Today has taken me back in time to a day a little over two years ago, April 2, 2011. I remember that day vividly because it was one of the happiest days of my life. I remember thinking that day that life really couldn't get any better. This picture was taken that day, and I was happy, happy, happy.
It was the day of the very first Love Modesto I ever attended. A small group of us from Church in the Park made up our own project last minute and we drove around town in the CITP truck delivering ice cold water to strangers. Then we got some tacos from Taco Bell and delivered them to some of the homeless in town. I had developed two new friendships that were tighter than any friendships I had ever had and was certain they would be friends for life. I was happy, so happy! I would wake up every morning SO excited to be alive! I couldn't wait to see my friends, to volunteer at the park, to, well, live! I had recently lost fifty pounds. I looked good. I felt good. The world was my oyster. I felt like a kid again and was on top of the world. Little did I know what was lying in store for me.
Fast-forward two years to today, April 27, 2013. Love Modesto has come around again, a day I look forward to every year. There is just something about thousands of people coming together to love on their city that makes me smile. Today, though, it's bringing with it some painful memories.
Two years and twenty-five days later, I'm twenty pounds heavier and two boobs and a head of hair lighter. Since that blessed, amazing, joy-filled day two years ago, I have lost those two "forever" friends (and several more). I have attempted suicide once and been in the psych ward twice. I have been hospitalized for seizures we thought might be a brain tumor and turned out to be psychosomatic (we think. We still don't know for sure what caused them). I have lost my ability to walk and then regained it. I have been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder with Reoccurring Episodes, and then stage 2 Breast Cancer. I have had two major surgeries and a minor one and three rounds of chemo. A "millionaire benefactor" for CITP turned out to be a con-artist and
swindled several of our friends out of thousands of dollars and left
many of our dreams for CITP shattered into pieces. Jason's best friend died. Someone very dear to us was raped. Jason's grandma and grandpa died. Jason's job has been a mess of law suits, counter-suits, slander and uncertainty. I nearly lost my marriage. I was kicked out of the ministry that I loved with all my heart. James was hospitalized for pneumonia a couple times.
On that day a little over two years ago, I had no idea, no premonition of the things to come. Sometimes I think I would love to know what the future holds. Today, I am thankful that I had no idea, because there is no way on earth I would have been able to handle the load of knowing what was just beyond the corner for me.
It is my natural tendency to remember the excruciating pain of the last two years that lingers on into today and oftentimes I want to sit there, to dwell in it, to grieve over it and scream about it, but I'm trying, today, to remember what else happened during the last two years.
My dad, whom I thought was my harshest critic and whose approval I have sought my whole life, has been one of my strongest supporters and has made his love and acceptance known on multiple occasions over the last two years. My husband has shown me the true meaning of unconditional love and my marriage has been restored. I have learned in a way that can only come from hands-on experience what grace really means. I have developed a love for and understanding of the mentally ill that I never had before. We have moved from an apartment into a house that we love and that is truly a home for us. We have been brought to a church that displays love in action. My children are thriving in a great school. I have hugged and loved on hundreds of homeless people and been blessed beyond measure for it. I have learned SO much about friendships, boundaries, and self-respect. I have made new friends from various areas of life, people I never would have met had I not had to go through the storms of life. I have been blessed by several incredible doctors, decent insurance and a new chance at life.
I'm not going to claim that I am happy today because I'm not. I feel tired, and old, and emotionally, physically and spiritually scarred. I'm not going to claim that if I had to do it all over again, I would go through everything that I've been through to be where I am today because I wouldn't. I don't know if I will ever get to that point. I would love to think so, but I'm not there today. I miss April 2, 2011. I miss that happy-go-lucky, ecstatic-to-be-alive girl. If I could go back in time to that day, I would. I feel like I've aged decades over the last two years and I am tired to the core of my being. My body's tired. My mind is tired. My heart is tired. My spirit is tired. I miss the naivety of the me of two years ago. I miss the heart that took people at face value and believed every word they said. I miss the me that woke up every morning excited to see the world. I don't know if that person will ever be back. I hope so. I pray so.
I started this blog posting hoping I could turn it into one of those "life was super hard, but it was all worth it" Chicken Soup for the Soul types of posts, but I just can't. Earlier this week, however, I was reminded of are lyrics of a Petra song. A friend and I were texting about life and I had mentioned that I really missed working with the homeless and didn't understand why God had benched me at this stage of my life. When he got my text, the Petra song "No Doubt" was playing on his iphone. The irony of that was not lost on either of us. It was one of those total God moments and so, as I walk down memory lane of the last two years for the thousandth time, wondering if the pain of it all will ever go away, I play this song, and hope.
No Doubt, by Petra
(Verse 1)
There are times when you fell like you can't go on
There are times when you fell like giving in
And there are times when you feel like you can't try anymore
There are times of trouble in believing
This test of your faith will last
As long as it takes to pass
Till you have no more doubt you'll endure
And you faith will emerge true and pure
(Chorus)
No doubt it'll be alright
With God it'll all work together for good
No doubt in the end it will be understood
No doubt it'll all work out
With faith He can move any mountain for us
No doubt in the power of Jesus
And after all is done we find out
All we really need to have is no doubt
(Verse 2)
There's a time to take a reckless leap of faith
There's a time to be cautious and wait
And there's a way of learning from the past
That this time of trouble won't last
And sometimes we want to think we know
The ways He will choose to make us grow
But it's never the way of our choosing
And we can't always see what He's using
(Repeat chorus)
There will be winters in the seasons of our soul
With a cold and bitter wind that chills our lives
But our faith can be building a fire
That will warm us till spring time arrives
(Repeat chorus)
I realized something this morning: I'm going through chemo.
Duh! You say, but honestly, the reality of it hit me today. I've been struggling this week. To be honest, I've been struggling badly. This last round of chemo has hit me really hard. It's not physically much harder than the last two, but mentally, I can't seem to get my head above water. I'm really struggling and I hit a low last night. When I awoke this morning, I realized that I had, in a sense, been denying the fact that I'm going through chemo. Oh, I knew I was, but I was trying to continue living my life as if I weren't. I made a game out of finding beautiful scarves, doing my makeup daily, wearing cute earrings, and of course the smile, always the smile, because Gosh Darn It, this cancer stuff wasn't going to stop me!! I made sure I found a way to volunteer at church, and didn't skip services even if I had to bring a puke bag with me to get through it. Only now, it is stopping me, or at least having a huge impact on my life.
It's getting hot out, so I'm bringing out my summer clothes, only they don't look right. I've put on weight. My chest is MESSED UP (three surgeries and expansion halted mid-way will do that). The meds are wreaking havoc on my mid-section and the fact of the matter is I don't look good and there is little I can do about it. I wanted to make my way through chemo looking gorgeous and unfazed by it all, but I can't. Chemo IS affecting me. I'm bald, bloated and honestly, freakin' pissed off! I hate feeling out of control. Out of control of my body. Out of control of my life!
I seriously contemplated quitting my chemo. My oncologist was on the fence in the first place about whether or not I should follow my four rounds of Adriamycin and Cytoxin with the twelve rounds of Taxol or not. After discussing it with us, he felt it would be best to add on the Taxol. So I have one more A/C treatment, and then twelve, yes TWELVE weekly rounds of Taxol. Twelve rounds. How in the world am I going to last through twelve more rounds of chemo?! One at a time. One measly round at a time, and eventually, it will be August, and I will be done, and I will cry. I will cry and cry and cry because I will have made it. I will have survived and it will all be a distant memory.
Until then, I will put on my baggy t-shirts, flash my bald head around, and hold on for dear life because there may be pain in the night, but JOY comes in the morning. Right? Right?
I typed this blog entry and then went looking for a picture to post with it. As I scanned picture after picture after picture on Google of people who were going through chemo, babies, the elderly, men, women, all kinds of people in various stages of cancer, I quickly began to realize that I am blessed. I have an end date to my chemo. I have a "life beyond". I have thirteen more treatments, yes, but I have ONLY thirteen more treatments, and then I can expect a relatively normal, cancer-free life. This season is a blip on life's radar for me. It is not the end of the road. It's just a bump. That's all. A bump. I am going through chemo, and I am blessed.
Tomorrow begins the countdown to chemo. As I was preparing to head to bed tonight, I noticed a shift in my thinking, and realized that it had gradually been coming over me all day. I like to claim that I don't dread my chemo. I mean, it's not that bad really. My stomach gets a little upset. Food doesn't taste good for a few days. I sleep for a few days, get sores in my mouth, and have blanks in my memories for a couple days (from the ativan they have me take I think). Honestly, though, it really isn't that bad. Yet I sit here with tears streaming down my face as I type because I don't want to go! I just feel so out of control when chemo time rolls around. I try SO hard to stay positive, to look at the bright side of things, but when this time comes around again, I can't help but become overwhelmed by the anxiety. Most of the time it transfers to Church in the Park anxiety. It's funny, in a "not really all that funny" kind of way. Perhaps interesting is a better word. It's interesting that as chemo time approaches, the urge to return to the park becomes overwhelming. The urge to prove that I control my life and no one else does. The thing is, though, I don't. God does. I answer to Him and I know He doesn't want me there right now. I also know that it's not really the park I want. It's to be free of the cancer, and the chemo and to put this challenging chapter of my life behind me.
I know I am privileged to have access to this treatment. I know it is a blessing to have this diagnosis now rather than twenty or thirty years ago. I know this cancer is healing my emotional wounds. I know that I don't have to be strong, that I can sleep when need be and that everything will be taken care of by Jason, my mom, and the many others who are pitching in. I know my husband loves me and will continue to love me no matter how sick I am. I know every day is a good day, and some days are great, but the fact of the matter is this good day is hard. This good day is full of tears, and chemo isn't all that peachy. It's hard. It's brutal really, and I'm tired of being strong. I want to scream to the world: "I can't do this anymore!!! I don't want to lose a week of my life to medicated sleep. I don't want to miss out on a week of my kids' life. I don't want to watch my husband work himself into the ground, handling work, and then everything else while I lay in bed and watch tv or sleep. I DON'T WANT TO!!"
And now that I've had my little temper tantrum, I will order my medications, arrange the necessary childcare, and put all the other pieces in order. Then I will get up on Wednesday morning, put on my makeup, gather up my things and go get my treatment with a smile on my face because, after all, I'm alive, I'm loved, and soon, my treatment will be over. My hair will grow back and life will continue on its merry way.
I'd like to think of myself as independent and strong, but the fact of the matter is I am neither. I am exhausted. I am moody. I'm a mess!
I'm not sure why I feel the need to prove that I don't "need" my husband, that I could do just fine on my own. I'd love to say that we are a pair because we want to be, not because we have to be, but the fact of the matter is I need him. From the very core of my being, I need him, and right now, I am so aware of that fact.
Two and a half weeks ago, Jason got sick. He had a fever for nearly a week. Because I'm on chemo and am at a higher risk, he didn't touch me, slept in the other room and if we talked, which was seldom, I was sitting on the opposite side of the room with a mask on. After several feverish days, he finally saw the doctor and about two days later, he started to feel better, little by little. Last Saturday was our first "normal" day, where we finally felt it was safe to hug, and talk without masks. The next morning, at 3:30am, he left for Massachusetts. He's been gone for a week, and will be gone for 3 to 6 more days, depending on how things play out.
I am beyond exhausted, and it's not a fatigue that anyone but Jason can help with. When Jason holds me and I can talk and talk and talk to my heart's content, the world suddenly doesn't seem as heavy to bear, but when I'm alone, it all builds up. It's not the housecleaning, or the cooking, or the kids, although all that adds up too. It's that my other half, my sounding board, the missing part of my brain is on the other side of the country.
So while as a modern woman, I'd like to believe that I am just fine on my own, the fact of the matter is, I'm not. I need my husband. We're a team, and things just aren't right when he's away.
I just received this free scarf in the mail from Good Wishes Scarves and I LOVE it!! I got to put three different styles that I liked on the request form and they sent me my favorite one! And not only that, they sent me this card with it.
When I opened it up and saw all of the handwritten signatures, I nearly cried. What a beautiful gesture from perfect strangers! Their mission, as per their website, is
to provide free of charge, one beautiful It's a Wrap© or Good Wishes
Scarf to anyone experiencing the thinning or loss of hair as a result of
illness or treatment. Our goal is to in some small way ease their
journey, provide a small bit of comfort and share the power of positive
thinking and good wishes with these individuals on their path to healing
and recovery.
How beautiful is that?! The kids and I are switching our "Therapeutic Thursday" to "Service Saturday", when we will be serving in a nursing home with some people from Covenant Grove Church. However, we still got to have Therapeutic Thursday, on the receiving end this time! (If you are unfamiliar with what I'm referring to when I talk about Therapeutic Thursday, you can find out all about it here.) What a ray of sunshine it was in my day!
Thank you to all of you at Good Wishes Scarves. You have blessed me today.
Picture this. Your hair is long and thick, growing longer every day. Then suddenly all twelve inches of it are gone, off in the mail to some unknown place in Florida and the little half-inch fuzz on your head becomes your new normal...for a bit. Then you start to lose the fuzz, in patches, so you shave it all off, only your hair is still growing, in patches, so now you have little tufts of tiny little hairs in odd groups around your head. You go to a treatment and within a few days, you start to see little black specks on your pillow, in the sink, on your neck, on your chest and your head becomes more and more bald. Then the little black specks stop falling out. After a few days, they start to grow again. Your fuzz becomes longer. Scarves and hats become itchy. Then you have a treatment. The specks begin to fall again. Your head becomes smoother and smoother. Then it stops, and you notice a more sandpaper feel to your head. Your hair is growing back. You know it will grow for the next week or so and then... suddenly, you are very, very aware of the roller coaster ride called Cancer.
Imagine this. You walk three to four miles a day. Walking makes life make sense. Walking makes you feel strong, and powerful and in control. Then you have surgery. You can't walk anymore. You're barely awake most of the time. After a few weeks, you realize you can walk again, not long distances, but some, and then it's time for surgery number two and your walking comes to another sudden stop. Surgery number 3 follows closely behind, and then chemo begins and before you know it, you've put on five pounds and feel fat and fatigued. You decide to take matters in your own hands, change up your diet and start walking again. 2.5 miles the first day. It feels good, SO good to be in control again. So good, in fact, that you ignore the searing chest pains two miles in. Your heart rate must have gotten too high. You'll go slower next time. Day two, you're sore, but you feel powerful, and strong, so you head out again. 2.6 miles this time. No chest pains, but the fatigue is starting to set in. SO tired. Day 3. You notice your heart beating rapidly as you enter the shower and you wonder why. The fatigue is overwhelming, but you're stubborn. You know you should listen to your body, but...but...but...So you walk. You realize soon into the walk that this is just not a good idea, but you decide to push it, just a little. About a mile in, you notice chest pains again. DRAT! So you stop to take your pulse. Only 130. Why the chest pains? You cut the walk short. 1.6 miles this time. So tired. The laundry calls. The dishes call. The library calls (well, emails, to inform you that you forgot to include the dvd in the case when you returned it. DRAT again!). SO tired. You hate this roller coaster called Cancer. Hate it with every fiber of your being. The stubborn streak in you rears its head and roars, but you know that if you listen to it, it could silence you...forever. Your body isn't this invincible thing anymore. It's fragile, and weak and no longer in your control.
Envision this. You are plugged in to a group of people that you love, a family. Some of them decide you are no longer welcome there and at exactly that time, you get your ticket to the roller coaster ride named Cancer. You leave. Surgery. Surgery. Surgery. Chemo. Chemo. No time to process. No energy to deal. Then your energy returns, in spurts. You think about going back, at times, but you know you're in a better place now. Then you hear through the rumor mill. "They're saying you are better now because they cut you off." Say what?!! The pride in you rises up! The anger is so strong you can taste it and you decide to take your cancerous little butt down there and prove to them that they do not dictate your life! How DARE they?! You plot and plan and scheme about how you are going to prove your point, who will watch the kids, what time you will go down there, and you try to deaden the words of the oncologist. "I'm sorry, but you really need to stay away from working with the homeless right now. There is nothing wrong with them, but it is too many germs for your body to handle in one place." DRAT! DRAT! DRAT! Your pride rears its ugly head and roars, but you know that if you listen to it, it could be the end of you...forever. The roller coaster called CANCER. You'd like to give your ticket back, but you can't. You're strapped in, rolling around and around and around, and until the ride is finish, there is no getting off. You're trapped.
Rick Warren's youngest son Matthew took his own life yesterday morning at the age of 27. When I heard the news this afternoon, my heart broke for him, and for his family. Apparently, he had suffered from mental illness, including depression and suicidal thoughts for most of his life. What a load to bear! And what a load for his family to bear now that he's gone.
Having personally struggled under the weight of depression, and having attempted suicide myself within the last year, the news of this suicide has shaken me up. It has brought along with it so many thoughts and memories, way too many for one blog post. There are a few that I would like to address tonight, however, and perhaps a couple more in the days to come. One of the first thoughts that came to mind when I heard about Matthew, after, of course, the sickening sadness for him and for his family, was of the vicious, evil comments the family is likely to get bombarded with. Sadly, conservative Christians are notorious for their cruelty to certain types of hurting people, such as the mentally ill and those with alternative lifestyles. I won't go into all of the destructive "advice/opinions" that were said to me in my darkest moments by people who claim the name of Christ, but I do want to address one. I have been told that a person who commits suicide will not go to heaven, that it is an unpardonable sin. Come again? "For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son that whoever believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life." John 3:16. Nearly every person who lives in this country knows this verse. Ask a Christian how they know who goes to heaven, and odds are they will quote you this verse. Let me tell you something. I cannot speak for every person who commits suicide, as I am not them and do not know where their heart is or what their beliefs are, but I can tell you this. That dreadful, dreadful day last October, when I opened a bottle of pills and downed them, my faith in Jesus was still very real and active. I knew He was the Son of God. I knew that without Him, there was no way I was good enough to stand before God and I knew that His blood covered all my sins. That is, I knew that at my core, in the rational brain that I could not access that morning. I knew that in the brain that could think, and reason, and debate. Unfortunately, that day, all I was left with was an all-consuming, heart wrenching, mind-numbing pain that took over every ounce of me and shut down that brain. My chest literally hurts right now as I type, just from the memory of the excruciating pain of that morning. I knew I was in trouble, but I couldn't get myself out of it. Life hurt SO bad, SOO bad, and it felt as if nothing was ever going to take that away. Taking those pills had nothing to do with my belief that Jesus is the Son of God and the atonement of my sin. Do I believe that my suicidal attempt was a sin? Yes, just like murder is. Life is not for us to take. But unforgivable? No. I have never seen that in Scripture and I don't believe I ever will because I don't think it's in there. If you want to take the argument that a person committing suicide is dying in the act of committing a sin and is therefore condemned, you are taking a very narrow view of the grace of God! We all do stupid things. We fall. We fail. Every hour of every day, we break the laws and commands of God. If you believe that you cannot be breaking one of those commands at the time of your death and still enter eternal life, then good luck to you. I hope you don't have a heart attack while lusting, or stroke out at a time of high stress when you are angry at your brother. Oops. Picked the wrong moment to die. Sucks to be you. Perhaps you will make the point that in those examples, your sin would not be causing your death, as it does in the case of suicide, and I will agree there is a slight difference there, but I come back to my earlier point. Show it to me in Scripture. Having been trapped in the suffocating darkness of major depression, crying out to God from the depth of my being and hearing nothing in return (He was there. I just couldn't feel Him at the time.), I do not believe that the God of grace and love that I read about in the Bible would condemn such a wretched, suffering soul to eternity in Hell because the burden, at that split second in time, became too much for them to bear. Perhaps I am wrong, but I think not.
There is much I could write on this issue of depression and suicide, as it is near and dear to my heart. And what an epidemic it is! Did you know that, according to the CDC, an average of 105 people commit suicide a day in the United States?!! 105! We heard about Matthew Warren today because his father pastor's a megachurch and his book "Purpose-Driven Life" has sold thirty million copies, so nearly everyone knows who he is. But what of the other 104 people who took their own lives on that same day? Who are they? What are their stories? What caused a pain so deep in their lives that they just couldn't face another day? And what in the world can we do about it?
According to MADD, 27 people a day die as the result of drunk driving crashes. Tragic! That is 27 people too many, and yet four times that many die from suicide every day! According to this Puget Sound Susan G. Komen webpage, about 110 people will die each day in the US from breast cancer, nearly equivalent to the number who will take their own lives. For breast cancer, we have pink ribbon, mammograms, early detection tips, Relay for life, Susan G. Komen foundation, etc. What do we have for those battling depression? There are some resources available (National Suicide Prevention Line, NAMI, to name a couple), but many of us do not know about them. What can we do to raise awareness? What can we do to help? How can we bring light into this suffocating darkness? I don't know, but I'm determined to find out, because 105 people a day is 105 too many.
Today is a rainy, sticky, gloomy day here in Modesto. Gabby and I decided that for Therapeutic Thursday, we would try to take some of that gloom away for a couple people. We went to OSH and purchased two small ornamental pots of daisies, one with yellow flowers and one with purple ones. We then took these pots to Sutter Gould Oncology department, where I get my chemo treatments. I was really, really nervous about this, but I thought if I'm asking others to stretch themselves, I should be willing to stretch myself too, so I went with it. And as Gabby put it so well, "what in the world are you afraid they're going to do, Mom?!"
My plan was to pick out two patients, give them the flowers and leave, but when we got to the waiting area, there were no bald people!! How in the world was I supposed to know who was a patient and who was just waiting for someone if no one was advertising their cancer on their bald heads?! Oh, well. I decided to chance it. There was a woman who looked to be in her seventies sitting reading a book. I approached her and said: "Excuse me. I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you are receiving treatment here today." She looked at me with a bit of a confused look on her face and said that yes, she was receiving treatment. I introduced myself and Gabby and told her that I have been receiving treatment there and that when we woke up and saw what a gloomy day it was, we thought it would be especially gloomy to have to do chemo on such a rainy day, so we thought we'd bring some color to undo some of that gloom. The woman was named Mirna, and she and I spoke for quite some time. I found out that she had breast cancer eleven years ago and that it had come back and she was receiving chemo injections in her hips every month. She was a very kind and personable woman and when the nurse called her back, she said thank you, and told us that she would pay it forward.
Then came the hard part. Everyone in the lobby now knew what we were doing and we had one pot left. Who in the world should we give it to? Gabby had originally planned on giving one out herself, but when it came time to choose, she asked me to do it. I noticed an elderly woman watching us and decided to go over to talk to her. She was sitting with a gentleman her age and another woman whom I assume was her daughter. I introduced myself and found out her name was Mary. She was not cheerful or kind like Mirna and to be honest, I'm not sure what she thought of our attempt to brighten her day. She took the flowers, but did not appear interested in any type of conversation. Her daughter, however, teared up when we presented the flowers, and I don't think it was allergies.
I noticed as we walked out of the waiting room that these two gifts had impacted most of the people there. Many were smiling as we left and I realized that even though only two people received flowers, a bit of the gloom had lifted for the rest of us as well.
I've spent the majority of my life fighting realities that I didn't like. If something didn't go my way, if things didn't turn out as I had planned, I would get incredibly upset and do everything in my power to make things "right"! As you can imagine, this used up an incredible amount of energy and was often completely and utterly pointless, resulting only in a great deal of frustration and wasted effort.
I'm learning that some things we just cannot change. Good, bad, or indifferent, they are what they are and nothing will change them. I was talking to someone about some of the events of the last couple years and how they are impacting me now and he told me the story of a time in his life when blunt honesty set him free. I can't remember the exact words of the conversation, so I hope I'm doing it justice as I recount it. Basically, when he was seventeen, his parents divorced and he carried the weight of that heavy on his shoulders. He knew that they had stayed together because of him, and when he moved away, they split. He felt guilty for not being able to keep them together longer. It wasn't until someone acknowledged to him that yes, they HAD stayed together because of him, and yes, they split because he left, but that they would have ultimately split anyway that the burden of guilt lifted and he was able to move on. At the time of our conversation, I thought that I had been viewing my past honestly, and didn't dwell long on what he had said...until yesterday.
I'm not sure what it was about yesterday that brought it all home to me, but as I thought back over the past couple years, I admitted to myself that I was a lousy wife, a horrible friend, and that I hurt a lot of people. Simple as that. No excuses. No explanations. No rationalizations. Following that admission, clear as day, came the thought: "Welcome to the human race."
I had to smile, not making light of the pain I brought in any way, but because after spending months and months and months trying to fix something that I have absolutely no control over, there was genuine freedom in finally surrendering and saying: "Yes. I failed." I can't go back into the past. I can't undo the damage I did. I was not a nice person. I was not a good person. I messed up big time and people were hurt because of me. No matter how many times I beat myself up for that, the past will never change. It is what it is. I cannot undo it. I am deeply sorry for it, yes, but I cannot sacrifice the present on the altar of penance for the past. It was what it was and it's time to move on. So I place my humanity in God's divine hands, covering myself in His blood, and I move on. Welcome to the human race.
