The Angst of Making Mistakes, Om-nalysis….
Last night I woke up in the middle of the night because I forgot to call my co-teacher of the virtual RYT200. I felt like I was a looser, a horrible person, ADHD plus anxiety. This fear of bodily harm because I made a mistake… as I lay between waking and sleeping… my Svadyaya kicked in… Why do I feel mistakes in such a visceral way? What is this fear almost worse than death?
Then…a traumatic memory from childhood rose to the surface. My mother was frustrated at my 9 year old incapacity to make a part down the center of my hair. She slapped me many times, that just made it worse. She called in my 6’5” step Dad and while I am weeping told him that I was a drama queen, deliberately NOT parting my hair correctly and he needed to step in.
There I was, on the stool in front of the mirrored dressing table. But this time when I got a slap, it was from a human many times larger than I and my mother. Obviously I fell off the stool. My mother and my younger sister, were like spectators on the bed watching the show of a skinny, 9 year old, being hit so hard on the side of the head that she fell off the stool over and over again. My hands shook and of course I messed up many more times. Until, what felt like forever, I learned that life-or-death talent of making a middle part.
It dawned to my 53 year old self, mother of 2, last night how egregious this event was. My angst of getting ‘stuff’ wrong was rooted in this time of my life. The above was only one event. I started to justify why this should NOT be in this blog or in the book that I am planning on writing. My mother, IF she saw this would deny it, say that I made it up. She would then tell me that I am a wicked, awful person for publishing a completely fictional story. When she does that, it makes EVERYTHING that she did to me even worse. Do I really want to put myself through that? My sister, the daughter of said 6’5” step father, would bristle and probably never speak to me again as her Dad never, ever did things like that to her. She was barely 2 years old when this happened. She would not remember.
My mother, at the time, was an unhappy housewife of color in England. She hated it. I understand now that the way that she processed stress, pain was to take it out on anyone nearby and since I lived with her and was the child of the first marriage, it fell upon me to be her stress reliever. That still does not make it right.
Even though, I have a relationship with my mother now… and I have forgiven her….and I can truly say that I cared deeply for my step father as he was usually the better option than my mother - he even protected me on occasion. I need to heal that hurt child who still resides in my heart. I am beholden to that sobbing waif of a girl who still throws me into a panic when I make mistakes. Last night, I visualized her tear streaked face and my grown-up self hugging her. As I held her tiny body, I told her that she is safe now. That mistakes are okay and she won’t be punished or tortured for making them, and that she did not need to torture herself/myself any more. I will protect her.
I am also betting on neither my mother or my sister reading this blog. If they do, I am at peace with that. It is way over due that I put that young child first, to take care of her, to treasure and cherish her, teach her that everyone makes mistakes. That she is not a mistake, but a beautiful being. She deserves to be cherished, that her innocence be respected, protected. That her adorable awkward clumsy self is a part of who she is, not to be ashamed of it but embrace it.
Healing comes with old tears, new ones swell like waves in an ocean tempest. They wash me, they create a warm pool that she can safely swim in, pretend she’s a mermaid princess…gentle ruler of the pain that controlled her for so long.
