Tuesday, March 27, 2012

I Ain't Never Scared (Oh, Really?!?!?!?)

I think I like myself better as a coward. It is one of the themes of my life that I struggle with: Cowardice vs. Bravery. But wow, when I am brave, it is disastrous. Being a coward is probably easier on everyone.

I mustered up a little courage and talked to D. I opened this huge, gnarly, seeping swarm of worms. That was a few weeks ago, well, really longer now. And now we are elbow deep in shit. Relationship counseling, marriage-book reading, talking and crying shit and God help me…I can’t hardly take anymore of it. Fuck! ENOUGH! 

A good coward would have walked in the house and made up some lie or had an affair and left. Moved on. Adios. No explanations, no talking or hugging, no support, no help, no preface. Rip off the bandage. One, two, three. The younger, more chicken-shit me, did just that. I got scared. Too much love. Too intense. Too good. Too close to what I really wanted? Too scary. I ripped that boy’s heart right out. One, two, three. And I ran. Don’t look back. Try not to feel. He won’t love you (forever) anyway. What’s to love? (If your own dad can’t muster up an ounce of love for you, then who can? No one. Ever. You are totally unlovable. And worthless. You stupid, heartless, worthless, unlovable bitch.) That’s the history of my emotional cowardice. In summary, I was too scared and too young (read: stupid) to take the chance on love. So I ran. And then ran some more. And where she stops, no one knows. 

There is still a fair amount of tangential anger rattling around in here, but luckily, I have had some therapy and time. It’s history. Well, sort of. Today, I want to revert to that teenaged girl who can rip and run. It would feel so good for awhile. It would be so easy. And yet….

Not me. Here I am. I have developed some bravery (which is totally fucking painful at best). I have cobbled together a conscience (based on my own failures and fuck-ups and the unconditional love of some others.) I have a heart—and while we are talking about it, kinda of a big, soft, mushy, feels-it-all kinda heart (don’t you dare tell anyone that—my teenage reputation is on the line--I will deny it anyway)—and this big, clumsy heart wants to be fair and just and honest in love and fair and just and honest with the hearts of others. The only thing is that I suck at the hearts of others part…it’s mostly a trample, trip, and slide, stomp and crunching of a heart like a bunch of clumsy 8-year-old boys running through the muddy woods desperate to escape an invented albeit rapidly pursuant ghost.

I am hurt. How did that happen (again)? I am heartbroken. Again. (sigh)

So, now, I keep going.

More counseling. More books. More tears. More fear. More bravery. Being brave is exhausting. Remember that. 

1 comment:

  1. Your Dad was wrong. Simple math. No more complicated than that. You're awesome. His loss. Move on.
    I know it's more complicated than that from your end.
    But as an outsider looking in, and a father of 2 beautiful daughters, if I put myself in your fathers shoes this is what I see. I see a beautiful, intelligent, & loving woman with a nurturing spirit. I see a brave woman that hasn't let life's built in disadvantages keep her from working hard toward her goals. I see a loyal friend & an amazing mother. I see a woman that's tough enough to call herself on her own s**t (very rare)...and most importantly I see a woman that isn't taking a proper inventory of how exceptional she is.
    A daughters love is a bright shiny care bear rainbow beam of unbridled joy & happiness that warms your soul. When your daughter smiles at you it makes you feel like a better person than you are. Your father appears to have f**ked himself out of this gift to avoid changing some diapers and going to some PTA meetings.
    Who's the coward?