Today, I feel guilty. Yesterday I started drinking at lunchtime and didn’t stop until D lured me home with the promise of fried food. This meant I got pretty much no writing done. I don’t work Wednesdays so I can write, which is indulgent, but legitimate, as long as I actually am writing, not drinking Old Rosie and cackling. Pow! Guilt attack!
I feel guilty a lot. It’s one of my most prominent emotions. Guilty because I’m not working hard enough, guilty because I’m not spending enough time with friends, guilty about food, guilty about feeling guilty about food because that’s not what good feminists do … Everything. All the time.
You’d think that working with prisoners would give me a sense of perspective. But no! It just makes me feel more guilty that I’m wallowing around, feeling terrible because I forgot to forward a letter to my landlord, when there are people out there who have done properly bad things, and they have to deal with that every day.
My friend B suggested that I feel like this because I’m an only child. Being an only child means that, when you’re little and you do something wrong, you get the blame. There is absolutely no point in pretending you didn’t do the bad thing – it’s obvious that you did. This leads to a lack of lying skills in later life and a deep seated belief that, whatever you’ve done, it’s only a matter of time before you get found out.
B has two little sisters, and she doesn’t take any shit. Ever.