More guilt - and resentment - with some sadness for good measure

A friend tells me that she felt that people judged her for enjoying the odd evening out after her son died. So she stopped going out. I feel judged because I’m not as fun and outgoing as I once was. Go figure!

Intellectually, I know it's unreasonable to prevent myself from taking pleasure from things - I’m not sure that it’s guilt that I’m feeling or something else. When I experience pleasure, for whatever reason, if Al pops into my mind, I feel sad that he isn’t here. I feel sad that he’s missing out on life. I feel sad that I can’t tell him that I love him, that I can’t hug him, or tickle him, or ruffle his hair, or rib him for his draft choice in T-shirts - his favourite one was a white one splashed with red, which was slashed several times with the words, “Shark Attack” emblazoned across it. He’d complain it was cold outside and I’d tell him to put a jumper on or at least wear something other than the T-shirt with built-in air conditioning. He’d roll his eyes saying, “Can you see this six-pack? It’s a babe magnet.” Clearly, his intentions towards the girls far outweighed his need to be warm.

I can smile when I remember exchanges like that – but it's usually followed by tears pricking at me. That’s not guilt – it’s sadness. And I am entitled to feel sad because my son died. But I sometimes feel guilty for not being able to hide that sadness from others. They really don’t like it being inflicted on them.

I think that’s why I avoid others at this time of year. They want to be happy and although I can, and do feel happiness at times, I know that the sadness can creep up and engulf me at any time. I don’t have a problem with that when I’m alone. But when I’m with others who are having a good time, it’s hard to hide how I’m feeling because I feel that they will judge me for not being happy, or for ‘spoiling’ their happy time. I can’t say whether I feel some guilt for not being able to join in, or just resentment at the way I feel I am expected to when it’s just too hard sometimes. I think that’s why I avoid the parties at this time of year. I can’t guarantee what my mood will be.

Equally, I see how others feel guilty if I am unable to participate and how it can affect them. Some will feel obliged to spend time with me but not know what to say so will resent it. Yet others will willingly give up their time, without a hint of resentment, to spend it with me – but they are a rare breed indeed.

There’s a fine line between guilt and resentment. I once read that guilt is just resentment turned inwards and I think that’s a fair appraisal. Sometimes I feel guilty for not being the life and soul of the party, or at least, for not being able to pretend that all is well so that others can carry on regardless.

I think of that sequence from the Leonardo DiCaprio film, 'The Island'. The Islanders have a rule that no one can leave because others would then discover their idyllic home and visitors would spoil its charm. When there is a shark attack and a man is left slowly dying of gangrene in what is left of his severed leg, his agonised moans and groans spoil the party atmosphere. Their illusion of this perfect paradise is shattered and they resent it. So they move him away to where they can no longer hear him. And then carry on partying - as he lies dying.

It feels like that for me sometimes – I am spoiling the illusion that most people have of life. For the most part, they don’t even realise that it is an illusion – but I, and others like me, are a reminder. We can do our best to hide that severed, gangrenous leg but sometimes the effort is just too enormous. For a short time, others can cope with witnessing our pain but then they want the illusion back and turn their faces so that they don’t have to see any more. If they happen to accidentally notice, they salve their consciences by saying ‘How are you?” but without waiting to hear, or simply not listening to the answer - the metaphorical equivalent of popping a sticking plaster on the bedside table. That way, they don’t have to look at the leg and can carry on pretending that it was enough.

If we manage to dredge up the superhuman strength, we smile and say Thank You, nicely. This frees them to go on their way in the safe and sure knowledge that they are good, caring people who have done something nice and they can forget all about that nasty business of that gangrenous leg/child’s death.

If we aren’t feeling quite so strong, we can answer their question. They can then listen whilst desperately thinking up some important appointment they really must get to

“Terribly sorry (I asked) ... Must be awful for you (but even worse for me to hear it) ... I really can’t imagine (and I don’t want to so shut up) ... Must dash (that’s the last time I do her the favour of asking how she is. I was only being polite –stupid cow should have known that)"

Thank God (says the Agnostic) for the genuine few.