Permission Granted

"So, jane. How are you?"

Loaded question. Especially coming from one's shrink.

And I figured I might as well get my $60/15 minutes worth and tell him.

About Will's recent health scare and how it unearthed my feelings of guilt over my role in his early birth. Didn't have to dig too far down to unearth them. They're always perilously close to the surface.

(Sidedbar: Here's the scoop on Will's wild health history: The Will Chronicles)

He paused. Then told me that while he can understand why I might feel that way, what happened, happened. It is what it is. And while I can blame myself and my body for letting Will down and envisage a different outcome had I gone to the hospital earlier, there's absolutely no way of knowing how that scenario would have turned out. It might have changed. It might not.

Just because we're made in God's image doesn't mean we get to play Him.

Wow.

It's far past time to let this go. I'm being way too hard on myself. And I deserve better.

His words. Not mine.

Same words said to me by my wise and wonderful pastor last summer.

Same words said to me by family and friends countless times over the past six years.

Sigh.

He told me to just go ahead and leave my guilt in his office. That it would be fine to do so. Honestly.

So I did. Or at least think I did.

I've tried this before. Unsuccessfully. But I'm thinking this time things might stick.

I hope so. This shit I tote around is exhausting. I'm sick of it.

Cross your fingers.