Regrets

Every now and then, I find myself willingly going into my dark room of memories—sitting comfortably, counting each scar on my body. The hope that my fresh wounds will ever fully heal begins to fade at the sight of my old ones. Some scars date back 20 years, still as visible as the ones created just three years ago. As I count them, I’m usually struck by a flashback of the event, but at first, my heart struggles to recapture the emotion. My memory resists the idea of reliving the pain. Is this what healing is? No. I stare at each scar and remember each moment as if it happened just a few hours ago. And like a lightning bolt striking a high mast during the greatest storm, here come the emotions.

Shit. I wish I hadn’t gone through that.

Regrets.

People often promote the idea of living life with no regrets. But I’d argue that regret can be the greatest teacher available to anyone with a conscience. He delivers tough lessons that strip the ego bare. He outlasts the five stages of grief and lingers longer than most good memories. The issue is, most people don’t appreciate his teaching methods. He’s harsh—so harsh that many struggle to find any direction that points toward the light. But I do. After his class, I wash myself from head to toe with the words: “That will never, ever happen to me again.” That wash is like a child touching a hot stove—painful, unforgettable. I hold it close while carefully calculating my next steps.

Hold on—

Is this even healthy?

“Learn to forgive yourself for missed opportunities, Benjamin…”