Fear

Last week, Clink* posted a piece of ‘fiction’ writing that she said helped her ‘process things’. And so as I was looking through some of my own ‘fiction’ writing, I stumbled upon this. I wrote it about six months ago, but reading over it today, it seemed fitting to post due to recent events (not related to The Man. I know, I am as shocked as you).

She had a fear that if she allowed herself to have dreams–of the non-nocturnal type–that shit would happen.

She did not dare dream those dreams and she tried not to plan. Once in awhile she would unwittingly think about the future. But she would stop herself because she believed that thinking would lead to jinxing. This meant that she stopped at right now and hardly thought about after. This could explain why she did not censor her words or her feelings. Consequences are a luxury of those who can think about tomorrow without dry heaving.

A great, gnawing fear held her thoughts in a tight fist. A fleeting murmur into tomorrow promulgated a cautiousness so intense that it made carefulness look like an extreme sport. Her therapist asked her to turn that fear into palpable words; a theory of sorts. So she screamed it into the crevices of a flattened, tear-stained pillow.

“If you have dreams they will be ripped to shreds.”

Tears of frustration flowed from a pent up youth, a seemingly stagnated present and an unfocused future. She thought she was brave if she arranged to do something a week in advance. The planning was carried out half heartedly; so great was her fear of provoking that ominous later. She counted days passing with a sick joy; ticking them off her calendar with gusto. The past nestled neatly in memories that were safe. Safe because they were gone. Safe because she had already read the last page of that book. The future; a spiraling wave of doubt and uncertainty.

She could not touch fear. She could not see it or describe its contours. But she could feel it suffocating her. It was a gag stuffed into the mouth of a prisoner, blocking a breath, refusing to let go. It was real. It is real. Yet, she could not touch fear, she could not punch fear out. She could just feel fear. She could hear it rising inside her chest. She could taste fear. Acidic and vomit-like; a bad case of vertigo.

But it had no form, no face nor figure. It looked like nothing. So, she could not even begin to plan an exit strategy. Her therapist urged her to put a face onto this intangible fear. “Who is it?” she probed. “What does it look like?” “What does it say?’

“It is me”, she said.

“And I have failed. “

(Clink, thank you for giving me the courage to post this.)