You got The Sorry Addict, and your immediate reaction was probably to apologize for the result somehow. "Sorry, I know that's probably annoying." See? You just did it. In your head. Right now.
Let's get one thing straight: you're not apologizing because you've done something wrong. You're apologizing because you exist in a state of perpetual perceived wrongness, and "sorry" has become the toll you pay for the crime of taking up space in other people's lives. You apologize when someone bumps into you. You apologize before asking a question. You apologize for having an opinion, then apologize for apologizing. It's apologies all the way down, and the stack is getting concerning.
The psychology here runs deeper than most people realize. Chronic over-apologizing is typically rooted in one of two things: an anxious attachment style that's terrified of abandonment, or a childhood environment where your needs were treated as inconveniences. Somewhere along the way, your brain received the message that your presence is an imposition, and "sorry" became the tax you pay to justify it. Every apology is really saying, "Please don't leave. I know I'm too much. I'll make myself smaller."
And here's the cruelest irony: the very thing you do to keep people close is the thing that pushes them away. Constant apologizing is exhausting for the people around you — not because they're annoyed by the word, but because they can see the anxiety driving it, and they don't know how to help. When you apologize for existing, you're essentially asking everyone around you to constantly reassure you that you're allowed to be here. That's a lot of emotional labor to put on other people, and it often creates the exact rejection you're trying to prevent.
Your apology reflex also has a sneaky dark side: it can actually be a form of control. When you apologize preemptively for everything, you leave no room for anyone else to express their actual feelings about the situation. You've already claimed the role of the wrong one before they've even had a chance to evaluate what happened. It looks like humility, but it functions as a defense mechanism — by beating everyone to the punch, you never have to sit in the uncomfortable uncertainty of not knowing if you've done something wrong.
The linguistic pattern is telling: "I'm sorry, but—" before sharing an opinion. "Sorry to bother you" before a perfectly reasonable request. "Sorry if this is stupid" before a genuinely good idea. Each one is a tiny disclaimer that says, "Please don't judge me for what comes next." You've turned apology into armor, and you've been wearing it for so long you've forgotten what it feels like to just... say things. Without the preface. Without the escape clause.
Recovery isn't about never saying sorry — it's about retraining your brain to distinguish between genuine accountability (which is healthy and necessary) and anxiety-driven appeasement (which is neither). The next time "sorry" is about to leave your mouth, pause for one second and ask: "Did I actually do something wrong, or am I just scared?" If the answer is the second one, try replacing it with "thank you." "Sorry for venting" becomes "Thank you for listening." "Sorry I'm late" becomes "Thank you for waiting." Same situation, completely different energy — and it doesn't cost you a piece of yourself every time.