As I write, I can't think of a single example of when it is enjoyable or in any way pleasant to be told that you have failed in some way, or fallen short of a set of expectations ascribed to you, even if criticism can be useful, if constructive.
However, this is somewhat interesting, given that, if asked what you are like by someone, I at least would think of all the worst things first. Then I'd think of some nice things to say. I'm perfectly capable of making myself sound good on paper and in person, in fact I do think I'm very much worth talking to!
The things we have a complex about tend to dominate our thoughts, but on the surface, we want everyone to see the good things we speak of. We are ashamed of our weaknesses. It seems that if our lives play out like a film, we only want people to see the trailer. The best bits, the funniest, the stand out moments. If people see anything more, they might notice all the things that could be better. Increasingly, given that social media facilitates exactly this mentality, we're almost bound to it.
We take criticism to heart, don't we? Blanking out all the good bits in favour of obsessing over an offhand comment, perhaps made in jest or by someone who misunderstood. Or maybe you really did get it wrong, in which case, you deserved that didn't you? So the mind ticks away.
Sometimes we can be very assured in one area of our life, and feel utterly helpless in another. Perhaps professionally, everything is going well, but you could get home and feel desperately alone. Or maybe you're really happy in your personal life, but feel some kind of existential crisis when you think your life is going nowhere.
Experiences just provide the paint on the canvas of life. Sometimes we really like what's being created and other times you realise it has become something you never intended or wanted it to be. You can sort of paint over it but there will always be a little stain to remind you of what was there before.
Letting people see the whole canvas is pretty scary. You only ever trust a few. Your sister, a close friend maybe. So why is it that we let so many people we barely know have the paintbrush? We believe the things people say about us, and that's how they paint. People have impressions on you in whatever capacity you know them. There are people I've met that have no idea how important they were in shaping who I am, and maybe I'm that person to others too. I just don't know.
As I sit here in my Donald Duck pyjamas eating salted caramel ice cream, I think of all the little things I did wrong today, most of them unnoticed by the five classes I taught. I wonder how many other things I did right that I can't even remember. This satisfies my point completely. We only notice the bad stuff. I worry if I post this, whether anyone will relate to it or if I'll just sound weird. I don't know if lots of things in my head make sense to others, but they do to me. I think about how I'm perceived often. How strange that we can never even see our own naked back in the flesh, never mind encounter ourselves as people the way others do.
Oh well, most people who know me think I'm odd enough as it is I suppose!
