It isn't for myself that I feel it. I can take everything as a lesson now. I have done lessons for a long time; turned guilt and shame and embarrassment into something to talk about.
And now, again, again, again. I stand here where I stood twice before, and I think about my mother. I want to tell her there's nothing she could have done. I want to tell her I make my own mistakes. I want to tell her this means nothing, nothing. I want to tell her these things because I fear she will tell me the reason I failed is because I didn't listen to her. I fear she will be disappointed and hurt and, oh horror, ashamed.
Oh, it's the truth. But what was the reason I didn't listen to her?
Perhaps it was shame, the fact that I could not show my work to anyone until I had tried to solve every last detail, as clumsily and ham-handedly as I usually do anything. Perhaps design as a process does not work for me because I do not want to let people inside my thought processes before they are unravelled to my satisfaction. Perhaps design as a process does not work for me because I have no skill, no patience and no creativity.
Perhaps I waited so long because I was afraid of dismissal and ridicule and disappointing somebody. Other people's high expectations of yourself are hard to comprehend when you have none for yourself.
Perhaps I am never ashamed because I expect nothing from me.
If you were ashamed of me, would you say?
And now, again, again, again. I stand here where I stood twice before, and I think about my mother. I want to tell her there's nothing she could have done. I want to tell her I make my own mistakes. I want to tell her this means nothing, nothing. I want to tell her these things because I fear she will tell me the reason I failed is because I didn't listen to her. I fear she will be disappointed and hurt and, oh horror, ashamed.
Oh, it's the truth. But what was the reason I didn't listen to her?
Perhaps it was shame, the fact that I could not show my work to anyone until I had tried to solve every last detail, as clumsily and ham-handedly as I usually do anything. Perhaps design as a process does not work for me because I do not want to let people inside my thought processes before they are unravelled to my satisfaction. Perhaps design as a process does not work for me because I have no skill, no patience and no creativity.
Perhaps I waited so long because I was afraid of dismissal and ridicule and disappointing somebody. Other people's high expectations of yourself are hard to comprehend when you have none for yourself.
Perhaps I am never ashamed because I expect nothing from me.
If you were ashamed of me, would you say?
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