I often feel guilty when others refer to me as brave.
Bravery is Courage. Strength. Fearlessness.
I cower in my house on days when tears suffocate my will to go out. Those tears who invade without disclosing their purpose or origin.
I reveal my weak feebleness as I choose to stay quite when things bother me. Likewise, when I choose the ease of not doing something despite my capabilities.
I hide from most noises. I avoid most places where there is a chance of pain. Anxiety leads me nightly in a dance I never know the choreography for.
She told me this morning that bravery is still waking up with love in my heart regardless of the difficulties I have faced.
If that is bravery, I can embrace it.
I distance myself from my past. The “difficulties I have faced” seem like an eclectic script written for an actor I do not know, in a movie I have only heard of.
However, my heart does have love in it. There are many adjectives that I cannot utter in reference for myself. But “one who genuinely cares” is a phrase I can allow.
If Bravery is love despite pain, then I may be brave despite my acknowledgment of it.
At least, according to her.
Her words were not always kind
But she was a kind person
Full of empathy and faith
Lacking depth and understanding
She wanted to be seen as beautiful
But she was a beautiful person
Perfect angles and perfect hair
Grasping for affection and stability
Nothing is right living without her
But living, for her, was difficult
Loss, betrayal, depression, dependence
Longing for relief and now she is free
I have found myself wanting my words to form me into someone. Or, at least give the sense that I am this one layer of who I am and hide the rest from view.
And while that first layer is appealing, it is not always correct. We are a collection of experiences and emotions. We are the words that form and have no where to go and I need so desperately for these words to find a resting place.
I have always felt myself to be a creative person. Singing, acting and even a dabble in writing and drawing. Some time ago I let go of that person. I let her hide all the way deep inside. I only let her out on days where it is convenient. I limit her to my time table and edit her to fit into the persona I want pictured. Snap shots of only a piece of me.
Last week, she screamed. I felt her thrashing inside, her nails scrapping my heart. So I sat down and wrote. It was a just a glimpse of a simple fiction story. But I wrote it down in a word doc and as I did I found tears I didn’t know needed to escape. And suddenly she was breathing through me. Her and I remembered that we are one and I realized I cannot keep her back because that is denying who I am. And while at this time in my life, I have many roles, I am still me. And I must let myself live.