I can’t remember the last time I’ve cried like this . . . 

Things are being squeezed from the sponge of my face. They drip towards the carpet. The black hole spirals open in my chest as my mind pedals the distance, generating the current. Beneath my sitting seiza, my toes flicker pins and needles while my throat gasps for air repeating the mantra, “It’s not ok. It’s not ok . . .”

They were depending on you. You’ve disappointed everyone. You’re stupid. You’re a disappointment. This is entirely your fault.

There’s nothing I can do to make it better. A performance I’ve been rehearsing for over two months was this morning at 7:30AM. This entire time, in my mind and on my calendar, I’ve had it scheduled for 7:30PM. I’d arranged my entire day to be there extra early at 7:00PM. I responded to an email last night saying I’d be there.

I’d been so busy that day, that I view the attachment thinking it was just the logo. If I had opened the attachment, I would’ve seen the performance at 8AM. I’d been so busy on my computer, working till 1:00AM, my phone chiming all day with email notifications, that I hadn’t been paying attention to detail.

Nonetheless, it is a pathetic, stupid mistake, and entirely my fault. They went on with the performance skits. Someone read my lines . . . You disappointed everyone.

No one called me. Why did no one call me? I’d been early for every rehearsal.

My friend in New York once told me that I’m the kind of person that if I told her I’d be at her party, and I wasn’t there, she’d start calling hospitals. In my family the Italian heritage came with the mantra, “Your word is your bond.” I was taught that if I said something, I meant it, and I never took words lightly. If I say I’m going to do something, I do it . . . my word is my bond. You disappointed everyone.

In my mind, I can’t bare their stares, their judgment of my character. It was an honest, stupid mistake and I’m so sorry. But sorry doesn’t make it better: If I cut you, sorry doesn’t heal the wound. I wasn’t there. I left them hanging.

It reminds me of when I was younger, how I always felt as though I were disappointing someone. At the source of this was the eating disorder I couldn’t shake, that made me a liar, worthless, never good enough.

Once upon a time, there was a bad decision I made. It resulted in incredible emotional turmoil, so much that I thought it was possible for it to actually kill me. For the next year I was horribly depressed. I had known myself as the girl who laughed easy, who thought the light in me was stronger than another’s darkness.

In the aftermath of the situation, I didn’t know who I was anymore. It was as if everything I stood for coalesced in front of my face screaming, “You’re a liar, fake, worthless.”

Who am I when the things with which I identify myself are stripped away?
If I no longer have that which defines me, who am I?

I am a non-entity, a blank canvas: devoid, lacking, empty.

My word is my bond. My heart is broken after the shock. As I hyperventilate into the phone, my husband tells me, “It’s not ok, but it will be ok.”

The worst part, is knowing there is absolutely nothing I can do to make it right. Despite the apology email I send to everyone, I feel like an awful human being and I can’t stop replaying the judgment I create that everyone must feel towards me.

Despite the event being over, the next morning I wake up in a panic, frantic that I’ve missed something important.

I cannot keep replaying my mistake,
but how do I cope with the burden of disappointing people?

The natural progression is to take responsibility and do everything in my power to make amends. I’d already done this, but it doesn’t stop the awful feelings.

What about forgiving myself? I try always to be truthful, integrous, and kind. Sometimes I don’t allow myself the same courtesy. I hold myself to a high standard of character, but inevitably there will be points where I will not measure up. I am human and make mistakes.

In recovery for my eating disorder, my therapist would often tell me to sit with the uncomfortable feelings – not to do anything with them, but instead, “sit with it.” In my head “sit with it,” sounded a lot like “suck it up,” but it’s not the same. Suck it up, means that we push it all down into that secret closet that hides all our repressed feelings. Sit with it, means we do just that.

I imagine myself in a white and blue dress, like Alice in Wonderland. Little mushroom stools surround a tiny round table covered with white lace. There’s a teapot, sugar cubes, and pitcher of milk. My porcelain cup clinks against the saucer.

Across the table disappointment lurks. He puts three sugar cubes in his tea. We stare at each other across the table’s divide. He shows me a mouthful of pearly teeth with dull pointed edges.

My eyes hold his gaze as I pick up my cup of tea and pull a small sip through my lips. I don’t have to like him. We don’t have to speak. All that is required is for me to sit here on the mushroom stool, and drink my cup of tea.

All I must do is be here, and sit with him.

With Love,
Z :)