Failure and Secrets

I’m behind on my writing. This was supposed to be done as soon as I returned from L.A. and I did try and scribble a few notes, but there were too many distractions.

Forgive me. That’s always my excuse. It doesn’t matter where I go or what I do. There are always too many distractions. I could be locked in a small room with nothing on the walls and no access to the internet or any other means of communicating with the outside world, just a pile of blank sheets of paper and something to write with. Yet even in the silence my mere thoughts would distract me and I’d invent stories or write lyrics to a song no one else would want to hear or sing. I’d daydream about how my writing would save me from a life of poverty and shame; about book signings and hugs from strangers who somehow felt less alone when they read my words. I’d fantasize about traveling the world on book royalties and reuniting with friends I haven’t seen since my youth. Perhaps the daydream would then turn dark as I’d wonder whether they’d remember me or even want to see me. I’m old and fat now. When they were part of my life I was young, spirited, and fit. I can’t reverse the aging process but maybe I could have a decent figure again.

Let’s talk about failures. So far it seems that all I’ve done is fail.

I’ve failed.
I’ve failed to finish the degree I truly wanted.
I’ve failed to stay in any romantic relationship.
I’ve failed to hang on to any job for more than a year.
I’ve failed to be a faithful friend through thick and thin.
I’ve failed to keep my promises.
I’ve failed to keep my faith.
I’ve failed to love myself.
I’ve failed to become a responsible adult.
I’ve failed to stay safe.
I’ve failed to stay healthy.
I’ve failed to do as the doctors advised.
I’ve failed to manage my mental illness.
I’ve failed to be the change I want to see.
I’ve failed to keep fighting.
I’ve failed to keep hoping.
I’ve failed to keep believing.
I’ve failed.

Thankfully, I’m not the only one who’s failed and, if we’re honest, I’m sure most of us have a longer list of failures than we’d care to admit. Therefore, that sense of connection was sure to be found at a museum that celebrated failure like The Museum of Failure, a pop-up show at the A+D Museum in Downtown L.A.

I’d wanted to see this exhibit since I first read about it. Of course, back then it was a world away in Sweden. But when I saw that it was coming to my neighboring state of California, just 400 miles away, I managed to make a short road trip around it.

Last April I’d visited The Museum of Broken Relationships in Hollywood. There, heartache was celebrated and I was moved to see otherwise ordinary objects become meaningful when given a beautiful and sad story. All the while acknowledging the irony of having such a melancholy museum adjacent to the Walk of Fame where so many of the honored celebrities had publicly suffered the pain of broken relationships, perhaps even because of the recognition they’d worked so hard to achieve.

One might call a broken relationship a failure but on the flip side, every failure can be a learning opportunity. We do we so often try and bury our brokenness as if it’s too shameful to bring to light? I’m writing from a Starbucks and I can tell you this, if a barista fails to make a drink correctly, tell them what was wrong and they’ll gladly remake it for you, free of charge. They’ll apologize, of course, because that’s just good etiquette. But then they’ll remake it better than before and they’ll become at their job in the process.

I walked to and from my motel and the Museum of Failure that 26th day of January. It was a 2.8 mile walk each direction (according to Google Maps). The museum didn’t open until 2 PM that day allowing me to leave early with ample time for exploration and photography in between.

Though the museum focused on design failures, the failure to provide help for the ever-growing homeless population almost right outside the door was even more pronounced. I wrote some about it last year when I visited L.A. It’s something I wish I could do something about but there’s no blanket solution and I don’t know where to start so how could I blame anyone else for feeling the same?

I know one thing: money alone will not fix it. So I took photos and talked with a few people. That was all. I may have given $5 to someone, I can’t remember. All I know is, after seeing the way the homeless were living, all my complaining about my cheap motel seemed trivial.

Broken relationships, failures – they all kind of fell under the umbrella of everything that Frank Warren’s Post Secret organization seems to cover. I mean, all of us are weird. All of us hurt. All of us seek comfort, love, and understanding. We all need to be assured that we’re not alone


The inside of the above Post Secret book that I bought used. It seems like a story in itself.

So I went to the Post Secret: The Show last night. I went alone. But that’s normal for me at this point in life. I went to L.A. three times in the span of a year and never bothered to invited anyone to join me. I hear people complain about going to the movies alone, but I’ve been going to the movies alone since I was 19 or 20 and now that I’m almost 38, it doesn’t phase me anymore. There is beauty in being alone and I truly enjoy it at times. If I’m in the right mood, I meet some of the most interesting people when I’m alone. Although few of these strangers I have memorable conversations give any false impression that they themselves are “normal.”

So I go to this Post Secret show alone and, on one side, end up sitting by young couples who appear normal and, on the other side, a young, single person who maybe came with the young people on the other side of her. I don’t know; I was too afraid to ask. But all around me I could hear joyful conversations between friends, family, and husbands and wives.

I was fine, at first. But then my secret was read on stage and I lost all semblance to “normal” I may have walked in with. And wow! Frank Warren himself surprised us by taking the stage and leading a Q and A. One of the women who stood a couple times and owned up to her own heart-wrenching secret looked so familiar. We’d met before, I think. But where had we met? I suppose I could’ve asked her later when I saw her again in the lobby, but I didn’t. I was too afraid. The place where I’d hoped to find kindred spirits turned out to be a weird, alternate dimension that I’d stepped into by mistake. Besides, I was convinced that, although I’d not owned up to my secret, everyone could see right through me.

The actor who’d read my secret stood in the lobby. I was a little surprised to see that no one was talking to him in that moment. But a single glance at his face and I became overwhelmed with shame. I couldn’t talk to him let alone approach him. It’d be too humiliating and he’d probably judge me harshly or worse, he’d pity me. Why did I share that secret? There were so many others I could’ve chosen from. Why did I pick that one?

Outside I climbed to a higher place, away from it all but still with in view of the theatre.

I wrote some thoughts then left, figuring it was too late to redeem myself. Why do I have such annoying thoughts?

I listened to Gungor’s song Am I on repeat in the car. It’s a song of both introspection and prayer; an intimate conversation with God. From the very first time I heard it, I felt like this song was written just for me.

Then, I pulled into a parking lot and spoke into a camera.

I follow Post Secret on almost all the social media outlets. It’s mostly, but not always, secrets. Sometimes they seem to promote people reaching out to people, especially when there’s a strong movement to prevent suicide.

I used to be suicidal, but I don’t want to kill myself anymore. It’s been many years now since I made any attempts. Thankfully there are no new scars on my wrist or anywhere else on my body since 2008. But the loneliness is still crushing at times. I live with my family for now and I stay alive in large part for and because of them. But sometimes I fear being alone when they’re all gone. I hope I find someone before then to spend the rest of my life with. If not, at the very least maybe I’ll have a friend I can move in with, someone who likes cats. Or I suppose I can move into one of those groovy senior citizen communities where I’ll have my own place, but I can still hang with others like me.