stop being afraid

The fear, I mean. It’s not fear of a thing—like spiders, or flying. It’s a generalized fear of being exposed, I guess, of being seen. Seen for what I really am? For what I am not?

The irony, of course, is that I’m not fooling anyone except myself. Everyone undoubtedly already realizes what I am. And am not. But I am blanketed in a miasma of belief that I’m hiding some of it somehow. The burden of that belief is a fear that the mask will slip.

It’s slipping today.

As if for no reason, the fear washes over me. The slightest slight, the most imperceptible insult, the littlest change of tone and it hits me.

First it’s a wall of shame. Shame at being wrong-footed at whatever it is I’ve been caught at.

Then I’m angry at myself for the shame: I know better than this, I’ve been trained and counseled and taught and convinced that I’m not broken and that I’m good enough and that I’m strong and wonderful in every way. Except the one that matters, the one I confront every day.

Then I’m weary of the anger, physically tired from the experience of holding things together. I no longer let my anger boil over and escape. That’s better in some ways, but it’s a loss to me, too, for now the anger stays inside. Swallowed, it does not go away, it just gets internalized.

Then I get discouraged: Will this never end? This cycle that I cannot seem to break? It doesn’t happen every minute of every day. In some contexts I’m fine, and at some times in all contexts I’m powerful and self confident and nothing bothers me, no one’s opinion matters.

But then it hits me. The slightest thing harkens back to some shame that’s embedded in my soul. It tickles a patch of unconsoled trauma. If I could identify these rough spots, if I could file them down or smear them with Vaseline to treat them then maybe they’d get better. But they are invisible. They are my demons and they are real, but they are invisible.

Until the wind whispers a certain way and I am suddenly ashamed.

And so I live in constant fear. Will I be OK for now? For the next few hours? Until tomorrow? Will it be worth staying together for now? Until tomorrow? For the next few days?

It depends on how the wind blows.

If it’s not one thing, it’s another. Or another. It just never seems to end.

... and some days are like today when I feel like I’m in the fog and if I could just be heard everything would be ok, but I can’t make myself clear enough. I wonder if I’m talking like I’m in slow motion, I feel like I can’t communicate.

And then I realize that even if I could communicate this fear, there is no one to fix it. It feels like it is consuming me.

It’s actually getting harder. One important thing to remember is that in order to get past fear, I must acknowledge my fear. In fact, not only must I acknowledge it, I must accept it. Radical acceptance. That is the theme of my life right now. Accept what it. Maybe that’s what I’m afraid of. If I accept what is, where will I be?

You won’t read about this in my blog.
You won’t hear me talking about this with many people.
I can’t bear to admit it’s true.

I am afraid. Fear is stealing hours, days and weeks of my life. It’s not fear of a specific thing, like the dark or snakes or doing something new. (OK, I AM afraid of George Bush and his Supreme Court nominees, but that’s another story.)

I don’t appear afraid. People who know me casually would tell you I am self-assured and together. This is because my fear has made my build Very Good facades. I have one for just about every person or occasion. Even a special one for my husband—the one where I apologize all the time for not being perfect, and mean it. And writhe in agony that I can’t do it.

That would seem to be in direct conflict with the Feminist Facade, the one where I campaign for women’s rights, speak up when someone uses a gender-limiting term, like “We need to hire someone quickly. Let’s get him on board by Christmas.” Ahem. Let’s get him or her on board by Christmas, OK?

I think my facades are most transparent with my kids, but still have them. I have to in some ways. I don’t care if my four year old has ice cream for breakfast, really, but when he comes and begs me to get it for him at 8 a.m. on a Saturday, I tell him NO in a stern voice and suggest he get a peanut butter sandich (which he can sort of muddle through making) or a banana. This turns into an hour of weeping until I get up and give him something to eat.

It’s when we’re giggling on the bed or when I’m just being “with” them instead of trying to be something or somewhere else that I am closest to myself.

Myself? I can’t even remember who she is anymore.

Kristine
http://mysillyvalley.typepad.com