b a r e

writing is healing. ask me anything.

Tag: fear

stuff

I might have nothing to say. I sit here, reviewing old writing prompts, and nothing stands out to me. Perhaps there are large, shadowy issues swimming slowly beneath the heavy ice, but I don’t feel attracted to releasing them for analysis today. Things are good. That in itself is a surprising realization. My destiny is changing, I can feel it, and things are moving forward easily, smoothly. I don’t even feel the gray cloud that usually appears over my left shoulder, the one that says, “beware the darkness is coming!” Yes, I was fearful a few weeks ago – convinced, but trying to ignore the words telling me this wasn’t going to work. Who did I think I was, deciding to change my career, and expecting it to be successful. It was a brief stalling, but my thoughts were sure it was the beginning of the end. I pressed forward anyway. Start where I am, use what I have, do what I can. Don’t give up. Keep trying. I couldn’t ignore the frightened voice, I couldn’t shake it, so I placated it by feeding it a morsel, by allowing for the possibility of “getting a real job” if things didn’t work out by the start of the school year. Then I pushed that to the very back of my mind, stuck it deep inside a drawer, and turned my focus back to steps I could take to go in the direction I really wanted. I threw myself completely into my volunteering, giving every drop of myself. Each day I would leave exhausted, but fulfilled, and filled with a warm, relaxed joy that I have not been familiar with for years. That’s telling, that’s the Universe telling, telling me this is the right path, keep going.

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Mold

Fear is the mold of the mind. It lives under the surface, dormant, waiting. Then one day there is a leak. It awakes with a flourish, expanding and spreading quickly. It eats up all that is around it, distorting and devastating. As it spreads it blackens what was once white and pristine. Darkness expanding, engulfing. It suffocates, greedily taking up all the space it can. It grows and covers rational thought and logic. It has the power to kill.

I am surrounded by the mold fear. It’s growing in our downstairs bathroom, around the window in my daughter’s room, on the window in our bedroom, and in my blood in frighteningly high amounts. If I could be objective, I would say it’s beautiful. Flowery circles expanding in patterns, hypnotic to look at. It’s devious in its decoration. Knowing that I’m breathing it in, that my child is breathing it in, makes it almost impossible to breath. I am strangled by the knowledge that this harming me, harming us. I am strangled by my fear. It is crushing me. Every limb is tense. The moment I wake the hot adrenaline spreads across my body, my heart beating hard. The white anxiety spreading down my arms and legs. The ball of fire crushing my chest. I can’t even take a deep breath to relax – the air itself is toxic to me. The fear, the mold, surrounds me, fills ever bit of air around me. I feel so trapped in this house, in this bed, in this body, in this fear.

the voices in my head

In my head lives an overly cautious granny. She is scared of everyone and everything. And she thinks she needs to warn me about every bad thing that could possibly happen. She’s about 5 feet tall, wears a sign that says, “The End Is Near!” and rings a loud bell to get my attention. “You are going to fail!” she yells. “They are better off without you!” she screams. She’s trying to help, thinking that if she gives me the worst case scenarios I will be able to come up with a plan now, rather than be surprised when it’s sprung on me. “He/she is going to betray you!” she wails. “You will never get better!” she howls. I can’t take it anymore, her words are carving bloody grooves into my soul. I want to reject her. Kick her out of my head. Beat her up. But that only makes her stronger and louder. How do I get rid of her? I can’t, she’s a part of who I am. So what do I do. In my head, I go into the room she’s in. I help her out of the sign she’s wearing. I gently take the bell out of her hand. She’s suddenly nervous, what is her purpose if not to warn me. I put my arms around her and give her a big hug. And I say, “Thank you for trying to protect me by warning me of the most horrible possible things. When I was young and in danger, you were an important part of my survival. But I’m not in danger anymore. I have a stable and loving home environment. I have many precious friends what love me and adore me and would do anything for me. I have positive and constructive tools in my tool bag that have worked and continue to work. I no longer need dire, apocalyptic warnings.” I let go of the hug and invite her to sit down on a comfy couch and relax. And I give myself permission to return here again in case she sneaks off and dons the sign and bell again. Then I exit with the knowledge that I have the strength to create my life in a positive and healthy and loving way.

Note: This writing piece is based on a life-changing visualization process I learned through the book, Finding Francesca, by Stephanie Correa.