When I was a little girl I hated getting in trouble. I’m sure no child likes to be punished but I think my reaction was a little different than most. I worried about it. I always tried to do everything the right way. When I screwed up, even when it was because I simply didn’t know better, I was devastated for days. It didn’t matter if my punishment was a five minute time out or a week-long grounding, I would be humiliated that I had done something wrong.
I always thought I would magically grow out of that attitude. I figured eventually it would become easier for me to accept my mistakes and move on but I still have a hard time. Owning up to my mistakes has always been the easy part. If I mess up I am the first to apologize but I still hang on to having made the mistake in the first place. Eventually time passes and I feel better. I at least know that.
What I struggle with most now is when I make a mistake that other people don’t necessarily think is a mistake. For instance, when I realize that there was a better way to handle a problem. The problem was still dealt with but I realize later that I should not have said something or could have used a different tone. See, it’s not really a big deal. Yet I dwell on it. I’ve written about dwelling and worrying before–too many times to bother adding links.
It’s a bit comical really. I have written about dwelling and worrying so often because I dwell and worry about the fact that I dwell and worry. Honestly. Over thinking will be my downfall.
Does anyone else do this? How do you let yourself accept mistakes and move on?
I’m home–finally. It’s late. I’m exhausted. I need to sleep. I want to sleep. But my mind is racing. Over ten hours of studying the law, especially constitutional law, will do that to a person. I take a few deep breaths, get ready for bed, and then I write. I write about my day. I write about the things I want to do instead of studying. I write about friendships. I write about writing.
By the end my hand hurts and many of the words are illegible. Sometimes I read what I write and find it to be trite. Boring. Then other nights there is magic.
I like to have dance parties. Sometimes planned but often impromptu. A song will come on with just the right beat and before I know it I am dancing across the living room and pretending I am the best dancer the world has ever seen. My moves are bold and sassy but sometimes graceful and simple. I laugh, enjoying every moment and beat.
On the nights when my writing is good it feels like the best impromptu dance party. The words come together beautifully and poetry forms. The words come to life as they dance across the page, twirling and leaping with each new sentence. On those nights I read my words over and over wondering if they are possibly as good as I believe them to be. I read them aloud–my preferred method of communication–and sometimes I think they are even better. I read them with different tones, cadences, and inflections until I get it just right.
Then after all that I smile, close my journal, and go to sleep.
Every day at school the bar program tells me what to write. I focus and do my best to regurgitate the law in the most organized and mundane way possible because that is what it takes to pass the bar. But at home I write for me. At home I write and my words dance. I dance.