Sometimes I look back at past mistakes I’ve made, and they’re so ripe with foolishness that I can hardly stand to exist within my own skin.
I want to leave my body just so I can look at myself and point and laugh.
Or so I can escape being the one who is surely being pointed at and laughed at by everyone else.
Just for a second or two.
A nervous grin forms as I think about how obvious it must’ve been to everyone but me.
These memories replay like a movie. The kind where someone is about to do something you know they’re going to regret. The terrified girl being chased by the murderer runs upstairs instead of outside, defying all logic, all survival instinct.
I want to yell at myself. “NO! Don’t do it! Stop!”
But I never stop. I always go through with it.
Then I try to cut myself some slack. I recall the thought patterns that brought me to a particular mistake. I didn’t know it was a mistake at the time, or I wouldn’t’ve done it.
The problem is that empirically, I did know. I just didn’t think empirics applied to me.
My face flushes with embarrassment. I gnaw on a finger.
I call myself an asshole.
I want to tell the world “I KNOW! IT WAS A MISTAKE! I GET IT!”
But most everyone’s moved on. They have their own mistakes to attend to.
I want to write about it, but I don’t know how.
I’m too aware that there are mistakes I’m currently making that I don’t know about yet.