I want to start this off by saying I’m sorry. My last post, entitled Blessed are the fringe dwellers (which I’ve now removed), was judgmental and written while I was in the midst of an emotional tsunami. The thing about tsunamis is that they’re not very discerning. They just flatten everything in their paths. My last post resulted in some collateral damage…and I’m sorry.

I’m very good at my job, but tend to be somewhat clumsy in life. It’s a fact. I feel like I make an inordinate amount of errors in my relationships with others. Goes to show you that trying and achieving do not necessarily follow. I’m like one of the Three Stooges carrying a plank. Every time I innocently (stupidly) turn around, I mistakenly whack someone in the head.

One of the issues, at least in this case, is that I’m an impulsive writer. It all comes out in a stream, and I let it. I don’t often revisit what comes out: just proof and post. I forget you’re out there. That someone is listening and interpreting with their own lens. I forget that a metaphor can be more like a shotgun than a sniper’s rifle. In other words, I can be thinking about someone specific and end up hitting a lot of innocent bystanders. And I’m so sorry.

I expect everything of myself. I expect not to err. I’m convinced I’m the only one who does. And I also believe there is no recovery from error. Not for me. All is lost. I’ve proven myself unworthy. Intellectually, I know that’s hogwash. But the feeling in my chest is unmistakable: grief, remorse, self-loathing.

Most frustrating is the fact that I find apologies wholly inadequate. “Sorry” never feels like enough. It feels wretchedly impotent. And to look into the eyes of someone I care about only to see their hurt and, in fact, their shock that it’s me — someone who cares about them — who has caused their pain is among the worst feelings in the world to me. I want them to see me in the way they saw me before I fucked up. I want them to believe I’m still shiny. That they can trust their judgment and instincts. And, yet, they may never again see me in the same way. It’s humbling and incredibly sad.

All I really have to offer, though, is “I’m sorry” and corrective forward action. ‘Living amends’ as they call it in 12 Step programs. But even as I look at the words on the page, I think, “How can those feeble words fix anything?”

Here’s what I wish I could do: I wish I could open a window to my “broken and contrite” heart so you could see what was in there. You could see my intentions for yourself. You could see how much you matter to me and how much I cherish you exactly as you are.

But I can’t do that. So, I’m left with “I’m sorry,” a promise to think before I press “publish,” and a promise to do better at aligning good intention with good action.

I’d also be willing to throw in a jar of pickles for good measure.