When, for whatever reason, I find myself thinking about the bad old days (like high school, for example), I seem to regret all the mean things I did to other people.
The thing is, I wasn’t mean. I wasn’t a bully. I’m one of the many guys who got picked on for years, just trying to get through the day.
But what’s weird is that I really don’t remember any of that, except as a general feeling.
I remember not having a lot of friends, but I can’t remember the faces of the people who bugged me, and I don’t flash back to times of humiliation or sadness. Not at all. I seem to basically have gotten over it, except that I worry that my kids might go through the same thing.
In fact, if I think at all about seeing those people again, it’s basically so that I can say that I understand. We were kids. It’s ok.
I think that’s because I DO remember the times when I did things that hurt other people. I remember their faces, and I can’t believe that I did and said some of the things I did and said. Not just high school, either, but college and after as well. Man, was I cruel on occasion.
If I could go back and change things, I’d choose times when I was in the wrong. I’d try to reduce my part in the suffering of others. This isn’t altruistic in the least, because the true goal is to stop those things from making me feel guilty now.
The irony is that, with at least one notable exception, those people probably don’t remember me any more than I remember the people who did me wrong. Ooh, I just thought of another exception. Anyway, that’s what I’d do.
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