The Benign Reproach of Neglect

I invented neglect I think, I must have because I was never neglected myself. The attention I was afforded as a child was far from healthy, but it was never absent. How then did I learn this terrible tool that I wield on most everyone in my universe? I am sure it is some form of selfishness, but lately I am having a hard time finding the selfish spoils of this vocation of mine. Instead, an empty and pathetic man looks back at a history of disaffection and indifference written on the hearts of those who endeavored to love him.
Don't be too hasty and dismiss this as some sort of plaintive overture designed to engender pity or compunctive solace - truthfully, there are probably other posts on this blog manufactured more closely to that intent - consider this instead the cumulative consequence of the artful eschewal of all things painful, guilt-inducing, and remorseful. The ultimate neglect of my own conscience.
Unlike a sociopath, I do feel, I just repel easily. My great strength, I thought, was my ability to bury the guilt of my deeds deep and darkly in the anonymity of yesterday. And for nearly twenty years of my life, I had the spectre of alcohol to rationalize this internment, along with an unfortunate conception of Nietzsche's Ubermensch for good measure. Neglect in lieu of post mortem - no wonder I never considered my past and its possessions any portent to my future. A future that has now arrived unceremoniously with the vengeance of a neglected dream.
It is not my neglect of my actions or general ethics that troubles me now, but the neglect of those who love/d me throughout my half-century. For this sin, my greatest, was my benign neglect. I did not wish to hurt my family and friends, nor did I want them too close to what I probably suspected would have repelled them eventually - whoever, whatever I am. Constant motion prohibits a clean snapshot, and I was always moving - here to there, working harder, longer, never retreating, never apologizing, cloaked by the societal indulgence "workaholic." The nom de guerre by the way for most inadequate, self-loathing men my age or older.
So now, here I am neck-deep in this self prescribed self examination wondering at the fact that I am still here, somewhat successful, not totally depressed or suicidal. A lifetime of deflection creates a sort of clinical ability to evaulate anything, including yourself. My conclusion: I have no idea who I really am, nor do I care as much as I probably should. Instead, I know what I want to be, and that is far more valuable to me. I can take the scraps and remnants of my accidentally accumulated virtues and build the life I want, including the promise of contrite ingress for any of those loved ones stubborn enough to try again. I figure I have a good quarter of a century left for this project. Sounds reasonable.