Regrets.

I try to remind myself that yesterday is done. It’s gone. I can’t go back and do anything over.

I tell myself that the decisions I’ve made have led me to this point, for better or for worse. Those decisions are made and done. When made, they seemed right. It’s too late to regret them because they’re done. That’s it.

I’ve said that life is too short for regrets. I’ve tried to keep them out. I’ve caulked the corners, sealed myself off to the very possibility of regret, and yet, there it is. They made it through anyway, no matter how hard I tried to keep them out, there are the regrets, unscathed and triumphant.

I know what’s done is done. I know that. I know I can’t go back.

But I want to.

I want a do-over. I want to go back, and do it again, different this time. I want to try a different path, just to see if it ends at a different point. I want to change my mind. I want to try harder, I want to be better and I want, more than anything, to try what’s behind curtain number two.

I don’t know if it would make a difference. I don’t know if it would change anything. But that’s just it – I don’t know. What if it would have? What if I’d gone? Packed the boxes, me, the kitties, the dogs, and gone too? What if it changed everything?

I know it’s not healthy to dwell on what might have been. There’s a logical part of me that can step away from the emotional response and evaluate the situation. I know that playing that game, the What If game, doesn’t get me fucking anywhere, but that doesn’t mean I can stop myself from playing it. I hear the logic – what’s done is done – I get it, but I can’t stop looking behind me, wondering if a simple but big choice could have saved the whole damn thing.

So I sit with the regret. I wonder if I have enough to pull us out and up on my own. I play the game, going back and forth, weighing the options: the could have beens, the would have beens, the what ifs.

It gets me nowhere, I know. But I can’t stop. Once the regret gets in, it’s hard to shake.