Did I ever tell you why I hate making mistakes? If I did, I was probably being dishonest.
I hate making mistakes because they embarrass me. Whenever I am embarrassed, I am going to blame someone for the way that I feel inside. On rare occasions this assignation of blame happens to someone else. Usually it happens to me.
In an ideal day, I will not ever blame myself for the way I feel, because it is hurtful and useless and dangerous. But the way I feel is always there, seething. I cannot call it caged because I allow it all the freedom I allow myself. It is a facet of the bargain I have established with my brain- I can tell it what to do and it will obey, but I will not tell it how to feel or try to change its emotions.
Tonight I was working and I made a pasta and I put broccoli into it which would have been fine under normal conditions, except it had been ordered without broccoli. It was my third mistake of the day. Three in seven hours. I was furious. I wanted to quit my job, if only so I would not have to make a mistake there again. Of course I did not quit. You know as well as I do that my passions cannot be trusted.
There’s no way out. I know that. This is the deal that I had to make. And I get to live, you know? And living is so goddamn good sometimes, Emilia. I got to come to the room I live in tonight and close the door and put on headphones and listen to Coltrane and Chet Baker and after a little while no matter what I feel, I will tell myself to sleep and so I will sleep. The next day I will do this again.
I tell myself that my crippling loneliness and anxiety are healthy things. They keep me honest and safe. They are a constant reminder that my brain is a weak and pathetic thing, like the minds of the people it feels such contempt toward. I have joked before that I am in an abusive relationship with myself. It is not a very funny joke and not a very useful observation. You see, I have absolutely nowhere else to go.
It’s one thing if everything is suspended and unreal, but all it takes is one overcooked burger or one overvegetabled pasta to remind me that the same emptiness that is necessary for my survival views me as prey.
I hate making mistakes because they embarrass me. Whenever I am embarrassed, I am going to blame someone for the way that I feel inside. On rare occasions this assignation of blame happens to someone else. Usually it happens to me.
In an ideal day, I will not ever blame myself for the way I feel, because it is hurtful and useless and dangerous. But the way I feel is always there, seething. I cannot call it caged because I allow it all the freedom I allow myself. It is a facet of the bargain I have established with my brain- I can tell it what to do and it will obey, but I will not tell it how to feel or try to change its emotions.
Tonight I was working and I made a pasta and I put broccoli into it which would have been fine under normal conditions, except it had been ordered without broccoli. It was my third mistake of the day. Three in seven hours. I was furious. I wanted to quit my job, if only so I would not have to make a mistake there again. Of course I did not quit. You know as well as I do that my passions cannot be trusted.
There’s no way out. I know that. This is the deal that I had to make. And I get to live, you know? And living is so goddamn good sometimes, Emilia. I got to come to the room I live in tonight and close the door and put on headphones and listen to Coltrane and Chet Baker and after a little while no matter what I feel, I will tell myself to sleep and so I will sleep. The next day I will do this again.
I tell myself that my crippling loneliness and anxiety are healthy things. They keep me honest and safe. They are a constant reminder that my brain is a weak and pathetic thing, like the minds of the people it feels such contempt toward. I have joked before that I am in an abusive relationship with myself. It is not a very funny joke and not a very useful observation. You see, I have absolutely nowhere else to go.
It’s one thing if everything is suspended and unreal, but all it takes is one overcooked burger or one overvegetabled pasta to remind me that the same emptiness that is necessary for my survival views me as prey.
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