Brave yet Terrified

It’s funny how human brains work. We could have the whole world, we could have everything we ever wanted, but still be in complete utter misery because of that one thing we can’t have, or we think we can’t have… or maybe we forced ourselves to believe we can’t have it? Human memory is the funniest part. You would think you know your own past, you know who you are and what you have been doing, yet you spent so much time lying to yourself trying to fit into a narrative, trying to belong somewhere… so much so that you lost where the line between what is fact and what is a lie is. And ever since, you don’t even know who you are anymore. So much for trusting our own brains to tell us the truth…

So what am I ? Am I brave for example ? My friends seem to think so. Some even say things like « I wish I had your balls. » (We’re not 21st century humans if we don’t associate an abstract « virtue » with male anatomy, of course.) Some are envious of my shameless pushing through the crowds and causing uncomfortable situations to get the tiniest shard of an opportunity to get out of a context that has been suffocating me my entire life. They think it is awe worthy that I can throw myself in anxiety inducing contexts and still find the words to demand a spot in whatever is going on, knowing perfectly well that I have no right to what I demand and I’m most likely to receive a rejection for an answer. And yet I find myself surprised at hearing the word every single time. I laugh on some of these occasions and stand perplexed on others. Really ?, I think. Of all the words you could have picked to describe me, you picked that one ? It’s funny because, truth be told, I am terrified. The whole time. I spend almost every minute of every hour of every day scared to my bones, awaiting for everything around me to fall apart, waiting for the next rejection, waiting for the next humiliation, waiting for the next wrong move I make. I’m even scared of my own thoughts most of the time. Scared of crippling my own self by thinking too much about everything. Scared of ruining things because I am scared of them getting ruined on their own. I find myself jumping and rushing into things because I know for a fact that if I allow my brain the time to think, it will scream at me DON’T DO IT. YOU CAN’T DO THIS. IT WILL ONLY HURT. A record of every time something bad happened, of every pain, of every trauma, of every waste of effort would flash in front of my eyes and I would freeze. I would jump to my bed, roll on myself and isolate myself from the world because the world hurt me too many god damn times. I find myself being impatient and jumping from one wrong decision to the next, from one mentally and emotionally abusing situation to the next at the hope of one good thing to pop out of the million failures. And I still find that one good thing in a million worth it. Worth the fear, the shame, the hurt, the pain, worth everything. Because the alternative is far worse. It’s like swimming in an alligators’ swamp and you’re given the option of fighting an alligator to get out or wait to be eaten when they get hungry. So I guess what people interpret as bravery is picking one pain over the other. Sure thing I’m brave, but I’m also terrified out of my mind.