The answer to that is simple, the thing I fear the most is living. Or maybe it’s not living, depends on how you use it in a sentence. When I’m out among the living, I feel like I’m not living? Not quite the notion I’m trying to capture, but the phrase sounds about right. There are ties when I believe it best if I did just pick up my stuff and find a place to get the medical attention I require without needing to have my family involved. There’s some major guilt that resides behind having brought Kathy and her family along for this journey.
Those late nights when she is trying to hide her voice while talking to someone on the phone that she fears walking up one day only to find that I haven’t. It’s a hard mindset to have when you find yourself coming to terms with that being as much a possibility as the sun rising that morning. I don’t know who she is talking with, but I have a feeling that it is most likely my mother.
I’ve lived through the worst that life could offer, the daughter thing, the ex becoming the ex shortly after, the return of the cancer. Not only have I dealt with those life altering facts, but somehow gotten to a point where they don’t cripple my actions. Plenty of people go through those issues and come out damaged but living. I’m still in that stage of my life where “walking wounded” is a better description.
I love the sunrise, but I fear the sunset. The explanation is easy, I got through another day, but will I get through another? Learning to make healthy decisions about the things that matter has drastically been altered by those previously mentioned ordeals. Searching for answers while not wanting to involve any other person, fearing that it will hurt them more than it already has. A blinding rage at myself for making choices that hurt me while protecting others, I’m still learning to figure out how to retrain my brain.
I did my wounded dog crawling into the woods routine. Leaving my home, the support of my family, even work things just so I could hold my head up in some fashion and say “I left so the rest of you didn’t get dragged down.” It wasn’t a healthy decision, it was made from fear of hurting. I’m embarrassed to say that there are times when I still utter two names that just aren’t going to be there to hold my hand. One I shouldn’t be, a perfect little girl. The other, well she still has a power in my brain/heart I haven’t worked past.
Making choices with my “ego”, worried about how others are going to judge me has not been an issue. The echoes of blame rest firmly in my ears, those chains wake me up shaking from the reminder of failures. Even those I couldn’t control, events that others should have known better then to blame me for.
I used to be frightened of dying, but at times I wonder if that really is the end.
In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Must Not Fail.”