Tiny Deaths

Another end of something happened a couple of days ago, and although it has little to do with Mom directly, it hurts much more than it would have, without the guilt I feel about it.

Not long after I left law school in 1997 I decided to work on writing, since I could do that at home (I thought). I knew I needed to learn a LOT, but there was no $$$ so I joined a local Writers' Workshop. It met every other Wednesday in the morning. The group was full of vibrant, energetic, knowledgeable, published writers and I quickly made a place for myself there. I learned from them and I think they got a little from me, too.

I began to believe that I could write and that the group was important to that effort. I never went anywhere else, but often the meeting times bumped into doctors' visits for Mom, things like that. She knew how important it was to me, and did everything she could to make the times available so I could go.

But gradually the membership of the group changed. People moved away, died, lost interest. The leadership changed. I wrote less.  I didn't attend meetings as often.  I complained to Mom about how it was changing. But I never slacked off in claiming that time for myself, even when I didn't go. Mom's needs increased and I still managed to make her feel bad about my missing meetings -- even when I was missing them because I was too lazy to attend. And far WORSE: I wanted to go someplace else and lied to her, telling her I was going to the writers' meeting, because I knew that she'd understand about that.  I behaved badly about it all, felt bad at the time, and STILL feel it. Truly selfish...

When things here got VERY bad, I forgot about the group and never left the house except to get food, etc. I didn't miss it; I wasn't writing anyway. When Mom died, what was left of the group sent flowers.

Because I felt guilty about drifting away, I went back to a couple of the meetings. By then only four people were attending (from a high of 20!!) and two of them were non-writing yappers who just wanted an audience for their performances in critiquing. Not long after that, I started the job I'm coming to the end of now.

I didn't call the leader, I didn't try to attend. I just walked away.

Yesterday I got a letter from the leader: the group has disbanded. After 23 years of meeting at the local library, and producing a couple of moderately successful novelists, the Writers' Workshop is no more.

I know I didn't kill it and there was little I could do to save it. But I feel crushing guilt for the times that I gave Mom a hard time about missing a meeting, when she needed me. The group wasn't important to me -- really. If it had been, I'd have done more to keep it going. So I feel like I let them both down.

These tiny deaths  do happen. Too bad that the accompanying guilt isn't tiny.