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My dad gave me a lift to work. “I’m sorry,” I said, as I closed the door. “What for?” asked dad, doing driverly things. “I’m not sure. Being a bit late? Making you go ever so slightly out of your way? I don’t know, but I’m sorry.” “That’s all right,” said dad as he drove along.
“I’m sorry,” I piped up again. “That’s all right,” he soothed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” came tumbling out. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m sorry.” “Stop saying ‘sorry’,” dad ordered. “Ok. Sorry. For saying sorry. I’m sorry I’m sorry. I’m sorry, sorry. Sorry.”
Sideways glance from father to yours truly. “Are you all right?” he eventually asked.
“Yes. Except I’m sorry.”
“I know you’re sorry,” he said, all reassuring like.
“No!” I almost shouted. “You don’t know! You have no idea of how sorry I am, and how deep the sorriness goes! I’m very sorry! I’m very very very sorry!” I believe I did something courageous and spirited at the point, like bursting into tears.
“So-oo-orrrr-yyyy,” I heaved, between sobs.
“Maybe saying ‘sorry’ is a new obsession,” mused dad brightly, as I sat next to him, thick sorries bubbling up every now and then.
It’s happened since. I just apologise profusely. Sometimes I’ll ring my dad at work to say sorry. I’m just sorry. And I’m not sure why.
Last night was my support group night, and the topic was “have you let anyone down?” Apparently, everyone was filled the spirit of Gloria Gaynor, and all agreed that they are what they are. “The only person you can let down is yourself,” some sage said, and there was a collective murmuring and nodding of heads. Except mine.
I’ve let everyone down.
I’m sorry I’m 30 and I still live at home. I’m sorry I can’t do my job. I’m sorry I fall asleep all the time. I’m sorry for everything.