The calendar is full of days where my survival instinct kicks it up a thousand notches and tells me to fly under the awareness radar. Christmas, Birthdays (hers and mine), Hallmark Holy Days, every other Thursday in a Blue Moon month...okay not the last one. Point being C-PTSD is a beast with permanently bared teeth and sometimes I hide, other times I come out swinging. Like a dancer with no rhythm and definitely when no one is watching.
Insert transition sentence here: _______________________________________________. Go ahead. Write your own. One full of reflection and deep meaning. I'm fine with that.
Two months ago, an email arrived from a super helpful use-my-business fella saying this: "I thought you would like to know, it looks like you've misspelled the word "calender" on your website. Silly mistakes can ruin your site's credibility. In the past I've used a tool like blankittyblank.com to keep mistakes off my website."
Naturally I went into a shame spiral. A typo is writer death. Briefly I hoped for an "American versus British" spelling snafu but no such luck. That's just one of those words that stumps me every single Julian calendar day. Other words this happens with? Antidisestablishmentarianism. Genius. Succeed. The last two are embarrassing. I had to shelve this worry because there are bigger mistakes to worry about all night into the wee hours of the morning:
1) Writing about my dad
2) Writing about my dad
3) Writing about my dad
I don't want to mess that up. He's a freaking fantastic father, and he had to mother me too. An acrobatic feat every single parent in the world has tried to pull off and he did it. With aplomb. Under duress. Nailed it six ways from Sunday.
So here's Mike Fantetti on mistakes: "That's life. We don't just make one and never again. We make them every day. That's what it means to be a human being. But we try again. Maybe tomorrow will be easier. Maybe it will be harder. No one knows. But don't make your life harder."
Me: "I don't. The people who voted Conservative make my life harder."
Dad: "Sure. They don't understand. They think only they are suffering. They don't see how they are lucky. They blame people for their own problems. That's why I'm telling you don't make your life more difficult. Our time here is pass by fast."
Imagine telling that guy you're writing a memoir about youse guys, your history together. He'll shrug and say, "If it makes you happy, it makes me happy."
Permission granted. Why lose sleep? Not sure but I am. I think this is simply part of the territory that comes with telling true tales: the anxiety that I'm oversharing and in TMI land. The only thing that helps me in those moments is to remember the role books and reading had in my life. World view expanded, potential broadened, dreams magnified...
Let me end with more dance songs. Be a trooper. Not the storm or selfish kind, obviously, but the one that battles malicious forces and mean-spirited beings. Blast them with your super power (a smile, a song, a samba?) and work to bring balance to a world out of whack.