When it is your fault

‍I don’t normally write blogs on demand. In the past, the blogs I’ve written have stemmed from a feeling that I need to say something, even if that’s shouting into a void. But this blog is different. I’m writing this blog to sit alongside Mark’s wonderful ‘The Storm I Didn’t Make’ blog because I think that, in the work we do at NCS, it’s important that we provide a balance of viewpoints and experiences.

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So here’s my take on guilt from the perspective of someone who was entirely responsible for creating the storm that hit my world and, importantly, the world of the people around me.

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Where do you go when it is your fault?

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Who else is there to blame for the way both the future and the past disappeared overnight?

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Where is there to hide at 3am when the voices won’t quiet and sleep is a distant memory?

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Is there a point at which the weight becomes too heavy to carry?

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On how many occasions can you sit in the dark wondering whether death would help?

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Which scars on someone else’s soul were put there by your hand?

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Is there anything that could come close to atoning for the pain caused to the ones harmed?

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Will you ever really be able to tell how much is guilt and how much is shame?

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Which words could even come close to expressing the gratitude for the people who stayed?

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How heavy is the weight they now carry?

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How many times is it possible for one person to say thank you?

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With all the words available to us, why is “sorry” so hard?

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When will the words come for “why”?

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Where does the balance lie between explanations and excuses?

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Will the tight band of shame ever loosen?

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Will there ever come a time when you can look in the mirror again?

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Can the same people who loved the “before” version of you, still love the “after” version?

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At what point can you put the burden down, even if just for a moment?

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At what point can the walls lower, even if just by a crack?

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Who are you, if you’re no longer who you were?

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“I don’t know”, is the answer. To all of the above. But what I do know is that, very gradually, almost imperceptibly, things do start to get easier. The weight starts to lift, breath returns to your lungs, you begin to notice the sun on your skin again.

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Maybe one day the guilt goes away completely, I’m not there yet so I don’t know, but it certainly gets small enough to carry around in a bag rather than as a dead weight on your shoulders. It retreats into the corners as opposed to consuming every waking moment. And, little by little, the guilt that you thought might kill you makes space for better things like hope, forgiveness and love.