I sit down to write tonight and I can not. I am paralyzed by fear. Fear that one of my dear friends will read this and hate me. So I rattle my brains trying to find something inoffensive like my bra size, only to find that some people also take offense to that.
I realize that I go through life holding my breath and crossing my fingers that nobody will be offended by me or take an issue with me, because then I will be required to actually take action. I actually go through life apologizing, to lamposts or bosses it does not matter. I am afraid to write about a date that sucked because he might be reading about it here. I am afraid to talk of downs in what I go through because somebody might come up to me and make fun of me on that. Where does this steam from? Did I get an extra gene of fear in my DNA?
I remember all the times my grandma told me to sit straight with my legs crossed otherwise my in-laws would return me on Monday after a Sunday wedding. I remember being told that if I did not keep a clean room and fix my bed, no husband would have me and they would bring me back to my family who would not want me either. So I resigned to the fact that I would not get married at all or that I would be very bad at it. I was afraid to try.
I remember my mother laying the ground rules and me respecting them to the T. How was I supposed to know it was OK to break them? Besides, fear made me se her point. It was easier abiding by them. I remember hiding my drawings whenever she passed by, only to ‘forget” them around the house, so she would see them and be proud of my talent. Of course my mom tiptoed around me, for fear that I would discover she had seen my drawings without my permission.
I remember wanting somebody so much that it hurt. For the longest time, I remember looking and mumbling to myself like a crazed hag at home, but of course wellbehaved in public. I remember panicking at the thought of being in the same room with him, so much that I could not say anything. And I fully justified him not showing enough interest in me. Fear kept me unwanted on a different bed so many years later, too afraid to storm out in the snow, too afraid to kick somebody else out in the snow. What I regret is not the loss of the beauty and the feeling, because I was too paralysed to fear that, but the fear to ask for respect, which ironically would have been the saviour of my so-precious ball of lard.
Of course I had to rebel somehow. Hence the compulsive reading and excess book buying all my life. I mean, my parents were the only one being called to school because their daughter was reading too much. Hence the porn stories and the low dresses, the extremes of a life not lived in full, and a half-assed potential.
The loss of interest in competitions, the loss of courage in arguments, the fear that kept me from trying the thousandth and one time and succeed, the fear that keeps me from enjoying a late night forbidden pool dip like all my friends.
I realize fear is all around me. Fear of rejection, fear of getting hurt, fear of standing up for myself, fear of hurting somebody else, fear of getting old and dying, fear of accepting myself as I am, fear of accepting who I am and stepping up to the responsibilities to myself and others, fear of taking my own rightful share of joy and pain out of life.
Tonight, I discover I am terrified again. I think is life that terrifies me, too much living good or bad, which might use up this little precious pot of luck that I have. It is like saving the wine, instead of drinking it, for fear of spills during the process of drinking. I am terrified of making or not making sense, of being passed over for more interesting blogs, of being dumped by the convenient weirdo I still do not have, and do not like but still date, of ending up 600 pounds like that guy in Mexico, a freak in the freak show.
pfff, very long snowy night. South Park reruns are on.