For the most part, it had the desired effect. During moments of rare lucidity, my mother would feel appropriate shame over raising a son who felt the need to apologize for how bad she looked in a kaftan.  I would be spared the beatings and litany of complaints, delivered in a shrill frequency that could decalcify your spine.  It had such a positive effect I eventually took it outside the home – it’s both amazing and sad how many grown-ups think an apologizing child has great manners.  As I got older my technique only improved – my exquisitely rendered regret could soften other people’s hearts,  as though all they wanted was for someone, someone to take responsibility for mistakes, even their own.

(As good as I was at apologies, I was terrible at asking permission.  I was insufficiently persuasive to get someone to say yes, but simply too pigheaded to accept a no.  A lot of times I just went ahead and did whatever I wanted, knowing that I could put a bow on it later with an Oscar-worthy expression or remorse.  For years, I felt I should’ve trademarked the phrase “it’s easier to apologize than to ask permission.”)

I gave out apologies so freely that over time they stopped meaning anything, even when I was truly sorry about something.  This was pointed out to me by a soon-to-be ex-girlfriend on the occasion of having to apologize for cheating on her.   She was right – I’d devalued my own currency (not that it would’ve saved the relationship even if I hadn’t).  So I resolved to stop apologizing, and for a long time, I stuck to it.  You’d never hear an apology out of my mouth, even if the blame was truly mine.

Of course, all I did was trade one extreme for another.  In addition to empty apologies, another residual effect of an irrational mom is crippling anxiety when things aren’t right between myself and another person.   To minimize it I started rationalizing my own behavior, no matter how egregious.  After a time I could justify any shitty thing I did, and it was actually kind of great to live a sorry-free world, even if everyone thought I was an asshole.  That time was understandably short-lived.

I bring all this up because I had occasion to apologize last weekend.  I let someone close to me down, big time.   I had to apologize because it’s what she deserved.  It’s feels like the first time in a while I’ve apologized for something major, and as stupid and selfish as it may sound, I felt better instantly.  It was the right thing to do, but it also feels like my apologies now mean something, if only to me.   I’m reluctant to let that feeling go, but I realize I’m prone to many mistakes that require apology.  I’m now worried that by taking rightful responsibility for my actions I could relapse into a habit of reflexive apologizing that leaves my ‘sorrys’ as empty as the one I told mom when I cut the sleeves off the tracksuit of my Six Million Dollar Man action figure.

On the other hand, a Better Man knows when he’s fucked up and has both the cojones and the humility to step up and take his lumps.  So I suppose saying “I’m sorry” is a risk I’m going to have to take. As for my mom – she returned to reason sometime in the early 90s, and is now a warm, congenial woman loved by both her children and grandchildren.  She even said sorry for being tough on me growing up, adding she was just doing the best she could.   I accepted her apology.

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