Fear

There is something about showing up to this page, to any page, that sends fear ricocheting through my body, head to toe, hands shaking, heart racing, that old too-familiar panic showing it's face.  Then I am forced to take a step back, and I wonder to myself, "Why?"   Why panic, fear, anxiety at this writing, the thing I love most in the world to do, why.. now that I know... that I dare to dream of writing as something I'm Supposed to do, rather than some stolen, hidden secret that I dare not imagine?

The "Why" is in the act itself.   The "why" is in daring to break the radio silence that is so ingrained, so trained into me, it feels closer than my own breath.  Don't tell.  Don't talk. Don't write. Don't even think about it.   Those dire warnings still carry the chemical, body remembered follow up of: ... Or Die.   I wonder is the anxiety and terror in part the bodies reaction to that dire warning, that follow up fact of death?  "Oh yes! If I talk/write/tell/whisper.. death."  says the body as my pen hits the paper or my fingers hit the keys.

And I'm full circle almost, and I feel as though I'm getting repetitive. Reclamation!   Even here, chest tight, breath fast, sweat beading on my brow, hands shaking as the letters appear on my screen... This space, this moment, these words... all MINE.   I claim them again and again every time a letter appears on this screen on this stark white terrifying background, each letter, each word, each phrase is a victory and is my own. Mine.

There is more work to be done today, more writing, probably the dark, scary writing that feels too oily black, thick and dark and tainted to ever see the light of day.   And I am scared.  Terrified. The urge to run, to NOT write it, to not put it on the page is strong and fierce like an undertow of the ocean, grasping at me, threatening to take me under.

That too, that terror, I claim as my own, the urge to run but the decision to NOT run, to let the fear be present but write the words anyway, I claim. Mine.  I wonder if the fear, the terror will ever fade completely one day?   I wonder too, will letting those dark, scary, fear-filled words hit the page, despite the terror, will that begin to shed light where no light has reached before?   Will surrendering to the process, accepting it all, fear, shame, anxiety and words written despite it all.. transform the words into something entirely different than I could have ever imagined?  Perhaps so, perhaps not... but either way, they will be MY words, written by me, claimed by me, owned by me.  Mine.

May your day be filled with love and light.