An essay on guilt

Guilt (gilt)n
1 the fact or state of having done wrong or committed an offence.
2 responsibility for a criminal or moral offence deserving punishment or penalty.
3 remorse or self-reproach caused by feeling that one is responsible for a wrong or an offence. 4 Arch. Sin or crime


Guilt is something I deal with every waking moment of my day. Guilt is part of me, part of my identity, a governing force in my self-narrative. I am a sufferer of guilt, a victim of guilt, a casualty of guilt. But there is no deep dark secret that explains it; it just exists inside me. I possess a limitless supply of guilt, gratuitous and needless, eager to be of service, and forcing its way into my psyche after any action. Perhaps it is an affliction, an inheritance, a neurosis or a mania woven into my unconsciousness forcing itself to be heard, rapacious in its need and beyond my command.

I do not know why this happens except I feel guilty about my life.

I feel guilt over not spending enough time with my family and friends, guilt over how I treat my body, guilt over my comfortable life and guilt over the opportunities afforded to me. Regret leads to guilt, shame breeds my guilt and reproach feeds my guilt. I feel guilty about money, about spending and not spending. I feel guilty over housework and guilty when in employed work; I am flawed by other people’s assiduity and this nourishes my guilt.

I feel guilt over my sex, because I am female and do not have a picture perfect glossy appearance. My orgies of gluttony, unwillingness to starve myself, to paint myself and change myself to suit another person’s needs worries me, I consciously reject manufactured beauty, the artifice I should embrace, and this supports my guilt but conversely vanity consumes me. My lack of progeny shames me but my lack of aspiration even more so. I am a walking contradiction. My body humiliates me on a daily basis, by its effluence, its desires, and its monthly treachery. A paragon of ignominy, I go to great lengths to conceal any evidence of this and this makes me feel guilty.

My guilt grinds me down, eats away, and crushes my spirit until I am convinced I should lock myself away, unassailable from all the guilt-inducing elements of the world but this would be futile, as I am the origin. I would do penitence for all those my guilt tells me I have hurt. I would repent fifty times, a million times over, sleepless and discordant with ineradicable guilt, a fountain inside me ready to drench my nerves and fray my mind at will, an unavoidable religiosity in my thoughts.

I do not understand those who do not suffer from guilt on a daily basis like me. They disturb me but also excite me, I am locked in reverential awe at their dissolution whilst they laugh and roll their eyes at me. Yet if I decide to rally against my guilt and commit some minor offence, a missed phone call, a slice of cake, some selfish act, their accusations of complicity weaken my resolve. My culpability haunts me.

This affliction can be used against me, as an instrument of torture, of repression, an effective deterrent and a controlling force. I am subjugated by my guilt.

I’ve seen a counsellor, a lady with soft eyes and an understanding expression. She asked me to list all my triggers and communicate my fears, so I did, and I watched my neurosis sink into her placid pools, to be later reflected and deflected back at me through a process of realisation. I failed, left her attentions and disappointment palpable in the air. Wretched with self-reproach, I never visited her again, the irony sickening me for days.

My guilt is self-punishment. My guilt is vindication. I am a purveyor of guilt. My guilt is justification. I am guilt personified, and I can’t run away from it. It is just me.