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#HAWMC Day 19: Well, that’s an “oops”!

#HAWMC Day 19: “Lesson Learned. What’s a lesson you learned the hard way? Tell us a time when you made a mistake and promised never to make that same mistake again. Write about it for 15 today.”

Me, mistake? NAILED IT! \m/
Me, mistake? NAILED IT! \m/



Well, I’m certainly glad they narrowed it down to just one.

*shifty eyes*



So, when I tell you that I’ve learned a lot, and find myself in a position to truthfully believe in the words that I share with other people…it is specifically as a result of having made mistakes in order to learn them! Often? Mistakes of grandiose proportions. Even really, really ugly mistakes.

The ones that haunt.

If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard how selfish I am, how high & mighty, how arrogant and/or how self-centered I appear…well…whatever. I have got to believe that the depth of my “A-HA!” moments entitle me to sincerely believe in those very words I speak, or in the actions that I make or that I take. I grew a set and hunkered down to find out that the common denominator in my previously really shitty life…was me. And I learned from those dark days to always aim for self-improvement…self-evolution, if you will.

I cannot own people’s inabilities to recognize the process in themselves, in me.

But this isn’t a “Let’s count the number of ways and times I’ve royally screwed things up!” I simply haven’t the time to illustrate just how often I fuck shit up.

True story.

Nope. We’ll focus on just one. 😉

Survey says?

Telling people just how really sick I really was…

(I use “was”, because my medical levels and numbers and counts do not match my initial prognosis, as at today’s date)

How does one, theoretically speaking, tell someone else who they care about, and who cares about them…that you’ve got a timeline?

Then, how does one further tell friends?

Do you?

How do you?!?

I verily believe that the mistake I’d made was in even attempting to do so.

1. I didn’t get to tell my husband the “right way”…because shit happened and I panicked and ended up telling a close gal-pal. Then I had uber-guilt because who the hell tells someone else before their soon-to-be-at-the-time spouse?!?

2. THEN, I panicked some more after telling my husband and told other friends without pre-thinking how, in fact, I should approach the gravity of the situation.

It was brought, rather emphatically, to my attention that I did none of the above activities “the right way.”

I’ve re-processed the events many, many times.

I’ve continuously questioned the entire necessity of telling anyone at all.

Yes, even my husband.

[enter collective *gasp*, stage left]

I verily believe that I caused unnecessary stress to an aggregate of people who I verily believe did not need to know. I bowed to what I perceived to be “social etiquette.” (Swell move, Go, Go SocialAnxiety Girl…)

I believe that they did not need to know because afterwards, nothing changed.

The chaos of my reality dictates that the only direction to move is forward.

There is still shit to get done, be done, planned, organized and DONE, done.

Would I take it back, telling people?


Do I regret my decision?

No. Because I learned from it.

I learned that I need to apply knowledge in direct proportion to the benefit by which the person receiving the knowledge can be measured.

(that totally sounded way better in my head…)

In a nutshell, I now carefully calculate the depth to which I let people enter my made-for-tv-movie journey through an asshat of a disease after I think about whether or not they would be better served knowing about it or not.

“Not the right way.”

Disease doesn’t come with an instruction manual.

True story.


1 Comment

  1. The Maven

    Sometimes, when I read things you write, I start to think we’re brain twins. I don’t know if that’s an actual thing, but I’m making it one.

    I’ve also monumentally screwed up more times than I can count. But now I know we’re brain twins, I realize it’s genetic and beyond either of us to control.

    Guilt-free brain twinnage for the win.

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