Lately I’ve felt that I’m at a crossroad, but haven’t been able to put a finger on what’s changed. I woke up last weekend in an entirely different mental space, with more energy and desire to create and experience than I’ve had in as long as I can remember. Absolutely nothing of consequence had happened to which I could attribute the shift. Then I happened across this article on loving without fear and realized that I’ve been incapable of being present – in love, in friendships, in new experiences – because my heart was planted firmly in the past and utterly terrified of coming into the present. Until that moment I’d never stopped to consider how the fear of reliving the past could shroud the future.
It’s like there’s a crack in the sidewalk. You know it has the capability to open up and swallow you whole, you just don’t know when or how. You test it. Challenge it. And every time you get close you burn your toes, so you retreat into the shadows. Just far enough to feel safe, but still well aware of the risk. Then one day the fault line opens and the earth shifts under your feet. The steam burns and your whole body – soul and all – hurts in way you never thought possible. Pain and tears and confusion and anger pulse through you until you’re sure the next stage must be spontaneous combustion. But ever so gradually the physical and emotional despair subside, leaving a crust like a newly-formed scar. It itches and you want to pick at it. But the part of your brain that has learned this lesson before knows if you pick absentmindedly you’ll go too far and too fast and the wound will reopen and bleed. At the same time, if the gash isn’t allowed to breathe, to get through its natural healing process, it will heal all wrong and the scar tissue may never fade. That constant reminder causes fear – of falling, of loving, of letting another person see your scars. But all of that vulnerability is beautiful and exciting and fun for the same reason it’s absolutely fucking terrifying.
My unconscious reaction to feeling anything deeply has always been to cover it with a thick blanket of humor or alcohol or self-deprecation (or some combo of the three) in hopes that it will mute my emotion and disguise anything resembling passion to those around me, lest it make them uncomfortable or make me look foolish. Perhaps it’s my Irish heritage or a learned behavior based on years of interpreting (often incorrectly) others’ opinions. Whatever the source, I’ve come to realize that it is and always has been about fear. In the wake of my last chapter, that fear became profound. I couldn’t fathom the idea of getting close to the crack in the sidewalk. The mere thought of the steam sent me rushing to the wings. I spent the greater part of 2 years in a cocoon of safety, holding anything and anyone who could touch the soft bits of my heart at arms length without even realizing why. In doing that I undoubtedly missed opportunities, chased them away with blatant insecurity, and took people who love me unconditionally for granted.
Everyone heals differently, but there is always a moment when you find yourself on the other side of a chasm you thought you’d never traverse. There’s still steam. There’s still imminent danger of turning around or falling back into the hole that wants nothing more than to swallow you up, dress you in sweat pants and feed you Ben & Jerry’s. But you’re smart. You can move forward on a path that keeps you close enough to remember the steam but not so close it inhibits forward motion. And with a little luck, some friendly reminders, and conscious effort you can make peace with the fear. It may have shaped the past, but it doesn’t get to control the future. Be genuine. Be kind. Most of all don’t be afraid to show your heart even if it gets a little beat up in the process. The people who are meant to hold it will be gentle with it.
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