Days Without Incident: Fourteen

Allow me to demonstrate the effects of self-fulfilling prophecies and narrative identities. In 2023, I lived in a one-bedroom apartment with my now-fiance, Sean. Our dumpster was at the end of the parking lot, so we’d take a skateboard and ride down there trash bag in hand. On one such trip, I saw a ceramic mug on the ground beside the dumpster. I know what you’re going to say: “Ew, gross. Don’t dumpster dive for a cup. That’s so weird.” But I was drawn to it. It was hand painted. The paint was cracking, but not the mug. It looked like the handle could fall off at any moment. (Spoiler alert: it still holds to this day, and it’s lasted longer than most of my Five Below or thrifted mugs.) 

“Some days are more tumbly than others.” That was the quote along the bottom. Above the quote, tumbling along the small patch of grass that lined the bottom of the mug, was the Winnie the Pooh gang. I made my coffee in that mug this morning. Don’t worry, I soaked it for a long time in 2023, and it’s been cleaned many times since. You’re not above dumpster diving, so don’t judge me. Plus, it was beside the bin, not in it. 

A few weeks later, Sean gave me a flash tattoo of that Winnie the Pooh drawing. Forever tumbling just above my left kneecap. Now, the big question is, do I love Winnie the Pooh so much that I would A.) risk my health grabbing a cup that someone obviously thought had run their course in their cupboard, and B.)  tattoo my skin with that same drawing for the rest of my life. The truth is, I only have one solid memory of my so-called relationship with Winnie the Pooh and his friends. 

When we lived in Papua New Guinea, I had a tapestry blanket with the Winnie the Pooh characters on it. I can’t even remember what the blanket looked like—only what texture it was. I used it to cover the lamp I brought into the closet during an intense round of hide-and-go-seek. I was too scared of the dark to hide in there without some sort of light, but I didn’t want to fully give away my hiding spot. I guess I fell asleep, and the blanket caught fire. I remember my parents being really upset. Not with me, just at the loss of the blanket. They told me that I’d had it since I was born. This must have stuck with me.

The important thing to remember about self-fulfilling prophecies is that they don’t have to be true to impact your personal narrative. Parents often impose self-fulfilling prophecies on their children which can alter the child’s self-perception. Maybe your mom or dad has called you “the smart one” or “the creative one.” Maybe it goes deeper than that. Maybe your parents have told you that you’ve always been afraid of something? Maybe you’ve “always hated vegetables” or you “aren’t good at sports.” These verbal confirmations of self-doubts can lead you to behave in ways that confirm these beliefs. 

It gets a little manipulative when you consider those like me who have been labeled a “mommy’s girl”. Did I really have any issues with my dad during the divorce outside of what issues my mom vented about endlessly? Have I truly “after almost seven years, decided to completely turn my back on” my mother, like she says, or have I finally had the space to make my own decisions and form my own opinions? Your parents are just people. They fuck up. Sometimes, they deserve forgiveness, but sometimes they don’t.

As I continue to dodge her calls and messages, I waver between the option of answering and swallowing all my resentment for her sake and continuing to protect my own peace. It’s such a difficult decision, but I can’t help but think that I deserve the time alone. At least to be able to form my own opinion about the matter. 

See you guys again soon!