In grade school I once laughed at someone for waving at me. I was in my mom’s car, on my way home. He was waving at me and I saw him through the window. Clear as day. And then I laughed and I have no idea why. The vivid memory I have still haunts me in my thirty’s. No matter how many times I tell myself it was a long time ago and I did not know any better, I knew enough to not do that. I remember my appalled mother informing me that I would be apologizing to that classmate the next day and when I did my self-preservation game was top-notch. I made it seem like I was not laughing at them, but rather a funny book I was reading. I think the only one who believed that version was me and it was a staggering 1%. Reliving the memory, I see me as a witch. To the classmate. To myself. Cackling while standing over a cauldron adding more shame to my already imperfect recipe, watching the guilt boil over and bellow. I obviously had this thing figured out.
As the years have gone by, there has been many times where the guilt cauldron has deservingly boiled over. The human in me loves a good smoke show and if the smoke turns out to be a fire, even better.
Now an adult, I frequent the local fountain of negative thoughts. I don’t go there all the time, but like a normal amount of my precious time is spent there. A rational amount of time. When I am there, I gaze at its splendor, jealous of its endless source of energy and pressure. Sometimes I take a taste. A sip, I am not a heathen. Other times, I jump in. wading around in the comfort of despair. Taking pleasure in the comfort of the weightless free fall. And before I pack up and head out, I sneak a little for my next cauldron recipe.
When the deed is done, when the luster has worn off, I am left with a grand feeling of yuck. The kind that lingers when you wake up the next day after a bad night out and your foggy memories start flooding back. They are murky, but after a few more minutes you remember enough to not want to remember. In that moment, you have two choices: You bury it, trying your hardest to make you feel as unattached from you and your memory as possible. The other? Text your best friend and openly admit what a mess you are.
In the moment, it feels gutsy, raw and uncomfortable, but what happens next? Your friend either says they, too, made some colossal missteps or, they will validate that you did something undistinguished. No new news there. It is the next step to move on. It confirms what you already know. It confirms to a person you care about that you understand you made mistake. It humanizes you. It also elevates the expectations for next time – because we all know there is a next time. A large part of being a human, is in fact recognizing that you are human. It seems a little on the nose, but a good chunk of time is wasted by a facade. A cheap disguise to dress up our human characteristics and make them appear less – real. Perfection is not only unrealistic, but unattainable. It is not in the cards for us. Snapshots are the most we can get – at best, but it will always be short lived. A part that is constant? The flawed part. The one that makes us raw, exposed, embarrassed. But just like following a good cauldron recipe, a little of the real stuff is always better than the imitation.
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