Fear

“I must learn to love the fool in me--the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of my human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my Fool.” ― Theodore Isaac Rubin

Why hello people who read my blog. It’s been a long time. I haven’t wanted to write. And I’ve been a little too busy with some…. interesting struggles... to write. Let me elaborate a little.

I’m not afraid of loneliness, yet I claim it’s my deepest fear. When struck with the possibility that my plans won’t work out, thinking I might forever be lonely is just walking back to a place I know very well. It’s a dark place that smells melancholy and houses the Liz’s I never want to be. They sit there forlornly playing their regular games and uttering habitual conversation. Though it is an unhappy place, it is familiar. It doesn’t change. It is expected. It is dependable. Though it is a hopeless place, it is safe and I can lock everyone else out. Loneliness does not scare me, it is only an extension of what I’ve acknowledged as a solution before. Whenever fallen, it is automatically the answer. Whenever lost, I can always go back here.

What is really frightening is the unfamiliar. Venturing into a place full of hope for something more is something I have only begun to try. There is no door except the one you step out of. It is a vulnerable place. It is a place with no promise of something better, but holds every possibility. Bright and wild, it takes my breathe away… not as a tax like loneliness does, but as participation in life, as a tribute.  Breathing is a burden in loneliness. It is a labor, a struggle, a constant unnecessary “why?”. Breathing in a place where hope resides is liberating, vital, and purposeful, yet terrifying. Because while it is great to be alive, I never know which breathe will be my last.

This is analogous of course. I’m not literally dying or choosing to be alive in the physical sense. But in an existential sense, this is all very real. Death is bigger than simply being buried in the ground, it is the essence of why we – why I – am afraid. I’m afraid of losing the future. The death of the future. I’m afraid of losing relationships. The death of relationships. I’m afraid of losing the safety I’ve built for myself. The death of a Liz I’ve come to know well. I don’t know which breath will be my last.

Yet, my future was never guaranteed. My relationships are not completely in my hands. I cannot help but change as I continue to live. I have no control. And that’s terrifying. So I run away and hide and pretend I do have control. And to some degree I do: I can choose to venture forward into the unknown and be who I am regardless of outcome and have the possibility of the one thing I want most, or, I can hide and imprison myself in perpetual loneliness where no one can come in.

Seems like an easy choice, but surprise, surprise, changing who I’ve been basically my whole life is effing hard.

That’s why I haven’t wanted to write. I have about a dozen half finished blog posts all about things that I am only beginning to understand. All not finished because feeling can be really hard and lately my life has been hard and this huge change has been hard and I’m scared of letting everyone know. Everyone meaning the 3 people that read this anyway haha.

I’m done being afraid.