Not To Irrupt

You know, I am immensely grateful for one aspect of my life, when I think about it. I watch other people go through these phases, some long and some short, of being regretful and remorseful about "who they used to be." I try and think about the past, at different points, and never does any of it illicit any regret. I was who I was, and that was simply the way I was at that time due to the extenuating circumstances that surrounded me, and the experiences I had and had not had by then; the way I thought and acted was an extension of my past, up to that point, and the environment I was in, the people I knew, and the decisions I made. None of that was really something that should've been any different, is what it comes down to, in my perspective. But, that's really what it is: perception. People take their perception of themselve in the present and project it upon their perception of themselves in the past, and overlap the two and confuse it all and then start feeling remorse. My running theory is that current feelings of inadequacy and doubt lead to manifested emotions of regret and remorse about the past as a form of rationalisation of attitudes developed and carried, right now. And I don't doubt myself, and I don't feel inadequate or as though I am not meeting the standards by which I judge myself.
I never really have doubted myself. It's strange, really. I know I'll survive, though, because I want to survive, at the end of the day. I never lost the drive to be alive; just, on occasion, the joy of living slipped through my fingers. There's a marked difference, there, between the drive to live and the joy to do so. Kind of differentiated by the thought, "I will push on, because it is what I will do," and the thought, "I will push on, because it is what I enjoy doing." But, I deviate from something I wish to discuss, here.
I know I've changed. It's not too hard to see, in my head, that I have developed qualities of myself that were less developed or downright underdeveloped, before. Also, new and unprecedented things have arisen, and there are facets of my personality that were entirely not present at a younger age. I . . . Don't particularly mind, though. Even though I have newfound problems, and although I still haven't solved all my old quandaries, it doesn't mean I have failed at something.
I am alive. And, right now, I enjoy being so. Nothing is perfect, either. Nothing is without struggle. Nothing is without irritation. Nothing is without effort. When I don't enjoy life, then I lay down my cards and coast, and then I wake up, down the line, and realise I've picked up debris and a mess, like some kind of human broom that was being dragged across the floor, without being picked up to avoid the filth. Heh, that simile amuses me: a human broom.
I haven't rambled like this for a long time, and . . . I guess it's refreshing, in a way. It's a common tool of psychologists and psychiatrists to have patients write because of the therapeutic properties of the act. I never put much salt into therapy, but I won't say it's all wrong.
For now, I digress.

Adios.