Regretting Regrets

Regrets. Everyone tells you not to live your life amassing regrets but I seem to have a collection that rivals my father’s stamp collection. I looked at my parents growing up, and they weren’t happy. Money problems. Marriage problems. Their life just wasn’t what they wanted. My mother, wanted to be a journalist, ended up as a nurse and gave that up to be a fulltime mother. My father, in the navy, wanted to be the big time sales guy, ended up filing for bankruptcy after being duped by his business partner.

At first, I didn’t have regrets. Freshman year at school, I was voted the most outgoing freshman not just in my dorm, but in the band, the Stanford Band. The same band that got suspended for mocking the potato famine and the pope on the field during the football game against Notre Dame. The same band that made me drop trou and moon a stadium full of people. I was the craziest freshman. No regrets. Living life 110 mph.

Then I finally got diagnosed. Everything changed. My life came to a sudden halt. I didn’t go out anymore. I became depressed. I stopped living. Invites went unanswered. Regrets began to litter my doorstep.

I thought things would get better after college. I got a job in the government working on classified stuff. That was cool Alias cool. I began an experimental trial for treatment of my illness. I thought this would fix me. This would put an end to all my regrets. If I got through the next 18 months, I would never live life all bundled up in a cocoon again. I lied. Not just to myself but to life.

I met this terrific guy backstage at the Bonnaroo Music Festival. I was running sound and acting as a camera assistant for the official DVD and festival film. He was in a band. A pretty well known band. I was eating lunch with guys I had seen on MTV and they dug me. I flirted, laughed, and go to see Trey Anastasio backstage in the VIP area. I liked him, he liked me. It was too good to be true. I was off of treatment and it had been successful so there was no reason for me not to go for it. But then it came knocking another regret at my door.

He had to go on tour but emailed and called me religiously, making plans to hang out when he returned to New York. But then he came and I was no where to be found. I ran away because I was scared. I didn’t know how to live anymore and that regret that came knocking got added to my collection. I never talked to him again, ignoring every communication from him. I see him on tv from time to time and I want to explain what happened, but I can’t. Another regret has already laid down to rest at my feet.

I use to live life for life and now I live life just to live and pass time. I didn’t become my parents like I feared I would, I became even worse. Regrets are stacked higher than the Empire State Building, but I can’t seem to stop adding to the construction of my tower, locking me in, locking others out.

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