I go through cycles of wishing I could change things in the
past.
Sometimes I’m so overwhelmed by some of the mistakes I’ve
made, I wish I could do that time over, and perhaps be a bit more cautious or
take a moment to think a little longer before I took any action.
I still feel all of the embarrassment of having made those
mistakes, even decades later. In remembering some things – especially in the
middle of the night – the feelings I had at the time come rushing back as if
I’d only just done them.
Sometimes it’s not something I’ve done; it’s something I
wish I’d done. There were things done to me by others that I wish I’d spoken up
about at the time. It might have caused someone else to get into trouble, but
that might have been better for my life.
Sometimes I think about how I worried about speaking up
because I was afraid it would cause a rift in the family, and everyone would
blame me. I shudder to think about being hated by the people I loved the most.
I’ve never done or said anything intentionally to hurt anyone. What I have done is said or done things that were clumsy, and ended up being hurtful. That’s what’s so baffling.
When I should have spoken up and
didn’t, it was because I was afraid of others being angry with me, or getting retribution, yet I’ve
managed to make clumsy statements that have at times made others angry with me,
and have embarrassed me for the rest of my life.
I’ve been told people reach a certain age where they don’t
worry about speaking their mind. I don’t know what that age that is. Maybe it’s
not an age, but a level of maturity that, so far, I haven’t achieved.
There are other do-overs I would wish for myself. Those are when others have done or said something deeply hurtful to me. I wish I could have confronted those people.
I’m sure sometimes it was something the other
person didn’t think was all that, only a momentary criticism, or a frustration
at me being me.
Some of those times were people doing what I can only
believe were intentionally hurtful things .
There are times I should have just walked away, discarded
someone from my life. But I didn’t, hopeful that things would change. Things
never changed, and those people left my life anyway. But by then, damage had
been done, regrets accumulated.
If I had the chance to go back, I definitely would. Imagine
being able to make a different decision that would save a world of hurt in my
life!
But then you wouldn’t be who you are today, some would say.
Looking at who I am today, I can honestly say I could live
without some past embarrassment. I could be happy not lying awake replaying
certain episodes of my life. And I can definitely see how avoiding certain
situations would mean that other unfortunate situations would never have
happened. Perhaps I’d be a better person without some of those experiences.
I’ve been told, “Well, you just start from today and do
better.” Mm-hmm.
Sometimes this is difficult, not because I don’t want to
change, but because I don’t think people will believe that I have.
I’m not the person I was at 11. I wish I’d been feistier
then.
I’m not the person I was at 16. I wish I’d been less shy
then.
I’m not the person I was at 19. I wish I’d felt more worthy
of respect then.
I’m not the person I was at 21. I wish I’d been able to
stand up for myself then.
I’m not the person I was at 25. I wish I hadn’t cared so
much about finally belonging to a group of friends. They didn’t turn out to be
friends, anyway.
I wish seeing people get away with things I never could, seeing
them not be judged for doing a wrong that was far worse than things I was
chastised for hadn’t made me so angry. It wasted a lot of time on anger in my life.
But I’m not any of those people now. Of course, the real me
is someone that very, very few people are aware of. I sometimes wonder: If you
knew who I really was, would you hate me? Or would you think I was kind of
cool?
I don’t suppose it matters. I’ve been called a liar for
telling the truth. And I’ve been given a pass for saying nothing when I should
have spoken up.
I think part of the problem is that I’m angry with myself
for understanding what it is people want me to say and saying that instead of
what I should have, just to keep the peace. And every time I determine never to
do that again, I find myself falling into the same trap.
I sometimes think I’m driven by the desire not to be hated.
So often I have been made to feel like the fifth wheel. I don’t want to bother people. I don’t want
to be where I’m not wanted. When people tell me no, I assume they're not interested, ever, so I don't ask again. And I still struggle to feel like I’m wanted
anywhere.
It’s not poor, poor pitiful me. I’ve felt uncomfortable in
so many situations, felt, “they really don’t want me to be here,” as if I were
intruding, even if I was invited. It's not being comfortable in my own skin.
Maybe it’s just part and parcel of being an introvert. Maybe
I just wish I could be the me I wanted to be.
I know whenever I talk with someone about getting my writing
out there and they tell me I need to sell my ideas to people, I need to market
my ideas, I’m filled with such dread because I don’t know how to do that, that
I’ve been brought to tears by the very thought of it. I suppose I don’t deserve
to be a famous author if I don’t have the guts to do those things, even if I
don’t have the first idea how to do them.
Marketing requires a level of extroversion I can’t even
fake.
Put me on a stage, give me a guitar and a microphone and
tell me to sing. Piece of cake.
Give me a stage and a script and ask me to play a part. No
problem. I’m more comfortable on a stage than anywhere else in the world.
Ask me to walk up to a stranger and ask for their time. I
have no idea how. The level of fear that involves is more than I care to admit.
Even making a phone call takes twice as much time to
rehearse as it takes to actually do.
But it’s who I am. If I appear confident and relaxed, try to
find out what character I’m playing, because there’s nothing of that in me.
I do keep trying to be more accepting of me. It would be
nice to really believe that if someone invites me somewhere, they actually want
me there, and that I can do this without screwing up. But it’s a difficult
journey. A lifelong journey.
And if I could go back and fix things, I certainly would.
