I spent my teens in a rural area of upstate New York in the 1970s. At Christmastime, the local PBS station ran the 1951 version of “A Christmas Carol” starring Alistair Sim over and over again. I watched it every time.

My family watched it so many times that we’d notice every detail. How Scrooge ignores the blind man with his dog in the opening and pets the dog in the end, a wordless moment tying the beginning and end together.

The part of the movie my late mother loved best is how completely giddy Scrooge is at the end, telling Bob Cratchit that he’s going to raise his salary and help his family.

When Scrooge is with the ghost of Christmas future, he ends up seeing his own tombstone. He collapses onto it in sobs. If you’re watching passively, not giving too much thought to it, you assume he’s sobbing because he’s afraid to die. I certainly always thought that. But later in life, I had an experience that made me understand what was going on in a whole new way.

In December 1992, I visited my mother for Christmas. About a year earlier, I had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder.

There is something about driving a long distance that is triggering for me. I drove about eight hours to see her, followed by another long drive to see my father. I couldn’t sleep for days. I became increasingly paranoid.

At last, I returned to my home, to find that an elderly relative of my (then) husband’s in New England had just died. Immediately it was back in the car for another five-hour drive. Eventually I hadn’t slept in nine nights. The paranoia was gaining and it was no longer possible to hide. I thought people were going to kill me. I was admitted to the hospital.

Here’s the heart of the matter: I wasn’t simply afraid to die. I was overwhelmed with guilt. And I was afraid if I died, I’d never have the chance to make up for all the terrible things I had done.

In the movie, Scrooge flings himself upon his tombstone, sobbing. It isn’t because he’s afraid to die. It’s because he’s horrified that it’s too late. He’s learned his lesson. He knows he’s been wrong, he knows how horrible he has been. He wants to change now. He wants to start over and right all the wrongs he’s done. But when he sees his grave, he’s horrified to think: it’s all too late. He can never start over. Pleading, he asks the spirit if there is any point in this ghostly visitation.

And then he wakes. He’s alive.

He dances, he sings, he stands on his head.

never truly understood, until I experienced that same fear. He’s ecstatic because it isn’t too late after all. He can live out the lesson he has learned.

We are born again every day that we wake up and can start over. In the words of Tiny Tim, “God bless us, everyone.”

Amy Crider is an award-winning playwright.