It's been busy, so what's new right? I guess this could be about a failure to post blogs in a timely manner. I gotta be honest. I'm sick of thinking about failure. I've found that I don't like the word at all. I don't like considering myself or anyone else a failure. I prefer an "oops" or mistake; not failure.To me failure means the end; that there's no coming back. Thankfully, that isn't how the world works.
Nearly every week I attend a staffing for men (mostly) who are in a program to help them face their problems and perpetration of domestic violence. These guys have usually had multiple arrests and convictions of DV, this is their last chance if you will. I'm amazed and frustrated by this process. One of the things that frustrates me is knowing some of their histories and realizing that instead of sitting in jail, they are out on the streets and thus it feels that DV isn't always taken seriously. However, on the other side of things this program makes my heart sing. These are guys who've been through their own trauma and have inflicted trauma on others but yet this program sees their value as human beings, as people who have had trauma that has led them down a dark path and instead of giving up and calling them failures, they are surrounded by professionals that want to help them deal with their trauma and go forth as good and decent partners, spouses, and parents. They may have failed in their relationships before but they are not failures; they are people who need support so that they can do better.
In that sense, failure does not exist because we have grace, we have second, third, seventy-second chances to be better, to make it work.
Yet, one failure to act still nags at me and haunts me. When I was in my late twenties and early thirties I had a younger cousin who was very much challenged at home, she had a rough life. We talked about bringing her into our home and raising her. We were barely scraping by and knew there wouldn't be assistance available unless she ended up in the system and we didn't want that to happen to her. We were also afraid, afraid of what I'm not totally sure but fear was definitely present. We didn't take her into our home. She's now a drug addict and has lost her own kiddos to the system. I, we, failed her. I can't make it right. So how do I begin to forgive myself for that failure? It happened. I don't know that she would have done any better in our home, she would have moved to a large city and potentially be exposed to more drugs there than in the small town in which she lived. Maybe we couldn't of handled her but my failure is that I didn't even try. I gave up the fight for her before it was even started. So there is failure, I have failed her. That is how the world works at least part of the time.
It's a cliche but it's true: our regrets are made not by the things we tried but those we did not attempt. So is regret the same as failure or something completely different? Perhaps regret is the haunting residue of failure.
As sick of it as I am, I guess I still have work to do. Until next time...