Another day, another setback.
Set.
Back.
I'm in the convent again, where it's my daily duty to examine my conscience for all possible wrong-doing. Only in this case, I'm listening to the unforgiving voice of my overly picky Inner Critic.
Terrible writing. . .terrible. Who's going want to read this dribble? Why don't you quit right now?
Like preparing to tell my sins to the priest in weekly confession, or drumming up enough faults to admit to my peers and Superior every day. It comes second nature for me to listen to what's wrong with me, rather than the good. Especially when I write, and most especially when it's about the ticklish subject of life in the convent.
Just when I'm patting myself on the back and congratulating myself for finally getting over the habit of self-blame, it's staring me in the face again.
Time to lift myself up and out of the dungeon of dark self exploration and envision a clear path ahead.
I can,
and I will.
One way or another.
Self blame is not good. I have those moments sometimes, like when I listened to my husband and not my heart when he told me to go to work and he would sleep to feel better (he had been vomiting) and I returned to find him unconscious and unresponsive. I know it is not right to blame myself yet I do. He never woke. What if I had stayed home instead? I need to get over that.
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