admit I can’t fix or control what I want to. There’s huge relief in admitting that we can’t manage. We just can’t. God can’t do for us what we can’t do for ourselves as long as we’re still trying to do it. Most of us, I’ve found, get to this point where we just can’t bear to go on as we are and then something breaks. And then relief. We give up. I don’t know if any of this makes sense and without knowing your situation, I can’t be more helpful. Even if I did know it, I’d probably still be of minimum help. I hope it helped to write it out like you did. And I hope you’ll keep reading and talking to me and other readers here. I’m praying for you tonight. Heather