As with most days, I do my best to take care of you. Though this may not always be done properly, or even efficiently, I do what I can.
Yes, there are days when I cannot focus on a single page, pen, or word. I am guilty of scrolling through Twitter four too many times during the day. I often stare at a wall or a bug or a painting for way too long, not because I am pondering my existence, rather because I am thinking about the way onion rings are made. Like I said, I do my best.
I’m certainly not perfect though, and fear dresses up in dark colors and hides in your outskirts. I know you feel him lurking, but when he’s out of sight, he’s out of mind.
Except that the damned guy has grown so big today, he can’t crawl stealthily anymore and has begun lumbering about leaving giant mammoth footprints.
Fear has robbed me of some significant joy from this season of my life, and I often find myself worrying most about the future. The footprints of guilt, anxiety, sadness, lonesome, and discouragement are carved in line, but the largest, dirtiest mark goes to fear.
I can point fingers all I want and say that fear is rooted in my DNA, it’s human nature. Or that it came from an external source, someone pulling back the curtain to the sickening face of reality.
However, it came from neither. It came from myself, and you too, pal. Don’t try to act innocent.
Fear: “You can never make a living as a writer.”
Me: “I’ll try though.”
Or there’s always the classic back and forth exchange of:
Fear: “You will be broke, alone, sad, and worried about accidentally consuming an almond for you’re entire life.”
Me: “Nonsense! I have ambition, a loving support system, and carry my Epi Pen everywhere I go.”
Brain: “Except that…”
Fear has started banging at the wall we built together, and he’s knocked a few bricks down lately. And this is certainly a time of my life when this wall needs to be rock steady and strong enough to face a cyclone of challenge.
So, in closing, my dear Brain, please listen to me. Though I may just be the external shell talking, I’m not going down without a fight. I didn’t take a public school freshmen gym class to be a pansy, and I’d appreciate if you’d stop throwing the towel in every time someone whispers “boo.”
I want to make a living as a writer. I want to live comfortably, love and be loved, feel oceans of joy, and shrink fear back into his cage.
Please consider this request, because I’m doing it with or without you. Or at least I’ll try.