You Will Survive Being Bested

Think about how many times I have fallen
Spirits are using me, larger voices callin'
…
And we never failed to fail, it was the easiest thing to do
You will survive being bested
Somebody fine will come along, make me forget about loving you
- "Southern Cross", Crosby, Stills, & Nash

A couple of weeks ago, I was in a mood. An intense, teenage mood: fierce, negative, and hard to get out of (for the record, I'm 20+ years past teenager-hood). It gripped me in its fist. I isolated myself, waiting for the storm to pass, not wanting to rain on my husband and kids.

After some analysis, the cause of my mood became clear to me: an accumulation of recent events in which I felt like a failure. No specific event was devastating, but there sure were a lot of them:

• I’d spent too much money on Zulily (my guilty-pleasure shopping website).
• I’d consumed too much dessert and alcohol, and the bathroom scale displayed the evidence. 
• I missed a chiropractor appointment. I had driven there, but when I arrived, their parking lot was full. It had started pouring rain and I had no umbrella. I would have had to park several blocks away, walk, and arrive drenched. After circling for 15-20 minutes, I gave up and drove home, after calling them to apologize and reschedule. I felt like an idiot. I don’t think I’ve ever failed to show up to an appointment for a dumb-ass reason like “it was raining!” 
• I entered a story in a writing contest. It was not the best thing I had ever written, but it was better than okay. I did not make it past the first round. 
• I hadn’t been able to make time to focus on writing, because I feel guilty about taking time away from my kids on weekends, which is when I have the most free time. 
• I shelled out big bucks to take my family to Cirque du Soleil. At intermission, my 7-year-old (who was having a hard time; the show’s loud noises bothered her) turned to me and asked me how long the show had been going on. An hour, I told her. She replied, “So I’ve wasted an hour that I could have been playing on my iPad.” She didn’t say it sarcastically. At her age, she hasn’t mastered sarcasm. It was a matter-of-fact statement. The lights had come up and she said it right in front of everyone. Trust me, the best recipe for a bad mood is one pound of feeling like you’ve failed as a parent, plus a tablespoon of public humiliation.

I left the house, took a long walk, and brooded. My analytical nature kicked in, and I asked myself: What would I say to my daughters, or to a friend, if they came to me and said they felt like a failure?

I would tell them they are allowed to be human. That nobody’s perfect. That sometimes we screw up. That they should say sorry if they hurt or inconvenienced someone, but overall they should just move on. That they can get up tomorrow and start fresh.

I should take my own advice. Why is it so hard to do that? I don’t know. I have always struggled with perfectionism. I have a terrible time forgiving flaws in myself that I instantly forgive in others.

But I do know a few things. First: all difficulty is writing material. This has become my mantra lately. No matter what happens to you, it can be mined, transformed. It might become an essay, a poem, a character, a story, or just a really therapeutic journal entry.

I also know that one blessing of being a busy mom is that I don’t have time to dwell on things. My moodiness soon evaporated into our family’s evening routine of dinner, baths, homework, and putting the kids to bed. Being a mom makes you tougher, too. A lot of hardships just roll off your back after you’ve survived natural childbirth and a colicky infant.

Finally, it’s easier to deal with any pain if you feel you’re not alone. A week after my angst-fest, one of my favorite bloggers wrote an excellent post about having your writing rejected. I felt instantly better. Sometimes, just having one person “get you” is enough.

This too shall pass. And if it doesn't, I can always write about it.