Regrets. I’ve had a few. But then again…
These vestigial thoughts stick to me like emotional skin tags. I don’t even believe in them but still, I bristle when I find them where I want smooth skin, a clean slate. Where would I be now if only I had (fill in the blank): stuck with acting, kept practicing the piano, finished my memoir?
Here’s something I wrote during one of those moments around six months ago:
I’m worried that I have nothing left to say. Does the world really need another book about raising a kid with Aspergers? About how I marched to the beat of my own drummer blah blah blah so that my kid didn’t have to survive a shitty school system or a bunch of shitty bullies or just regular shitty kids the way I was a shitty kid who didn’t really get or include or reach out to different or odd or unusual teens?
What’s the remedy? Well, it certainly isn’t in going over and over the past. I won’t get anywhere new by driving in them old worn tracks. I need me some new tracks.
And so, I begin again.
Each new moment = clean slate.
“Nothing will make you feel better except doing the work.”