Then I came across the blog that I wrote about in the healing post. More specifically, I started thinking about the idea that glossing over those things that terrify me only increases that sense of being less, of being unwhole. The Tool Shed quotes Charlie Kaufman - "I do believe you have a wound too. I do believe it is both specific to you and common to everyone. I do believe it is the thing about you that must be hidden and protected, it is the thing that must be tap danced over five shows a day, it is the thing that won't be interesting to other people if revealed. It is the thing that makes you weak and pathetic. It is the thing that truly, truly, truly makes loving you impossible. It is your secret, even from yourself. But it is the thing that wants to live." - and then responds to that brilliance with "Why the list? Because I think I'm finally getting to the point where my exhaustion with painting over that wound is outweighing the fear...and I'd rather we talked about stuff."
With that, my list started to take shape again, and has finally reached the point where it won't leave me alone and I need to write it. It seems a bit strange that this topic has surfaced right now, because things are good lately. All my unresolved things are still unresolved, but I'm managing them pretty well and feeling happy. I'm keeping away from things that paralyze me or make me sad. I'm working out five or six days a week, back to my pre-surgery routine, and am starting to level it up. I'm careful to give myself enough hours for sleep each night, even if I'm not always able to sleep. I'm working and reading and writing and making things in preparation for the holiday selling season. Maybe having some stability has simply created space for me to admit these things to myself; I don't know. I just know it's time to look them in the eye and hope they get smaller.
- I'm afraid that what I'm doing isn't important and has no lasting significance.
- I'm afraid that I'll never learn to give my family the same patience and kindness that I offer to strangers.
- I'm afraid of my fucking internal editor who is so fucking scared of saying the wrong fucking thing, who double- and triple-guesses everything I do, and who separates me, over and over again, from my own experience.
- I'm afraid of looking foolish.
- I'm afraid of seeming needy.
- I'm afraid that I'm petty and manipulative.
- I'm afraid that I'll run out of ideas.
- I'm afraid that my body will never truly, completely heal from this surgery. I'm afraid of never feeling desirable again, of losing that sense of my own power. I'm afraid of being desired and then rejected.
- I'm afraid of telling that one story, and also, maybe, that other story.
- I'm afraid of never finding the right person to give those stories to.
- I'm afraid that I won't be forgiven for my many mistakes, known and unknown.
- I'm afraid that I've squandered my chances.
- I'm afraid of this person I'm trying to be and all my raw, undefined edges.
- I'm afraid I might give up on trying to be this person because those undefined edges are so hard to live with.
- I'm afraid to ask for what I want.
I am interested to discover that hitting publish on this post is not something I'm afraid of. Click.