I can’t tell you how my heart breaks when I feel like I screwed up.
I was on the phone to my parents when my sister called. I had to do a quick juggle to pick it up, and left my mother on the other speaker while my sister talked about some family issues.
Hadn’t been planning to tell parents. I failed her in her promise to keep a secret. And she “Hates It When I Do That.”
I feel like shit, deflated, on the ground, runny and smelly.
My first plan was just to die, hang up on both of them and take the pain. But I did the right thing and stayed on long enough to sort it, down to telling my father; my mother couldn’t keep it from him.
But I feel like shit.
I know all the caveats. Sister didn’t start with a disclaimer, only ended with it. I need to fill content to parents, who haul me back to shit twice a day anyway. Keeping secrets is an odd thing anyway.
It may be a small thing in the longer term context, but right now my heart feels flattened, deflated, torn up.
And that takes my energy away in a way that just cripples me.
It’s my response to my family, my response to being caught between, my response trained from years of trying to satisfy them and failing.
I am the black sheep, the target patient. I take the slams. I do screw up, of course, but without the air of successes, all I live is failure.
And my heart goes splot, squeezed and hurting, stuck in loss and dysphoria.
I don’t want to kick back, don’t want to find reasons they failed.
I failed. And I never succeed, not in any context.
My sister bought my parents a book, When Our Grown Children Disappoint Us.
I am the disappointment. No time to enter my world, just time to fail in theirs.
Bad, heart smashing magic.