I met up with Clyde for dinner last night, had a long talk with my Lovely Phoenix, Melissa Brown, and the theme of the night was heavy, all of us in our own individual ways exploring hope, the loss of it, the desire of it, the sting of having it and losing it.
Clyde talked about the old days, not divorced, debt free, the bitter loss of a dream yet to be discovered.
“Do you know who I used to be, Katie? I mean I was fearless, really fearless,” he said looking into space, his face registering shock at what life once was without the layers of disappointment that have now become part of him.
It broke my heart.
The Phoenix spoke of a spiral, the very bottom, and we finished each other’s words about the climb, the unbearable climb of one foot in front of the next, the daily life of putting one foot in front of the other.
Survival, I was once told, is the way you live a crisis.
It is not the way to live a life.
And so, I look back on my own life, the last ten years marked by excruciating pain, fear, shock, and survival. I feel the tremblings of fear all the time, every day, and I feel the rush of anxiety crushing down, pressing, my heart pounding and the blood rushing to my head as I lay down just to breathe, checking and rechecking my breath, slowly letting air in and out of my lungs.
Those days used to be marked every day, many times a day, and now are so far in between that they annoy me, an awareness something has triggered me, that fear is not even real, that trauma is part of me.
I see it now as my friend asking my help to heal it.
I ask it to look around me, at my girls, my life, my health, my dreams being restored.
And it fights for survival but I eventually win the argument, and when I don’t, I spiral, but I do come back. I always come back.
The only thing we have to fight fear is hope.
I hope for so many things that my heart might burst wide open in the wanting, the beauty, the possibility of what and who I might become.
It is a tricky thing to hope. I have hoped for things that have been harmful for me, the weight of my own lies crashing down on me, on my illusions, on my fear. When you hope to be free, there is usually a door to a long flight of stairs going up wide open and yet my eye is drawn to the blinking exit door to the left, the word EXIT flashing in bright bold colors, tempting and taunting.
I have taken that door and it led to bondage every time, and I am not sure when I decided to take the stairs, my make up smeared, my breath shallow, my body and spirit in pain. I was certain the journey was too far gone and impossible to take, my resources as short as my desire was tall, one more defeat to add to the long accumulating list.
The journey always starts with one step.
- The art of self criticism, self loathe, self love, and self interpretation (w/o the influence of others) (letitoutgirl.wordpress.com)
- Holy sh*t moments (thinklady.typepad.com)