“I don’t care what they’re going to say

Let the storm rage on

The cold never bothered me anyway”

— Robert Lopez and Kristen Anderson-Lopez, “Let It Go”

 

Last Saturday, I strolled down the brick-paved streets of Vilnius in search of a place to eat lunch. I’m currently living and working in the Lithuanian capital for a summer internship through MIT’s MISTI global experiences program, and I had taken the opportunity to explore the old town on a warm afternoon without any responsibilities. Yet, as I approached a casual place that had been highly recommended, I couldn’t help but constantly second-guess myself. The restaurant had been labeled as a “pub” on Google Maps and reviews called it a “bar.” Would I even be allowed to enter here, where the drinking age is 20? Don’t bars have bouncers and check IDs? I have no idea how things work in Europe, anyhow. I turned the corner to buy time mulling over the situation, making it halfway down the next block before realizing how trivial my concerns were. I would just be buying food, and in the worst case scenario, I could just apologize and go somewhere else. I felt proud of myself for resolving my self-imposed stress, however minor it may have been, and sat down to peruse the menu. I had successfully disregarded my questionable concerns in a way that would have been unthinkable to a younger version of myself.

Even as a naive child afraid of heights and public speaking, my greatest phobia was always that of consequences, whether grounded in reality or completely contrived. When I made minor mistakes, I’d become terrified of getting in trouble. I distinctly remember my heart racing in fourth grade after I dropped and shattered a 79-cent IKEA bowl, thinking that I would get chewed out once my parents came upstairs. Of course, only rarely was I actually punished for small slip ups, but that didn’t stop me from worrying about every last thing and bracing for the worst. Even if I did nothing wrong, just the thought of messing up could scare me into indecision, taking the easy way out by never leaving my comfort zone. Small things weighed on my mind, and small things added up, especially with such a low threshold for anguish.

You can imagine how much the idea of simply letting go and forgetting the past appealed to me. If I could just move on from my past “mistakes,” particularly those where I felt that the verdict was still impending, I would be able to release a boatload of stress and devote more brainpower to living contently in the present.

But that sense of peace never came so easily to me. It’s difficult to completely forget about anything you’ve done, especially not if your pessimistic half keeps insisting that your actions are unforgivable sins, even weeks, months, and years later. As I grew into a teenager, the only thing I could ever do was rationalize, take a step back, and endlessly remind myself, No, of course your lab partner unethically sharing data with his friend doesn’t deserve permanent mental real estate, it’s literally not your fault and Mr. Festa probably won’t even remember tomorrow. However, these reassurances never managed to puncture my guilt. In fact, they were probably counterproductive. Years later, I would learn about the “pink elephant paradox”: if you consciously try to suppress thoughts (e.g., of pink elephants), you will actually end up thinking of them more often (Wegner et al.,1987). It’s no coincidence that these memories have remained intact through the present day, when a college-aged version of me is able to recall and write about them.

One of these “unforgivable” actions that haunted the back of my mind for the better part of a decade involved a brief foray into drumming. My parents had pressured me into trying several musical instruments while I was young, likely in the wake of my piano-playing sister’s success, but I ended up quitting them all due to poor rhythm and motor skills. For me, music was an extracurricular activity absolutely worth forgetting.  However, failing to release piano keys and chewing up borrowed saxophone reeds have become core memories of shame. Even at the time, I had wanted to expedite my retirement from the pursuit.

One day, I noticed that the drawers built into my desk didn’t completely occupy all of the cabinet space, and I could actually reach behind the drawers and drop things in. Perhaps in a combination of curiosity and flash-in-the-pan frustration, I shrugged and tossed in my bright blue KidSticks, naively thinking that their disappearance would magically make my percussion career fade away.

Of course, that didn’t happen. Instead, with the mindset change that five minutes can provide an eight-year-old, my brief bliss turned into despair. Oh no, I’m so dead tomorrow! Mom will ask where my drumsticks are and she’s going to yell at me for fooling around! I’m so dead! Why did you do that, stupid??? I scrambled, contorting my body in futile attempts to retrieve the sticks, but reaching both behind and below the drawers was too much for my stubby arms. The scales of justice would come for my tomfoolery once and for all, and there was no way to avoid accountability now.

Once again, my fears were overblown. When my mother came to determine my fate, I brought out my weapon of last resort: feigning ignorance. At the cost of yet another sin to dwell on for years on end, I told her that I lost my drumsticks and I didn’t know where, and all she did was sigh and fetch me another pair. In what would become a common pattern over the years, I endured all that anxiety and internal strife only for her to forget in no time.

That’s not to say that this unease was completely unjustified; there have certainly been times where my parents berated me for clumsy mistakes. Ironically enough, though, I have no recollection of any concrete details.  Perhaps these incidents happened far earlier in my childhood, or I simply tuned them out as cacophonous rants, taking the memories with them. Only their specters remained, reminding me what my parents were capable of.

On the other hand, I did not forget the KidSticks incident — how could I, after making a mountain out of it in my head? I remembered and remembered, as I entered middle and high school, as we moved across state lines, as I grew mature enough to reflect and understand that the statute of limitations on childish mistakes had long passed. I remembered both the location of the drumsticks and the fact that I still hadn’t resolved the tension of my unconfessed lie. I took a deep breath and reached into the cabinet (which had moved with us), this time with a significantly-improved arm length. I managed to pull out the KidSticks and left them on the windowsill next to our dust-blanketed drum set, which we had kept on the off chance that I had a change of heart (and, I suppose, a newfound level of dexterity).

Perhaps more interesting were the things I found behind the drawer that I didn’t remember, more benign snapshots from my childhood that I was able to forget.  Some pieces of loose leaf paper and history worksheets easily could have been mine, but bore someone else’s name. The younger me had deposited two Picture Day photos of a classmate, now a complete stranger, and my sister’s graded math homework. These were random inconsequential items that nobody—not even me—cared about in the grand scheme of things. Yet I had been so embarrassed to possess them that I felt the need to hide them from everyone.

I had used the cabinet as a way to conceal my mistakes, to avoid having to explain that yes, I did somehow end up with some other kid’s papers, and yes, it was an accident, and no, I didn’t steal it maliciously. I didn’t even want to use a trash can — what if someone saw the pictures and questioned me anyway? I often thought that it would be easier to simply hope that these things passed unnoticed than to run the risk of being misunderstood. Looking even more broadly, I never wanted to be confronted by anyone in general.

That anxiety has always been the real force behind my decisions, and I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t still affect me to this day. In Vilnius, I had to catch myself thinking: why even bother entering the restaurant/pub/bar and risk being asked for ID when I could just buy food at the grocery store? I often face a mental barrier against making pragmatic decisions, since the potential downside of getting into an argument (or even just needing to explain myself), no matter how improbable, feels immeasurable and unweighable. During pandemic-era online school, I was more than willing to eat a 10% late penalty on assignments if it meant that I could sleep better. However, once I had to sit in front of my teachers in person where they could easily scold me for missing assignments, that lateness was history. Of course, that was never a genuine risk, especially since others were far worse offenders than I could ever be, but even the mere idea of being reprimanded spooked me.

In real life, there are always trade-offs when making decisions, and it turns out that “don’t ever do anything bold because that might cause something to happen down the line” is not a good plan. If nothing else, it just piles onto my ever-growing mental list of mistakes.

∗ ∗ ∗

In retrospect, I feel like a lot of my immense aversion towards “doing wrong and getting caught” likely comes from a general lack of leeway and reassurance I was afforded as a child. Being anti-confrontational let me evade the short fuse that ran in the family. As I briefly mentioned earlier, I never had full faith in my parents’ respect for my emotions or ability to handle things gracefully, certainly not after the fiftieth time they complained “Stop being sensitive!” or told me to simply “grow up”. It didn’t help that they were quite paranoid and risk-averse themselves, constantly rattling off neighborhoods, habits, ingredients, and fabrics to avoid. Even as I grew older, I’d get yelled at for spending my free time unwinding on YouTube (“Your eyes are too close to the screen! The camera moves too fast; you’ll go blind!”) instead of their preferred activities (like music), which I avoided.

I also think that my family may have always viewed me as a troublemaker in some way—I definitely saw the stick far more often than the carrot—and I subconsciously became well aware of it. I can only speculate as to why, having had these suspicions for as long as I remember. It’s quite possible that they got frustrated at me for the typical annoyances involved in raising a toddler, only reinforced when I continued to bumble clumsily through childhood, and I blamed that anger on myself and my character rather than their own predispositions. If my o­wn family couldn’t put up with the messes that I created, how could I ever present myself to others as a Good Person? Maybe I started to doubt my good nature and believe in my guilt, which my parents had constantly warned me about. God dammit, I ruined another book cover. All I do is destroy things! They were right all along!

Of course I had to develop a defense mechanism when I felt constantly attacked about things I didn’t completely understand. Before I could defend myself with words, the easiest solution was just to run away and hide, never letting anything be seen: not my free-time hobbies, not my emotions, and certainly not my mistakes. Here’s a puzzle that even child-me could probably figure out: if I can’t let any evidence of these things leak outside my own thoughts and memories, where must they accumulate?

∗ ∗ ∗

Nowadays, while I more consciously observe the way I act and think, I still often catch myself ruminating on understandable mistakes. One morning on campus last September, I was making myself instant oatmeal before realizing that I had much less time than expected and probably wouldn’t get a chance to eat it. I panicked and decided that the best course of action was to dump it all into the garbage can, wasting some perfectly fine communal milk. For the next hour, I couldn’t stop considering the possibility that others had seen me make breakfast and leave impossibly quickly: surely they already thought I was suspicious, and now they would know who to blame if milk suddenly started leaking from the bin or something! Naturally, nobody cared and the trash was taken out the next day.

Sometimes, I even subconsciously assign other people’s mistakes to myself. In senior year of high school, when I heard the ever-familiar sound of a water bottle hitting the floor, I sighed not again and reflexively apologized for the disruption, before realizing that it was actually someone else’s bottle. I also hesitate to take on responsibilities because I never want to be the one ruining the day. I chickened out of joining a dorm community where everyone cooks for each other, since I worried about making others eat food that was burnt or salty or raw or underseasoned or simply bad, even though as residents cook in teams that explicitly welcome beginners. After a year living in a relatively isolating dorm (that even involved some halfway-competent solo cookery), I can confidently label that overly cautious choice one I’d rather take back.

This doesn’t mean that I’m still the exact same person that I was all those years ago. I’ve grown to be comfortable being less paranoid, perhaps because I live away from my parents and am now less vulnerable to gratuitous beratings. I’d also hope that they’ve mellowed out a bit, seeing evidence of my ability to live independently. With maturity also comes an understanding that very few mistakes are serious enough to be ruinous, and that most people are indeed forgiving and sympathetic, especially at a place like MIT where it’s understandable and understood that students may face difficulty and need support.

Being abroad for the summer has also let me relax a bit and lower the stakes. After all, nobody here is likely to encounter me again after August, so common sense, in lieu of perfectionism, should take me far enough. After finishing my meal at the restaurant, I simply walked out, leaving my empty dishes on the table since I had paid at the bar. While I momentarily worried that proper procedure would have me wait for my plates to be cleared or return them at the front, I quickly decided that it wasn’t worth stressing over. Worst case, I’d merely be another tourist making a minor faux pas — and just asked some friends after the fact to make sure. There’s one hypothetical weight taken off my shoulders.

It’s a slow process, but maybe one day I’ll be able to fully clear out the pile of memories, detach myself from my missteps, and start with a blank slate.

 

Works Cited

Anderson-Lopez, Kristin and Robert Lopez. “Let it Go.” Wonderland Music Company, 2013.

Wegner, D. M., Schneider, D. J., Carter, S. R., & White, T. L. (1987). “Paradoxical Effects of Thought Suppression.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 53(1), 5–13. <https://doi.org/10.1037/0022-3514.53.1.5>

 

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