“I am such a coward!” the realization struck me in the head, hard. It hurt.
I promised, I chose and I decided that fear would not stop me. I did that a long time ago. I run into the ugly teeth of my pain, of my trauma, at full speed, ever since. I did things precisely because I was afraid to do them and the blessed, idyllic life I was supposed to achieve as a result did materialize.
Here I am, living whenever the fancy takes me, loved, cherished and supported, entirely free to do whatever I want and … and I don’t do what I want. And I don’t know why. Or rather I didn’t know why.
What I want I do know, I knew for quite some time. It is interesting, enticing, exciting, thrilling to my imagination and yet I just … don’t … do … it! Why?! “Well, maybe it’s not abut doing” I begun to think, maybe it’s about being, but then I was asked “what do you do?” by a casual acquaintance and I felt attacked, defensive. Why?
And then I looked, and then I saw: I am afraid. I am afraid and I indulge this fear. I am afraid and I don’t recognize this emotion as fear because it is a fear of a different kind. There is no pain in it, it is not about failure, it is not about survival. I am not afraid of ruin, loneliness, starvation, contempt and judgement. I am afraid of myself.
I am afraid of myself.
