I had sinned. Despite my efforts to convince myself that I hadn't really failed God, guilt whispered quietly, and then more loudly when I ignored its protests. It didn't matter if anyone else was aware. I knew. That self-knowledge made it terrible to bear.
During that period, I read every day from the Psalms. Although I didn't speak quite as dramatically as the poet, I understood his words on an emotional level: "When I kept silent about my sin, my body wasted away through my groaning all day long. For day and night thy hand was heavy upon me; my vitality was drained away as with the fever-heat of summer" (Ps 32:3-4, NAS).
I had sinned.
To make it worse, it wasn't what the Old Testament refers to as a sin of ignorance. I had deliberately gone astray. Before I sinned, I told myself that I was protecting my rights, standing up for myself and being faithful to my convictions. At other times, I've told myself that I had technically sinned, but I had really been overwhelmed by temptation (as though that made it a lesser offense).