Guest post by Larissa
I’ve always liked to do things right, and by “right” what I really mean is “perfect”. I like things to be tidy and everything has its place. I remember in high school, I’d apologise to my parents for having a messy room and promise to tidy it once a particular assignment or test was out of the way. Except my room wasn’t bad and they weren’t even thinking it was all that messy to begin with! I like to tidy things before going to bed, so the next day the lounge room looks nice and there’s not much clutter to annoy me. I like to “do things right” because if I don’t, it means I’ve failed. At least, that’s how my brain thinks this year.
Yesterday I made a mistake when trying something new. A tiny mistake, on something that was just a practice anyway. In other words – this mistake really did not matter. But nevertheless, I’d made a mistake. I didn’t do it right; it wasn’t perfect. And so I gave up. I felt like I had failed.
I’ve had trouble cooking this year, and I thought the only reasons were because grief made me forget it needed doing (if people hadn’t made us meals in those initial weeks, I wouldn’t have eaten because it didn’t occur to me that I needed to) and because cooking reminded me that Ariella wasn’t here anymore. I hadn’t been able to cook while pregnant with Ariella (thank you, horrible morning sickness!) so being physically able to cook was proof to me that I didn’t have her with me anymore. But recently I became aware of another reason – I don’t want to mess it up. I don’t want to put effort into cooking if it isn’t going to come out nicely in the end. I’m scared that whatever I make won’t be perfect. I’m scared it will be a failure.
But why? Why is feeling like a failure so much more of an issue this year than it has been previously?
Because I have moments when I feel like I failed my daughter. Of all the places she could have been, she should have been safest when still in my womb. But she wasn’t; that’s where she died. In the very place where she wouldn’t ever be alone, or have to cry for comfort or food, she died. My baby girl died in me.
Was it my fault? No. Absolutely not. I did the best I could to look after her and her unexplained death was not preventable. I know that. But some days I feel like I failed to protect her. The slightest failure at cooking, cleaning or anything (even if it’s just a perception of failure) is a painful reminder of my failure at the most important job I had.
Ariella wouldn’t want me to live like this, afraid to do things in case they don’t turn out as I hoped. I need to live life without being afraid. So here’s to burning a batch of cookies, dropping a stitch while knitting or going to bed with a messy lounge room. Whatever it is you are afraid of messing up – go do it in memory of your little one. They’ll be proud of you. I am.
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