Slow is Okay

Confession time: I struggle with slow. Not the slow of others, but my own innate need to move slowly.  For a long time, I counted my propensity for detail and consideration to be a failing. I would try to pile on more expectations to amp up the energy needed to complete a task, but my internal speedometer wouldn't budge. It kept me at a steady 35-45 mph and if pushed to 50, I would bottom out, burnt and exhausted.

I chastised myself. Why I couldn't push through the pain? Why did fast-paced work and high demands send me into anxiety and emotional lock down? Everyone else was able to pull ahead, buckle down and get the work done, but I crashed. What was wrong with me?

It's taken me 5 years, multiple jobs, miscellaneous counseling sessions and a lot of teary prayers to finally realize I am a single-tasker. I like to hone in on a task, analyze how I can do that thing well and then execute it with great focus and effort. Now, this is not to say I can't have multiple things going at a time. I just need to be confidently capable in achieving the expectations that go along with them.

But with new challenges or ideas, I like to sit with them and really hash out the details, understand the how and why. This probably has a lot to do with my desire to not make a mistake or be seen as a fool. (Thanks, Disgust.) Yet, even so, slow and steady is my natural state of mind. I get overwhelmed easily if there are too many people or a long list of tasks to be completed in a short amount of time. Too many events on my calendar make my breath short and constrained. I need space to breathe, to move and to create. So why did I ever think healing would be an instantaneous thing?

When I say healing, I don't mean physically. Logically, a broken bone or rendered skin needs time and TLC to heal; you can't rush a broken bone. Supplements and medication can help ease the process but the body operates on its own time schedule. Emotional and spiritual pain is harder to justify the slow process.


In my previous post, I discussed how I can get anxious with fear over not doing something right. I'm a recovering perfectionist and approval seeker, but even writing "recovering" makes me want to chastise myself for not being "recovered."

"Get over it and move on," screams Disgust.

"You're too emotional," says an outside critic.

"Just trust in the Lord," soothes another.

I end up with hands over my ears, running away to the dark recesses of my bedroom so I can hide under the covers. (Hello, Sadness. Can I stay here a while?) I'm left hurting, confused and back to asking myself, "What's wrong with me? Why can't I move on like everyone else? Why can't I get passed this fear?"

That's when I hear this whispered, low and soft: "Slow isn't wrong."

My ears perk up and I pop up from under the covers. "What?"

"Slow isn't wrong," the Voice repeats. "It's not bad or behind schedule. It's not a disability or a failing. Slow is okay."

I sink back into the pillows and let those words soothe away the ache of old wounds and drown out those old lies. Slow is okay.

As the old adage goes, "Rome wasn't built in a day," so too, we do not overcome obstacles in a single bound. We face them every day and we make a choice. One step is enough. None is okay, too. Nothing has to be "fixed" instantly, though we often want this to be so. Facing the pain and leaning into heartache or fear isn't something to accomplished in a day. The matters of the heart and soul are not time sensitive nor do they require deadlines. Healing is different for every person and the Great Physician knows the best care.

So remember. You don't have to rush. You don't have to worry. Slow is okay.

You Fool!

The fool, the joker, the slapstick. Throughout history, these are the characters we associate the ridiculous. Their roles are suitable because the role is considered a profession. Today we have comedians who often fill the same roles as their historic counterparts. They are allowed, accepted even, for their excessive use of farce and joviality. Their place is to entertain the court whether that court takes place in Medieval Europe of modern day social media.

Apply that ridiculous insignia to a member of the court, however, and the atmosphere shifts. A declaration of fool as applied to a person's demeanor, belief, profession or status causes the glittering image of courtly affairs to crumble and the person is left publicly shamed.

Disgust may fear vulnerability but her true fear is of that declaration: Fool! To have her voice laughed at and dismissed, to be seen as unintelligent and uninformed, to be called emotional and unhinged is ultimately the proverbial branding of the scarlet letter. She fears external critics, like Anger, who appoint her image or weigh her weakness. Those critics control her aspect and determine what is and isn't "gross." They are, in a sense, the lawmakers of her life; to stray from their established system would be considered treason.


She does not want to be found guilty by those external critics so she works to conform her being into the structure of what is safe and acceptable. Even her appearance conforms to the order. Her glasses denote intelligence. The straight, cropped hair is no-nonsense and without whimsy. Her clothing is overly modest, covering more skin with her turtleneck acting as almost a gag. She is the embodiment of control, aloofness, and intelligence. She abstains from all foolishness. No one would dare call her "Stupid."

Because she must maintain this image of intelligence, she must never make a mistake. This fear is what stalls my writing and freezes my creativity. The fear of vulnerability, in this case, is not necessarily a fear of making a mistake (I recognize we are all human and not perfect). Rather, it's the fear of being declared wrong. Somehow misquoting a fact or misinterpreting an event halts my writing process. I get bogged down in piles of research, ranging from the tiniest details to the overarching scope. The stack of "To-read" material grows until the research is too overwhelming, too daunting to face and the project that wants to be born gets thrown to the back burner, to simmer until the "opportune" time.

The only hope I have to silence the drone of anxiety and panic when I'm faced with that stack of knowledge yet unobtained is a gentle whisper that reminds me that it's okay to thaw the fear slowly.

...

A Broken Image

I stand to the side, arms still wrapped softly against my torso, staring down at Disgust. She hasn't moved from her huddled position in the armchair. Her head hangs low, resting against her knees, her hair acting as a veil across her face. If she had more room, I'd swear she would rock back and forth, but she doesn't move. Not even to twitch or adjust her position. "That can't be comfortable," I mutter softly.

"Let her feel the discomfort," scoffs Anger, strolling across the carpet. She eyes Disgust with a slight hunger, like a lioness waiting to devour her prey.

"That's not very kind," reprimands Joy, sitting on the couch between Fear and Sadness.

"Kind?" Anger laughs. "Why should we show her any kindness when she props herself on her high pedestal, the grand judge of all?  Kindness..." she trails off, stomping into the kitchen.

"She is kind," a quiet voice says, "in her own way." Sadness lifts her mug as in solute. "She tried to comfort us when Fear was so bad off." She shrugs. "She tried."

I nod, glancing back to Disgust. This was why she didn't want to share with us. Anger with her justified smugness and Sadness, though truly compassionate, is staring at Disgust with pity, lips pouting and eyes water soft. She didn't want to have these eyes on her, assessing and labeling her state. She didn't want to appear weak, but even more so, I realize as I too watch her small form, she didn't want to look like a fool.

...

Just Do It

Do you remember a show called Fear Factor? A group of six people would submit themselves to an onslaught of disgusting or terrifying trials in the hopes of winning a grand prize of $50,000. Some of those trials included being covered with scorpions, eating bull testicles or jumping out of a helicopter. As an audience, we would watch with bated breath, wondering how in the world did they manage? From my observation, they never stopped being afraid or disgusted. They simply barreled ahead, mind focused on one phrase: "Just do it".

Defeating the fears that have frozen your progress can be thawed with the same mindset. In my case, I have had to stop avoiding their existence. Shoving them into a box and locking the lid doesn't defeat them, that merely muffles their cries. They still have power over me. I know because if that lock becomes broken, I'm anxious for them to appear. Like the Bogart in Harry Potter, the potential for fear sets me quaking. "What will they say this time? How will they have grown, transformed?" Out of sight, out of mind doesn't work.


Disgust attempts this tactic but Myths breaks the lock divulging her deepest fears to the other aspects, aspects she sees as inferior. She sees herself as the "strong one" because she doesn't break form. Her image is pristine. She is always calm and collected, never giving anything away. In my mind, she is the perfect PR representative: informed, intelligent, cold. She doesn't allow herself to feel.

No matter how much denial she uses to coat on a smirk and feign disinterest, the underbelly of her existence is fueled by the desire to never appear foolish. That's what disgust is, after all, "a feeling of revulsion or profound disapproval aroused by something unpleasant or offensive" (Google definition). The things that make us go "ew" are often morally or physically offensive and we elevate ourselves to be "above" those who would stoop so low as to engage in such an act. Mind you, there are gross things out there, like Hawaiian pizza, but the superior status stands even in this.

The act of superiority separates Disgust from the other aspects, but it also disconnects her. When we fear vulnerability we essentially cut ourselves off from our community. Covering up our mistakes and failures to appear perfect makes us less human. (Do you know of one person who has no regrets?) Lack of vulnerability leaves us with a pristine image of deleted blemishes. With that appearance, people assume we can't relate. We are too far removed from the dirt of life. Isolation begins. Before we know it, we are an island unto ourselves. The only way off this island is to build a raft out of our true identities, both good and bad combined, so we can rejoin our tribe.

It's a Catch-22 situation. The only way to defeat our fear of vulnerability is by being vulnerable. We have to let the mask(s) fall to reveal our scars and we have to engage our hearts. This is best done with a trusted member of your tribe, someone who loves you unconditionally and has your best in mind. You can begin with a small trickle of truth or relinquish the dam you've built all at once. The process isn't so important as is the willingness to accept yourself for all your imperfections and share it with another. The telling is what keeps us connected and honest. The how is just window dressing.

Fear will try to talk you out of it, but remember that the grand prize of connections and community is worth it. Barrel ahead and just do it.

To Be Vulnerable or Not?

Vulnerability is a four-letter word that is whispered in the dark. It's a nebulous mystery that appears dangerous to most, inciting a reverence and fear. When we are presented with an opportunity to be vulnerable, however, that reverence quickly evaporates. We often freeze, assess and quickly escape. Why? Because vulnerability is "the quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally" (Google definition). We might be harmed, so our survival instincts rage in and we decide: Do I endure possible pain or do I choose to self-preserve? More often than not, we choose the latter.

I am no exception. My desire for self-preservation may exhibit itself a bit differently than yours. We all have our own manner of dysfunction. Mine presents itself through avoidance, denial and distraction. Generally, this looks like keeping my mind and/or body busy so I can't think or feel. Successful avoidance activities include marathoning Netflix shows or completing a to-do list of chores; or better yet, both at the same time. No time for reflection means no time for confrontation. Denial is simply a catalyst for continuing to avoid and distract myself from a problem.

Unfortunately, the problem is usually born out of a fear, often times illogical or easily "fixed." For me, the problem is usually connected to a lack of knowledge. Questions arise."How do I do this?" and "What way is best?" start the train rolling, but they are quickly followed by, "What if I make a mistake?" causing all other questions to stop.  Not knowing how to accomplish a task doesn't stir in me a fight or flight response, but more of a freeze. That last question echoes in my mind and I'm frozen, unable to move forward or backward.

But how then do you thaw the fear?

Answer: You confront it.

Disgust Exposed

Disgust saunters over, snatching the card from Fear's fingers. She glances at it once then throws it back into Fear's lap, barely missing her mug of hot chocolate. "Ridiculous!" she huffs, then throws herself into the armchair opposite the couch.

I look between Fear and Disgust, gauging the conflict. Fear looks more annoyed than scared, but as she sets her mug aside, I notice a slight tremble has returned to her fingers. I grind my teeth and turn scowling to Disgust. "What was that for? Can't you be happy for Fear?"

"Happy?" she scoffs. "She's exchanged one delusion for another. To think you can live in a world without conforming to another person's standards is not only stupid but impossible."

Fear whimpers slightly and I watch as Anger's shoulders tense and her back straightens, her body positioning itself for war. "Mind your words, Disgust..." she growls softly.

Disgust simply waves a hand in dismissal. "Sadness doesn't want to be alone and Fear doesn't want to be rejected. They want to be vulnerable and expose themselves to a firing squad, be my guest, but I have more decorum than brandishing my mistakes likes some bloody brand of dignity."

"And that's why no one likes you," peeps Sadness, nestling in beside Fear.

I try to hide my smile. Sadness finding a voice, I never thought I'd see the day.

But Disgust brushes it off too, holding her head high. "Thank you, Sadness. I don't need to be liked. I represent image and that is all that matters." She tosses her hair and begins to examine her nails.

"And why is that?"

Myths has reappeared, standing directly before Disgust. I can see her slowly remove her gaze from her nails to meet Myths'. Her body becomes rigid and her face drains of all color. "No..." she breathes.

He turns to address the rest of us. "Disgust wishes I do not share her deepest fear." She scrambles  to grab his arm to pull him back but he evades her with an easy side step. "While I am to remain impartial, I disagree with her request. As a result, I feel I must share with all of you--"

Disgust lunges at his legs. "Don't you dare!" she screeches, clawing up his body and clasping a hand over his mouth, at least, where his mouth is supposed to be.

It doesn't deter Myths, however. He continues to speak, as if to each of our minds. "As you can see, her desperation runs deep. Just as Fear didn't want to face her fear of creative rejection, so Disgust fights in her own why. Ironic that an image can turn so ugly, isn't it?" He turns his head to catch Disgust's gaze. She immediately releases him and melts back into her chair, pulling up her knees and curling into herself.

I measure the terror now gripping Disgust's hands to her knees. "She's obviously... disturbed," I begin, still marveling at the proud figure turned humble, "but what is it she fears?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Fear asks, speaking for the first time since her declaration of freedom. "She's afraid of being exposed."

Myths nods. "To be more precise, she is afraid of all her mistakes and failings being uncovered. In short, she is afraid of vulnerability."

"Oh," I murmur, hugging my arms to myself and gazing at Disgust's huddled form. The truth of Myths' words, again, cuts too close to home.

...

Qualified

We surround Fear like a mob of hovering mothers, fussing with the afghan at her feet and shoving newly warmed beverages into her now steady hands.

She smiles timidly at our efforts. "You guys, I'm fine. Really." Disgust huffs away, back into the kitchen.

Joy shakes her head, beaming. "We're just in shock Fear. You had us so worried." She lays a hand on Fear's knee.

I don't know how she had sensed the change, but within minutes of Fear speaking, Joy had burst through the door, throwing a bundle of sunflowers on a nearby table. Anger and I had shoved our argument aside. Our differences were many but we were united in celebration of Fear's return to reality.

I took in her appearance from my point on the other side of the couch. Her eyes were clear, her cheeks rosy, probably on account of the many layers of blankets we had piled on top of her. She sipped at her mug of hot chocolate, dodging the floating marshmallows with little flicks of her tongue. She was uncharacteristically calm. Her eyes didn't examine her liquid for hazards nor did she flinch at the crashing noises emitting from the kitchen. She was truly at peace. So strange.

"Fear," I say, pulling her gaze to mine. "What changed? What brought you back?"

"This," she says, putting down her mug and lifting up a small business card. She offers it to me and I read, in scrawled lettering:

I must create a system or be enslaved by another mans; I will not reason and compare: my business is to create.
Read more at: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/w/williambla165311.html

I must create a system or be enslaved by another man's; I will not reason or compare: My business is to create. - William Blake

I flip the card over and on the front is my name and underneath is one simple word: Creator. My eyes grow heavy with tears. I hand it back to Fear and ask, "What does it mean?"

Her smile expands, lighting up her face as she sits taller. "I'm qualified," she exclaims, shoulders back, sitting tall. "It means I create my own standards and I do not hold to anyone else's expectations but my own. I am my own master."

I nod absently, swiping a stray tear from my cheek. The words are a balm to the ache left from Myths' reveal. "My business is to create..." I whisper, accepting the proclamation as my own.

"That's ridiculous."

We all turn to find Disgust, hands on hips, mouth pursed, lips sour from her exclamation.

I sigh, sinking back into the couch. "Well, that was good while it lasted." Round Three is about to begin.

....

Embrace Yourself

We all have people in our lives whom we have designated as experts in specific fields. Our "go-to" list is vast, including people specializing in an assortment of hobbies, beliefs and industries. From exercise to faith to parenting, we look to these people to guide us. They have earned this expert status by living lives worthy of sharing their wisdom and knowledge. They have experience where we lack and we admire their opinion because of those experiences.

The danger of admiration, however, is that it often turns into idolization. We begin to forfeit our own right to a voice and let them speak in our stead. Worse, their voice is often given the power to determine how qualified we are in their area of expertise.

In my nightmare scenario, a jury of "qualified" professionals was given the power to determine my worth and quality as a writer.  Rejection after rejection only added to the desolation of my future self until it crushed me under the weight of the jury's decision: You are not a writer worthy of our time. The final blow comes from my husband's mouth, gentle and subtle: You are not a writer at all. That future self accepts the verdict with barely a blip of argument. The scythe has fallen and the creator has been cut deep, never to lay pen to paper again.

But what of the other scenario, where success is plentiful and the outlook positive? How can their be two drastically contrasting futures? My gut tells me it has everything to do with acceptance and self love.

Accepting yourself is a process that begins in childhood with a full embrace. As a child, we have no inhibitions. We proudly wear mismatching outfits, sing at the top of our lungs and feel without reserve. The confidence fades, however, as we grow up and realize that other people's opinions have a weight on our decisions. That  embrace, once firm, grows light and tentative as the scale of Self vs. The World is tipped back and forth.

The lie I have believed for so long is that I have no power to influence this scale. How wrong I have been. The truth of the matter is we are the ones placing the weight towards one end or the other. We decide who wins, whether ourselves or the world.

The good news is we have the power to change the outcome. We have the voice to say, "No, that's not for me," or "Hell, yes! Let's do this!"

We cannot short change our futures or our innermost beings by handing those outside of ourselves the power to condemn or redeem our lives. They are arbitrary. Their opinion is based on their experiences and can change from one moment to the next. They do not know our heart, our past or our dreams for the future. We do.

My nightmare scenario does not need to end with a defeat. Drawing from preparation paranoia, I can choose today to tip the scales. An opinion from the world, though wise and knowledgeable, may only give me insight. It does not disqualify me. The only person who can disqualify myself is me and I'm choosing to hand myself the qualifications.

I am choosing to write.

I am choosing to create.

I may make mistakes. I may not achieve all that I hope to but the opinions of others will not weigh in on my worth. I choose and am choosing to accept myself and let my voice be heard.

Won't you join me? Choose the you of your childhood who had no reservations. Be brave and embrace yourself.

Face It! The Scenario is Analyzed (Finally)

Our fears reveal truths about ourselves. As if we stand before a mirror, they highlight the shadows and flaws we avoid. They are a reflection of hard truths. Sometimes, when we are faced with the truth, we run.

Photo Credit: Pixar Wiki

This was my initial reaction when I wrote about Fear's trepidation over a week ago today. I felt exposed and raw. I didn't want to acknowledge that my biggest fear was my complete loss of faith in my ability to write. I ran and hid my emotions behind a locked door. I couldn't pep talk myself into the right frame of mind, though I tried. I reminded myself repeatedly that I had committed myself to a challenge and people had expectations. The guilt didn't help. It just caused me to burrow deeper into my hole.

Until I did some research. After watching a TedTalk by Karen Thompson Walker, I realized that maybe I could learn something from the fear.  Walker equates fear with storytelling. As with any story, fear creates a plot, suspense and questions, pushing us, the reader, on to figure out "What will happen next?" She suggests that the interpretation of our fears depends on how we "read" them. 

In my creative portrayal of my fear, I painted a bleak outlook. My biggest fear of "not making it" was spurred by the belief that I was/am an  inadequate writer. Now, I've avoided this fear because a part of me believes there is no alternative to that future. Note how brief the "success" story was compared to the "failure": one paragraph to multiple. I've spent a lot of time determining my downfall. This says a lot about how I view my ability to influence my environment.

In my failure scenario, I did all I could to be seen as a writer. I applied to collegiate programs to advance my skills and submitted query letters to publishers. My good work, however, could not change or influence the outcome. Yet I continued to try, desperate to find one institution that believed my work mattered. The saddest ending, was losing the faith of the one person who supported my dreams coming to believe the opposite, the ultimate rejection. So the scene ends with the laptop closed and dreams ended. Fate has won.

On that note, I could easily walk away and leave well enough alone, but the examination of this fear is not finished. In her speech, Walker discusses productive paranoia, the act of closely studying our fear(s) so that we can be prepared for and take action against them coming true. To avoid a result you need to look at the cause. So the question is, "What is at the heart of my fear?"

The short answer: A need for acceptance and approval.

...

Tomorrow, the long answer.

Selah: The Practice of Grace

There are times when you are a facing a hard moment and all you want to do is stop the world so you can breathe, but you can't; you have to push through. Then there are times when despite the demands and expectations, you just need to stop and take a moment to care for your heart and soul so you can return to that challenge refreshed. The latter is the reason for my absence these last few days.

When I do a challenge, I do it BIG! I thought the act of taking every aspect's biggest fear into the light and examining it would prove both creative and beneficial. While it is both of those things, it is also very taxing. I needed a break, so I took a much needed three-day break.

My husband and I attended his college band director's retirement dinner and caught up with friends we haven't seen in months.  I listened to each person's speech lauding this band director who had such an impact on my husband's life. The constant themes of "Be kind," "Pay it forward" and "Be true to yourself" resonated deeply as I thought of the people I interact with on a daily basis. These anecdotes reminded me to remain soft and focused outward when I am struggling internally.

The next day, a friend and I traveled to a nearby farm to enjoy a corn maze, cool pumpkins and each others' company. Later that same day, a big group of us took a hay ride and afterward, converged on our friends' house for a potluck. The outdoors and hearty laughter can do to tend to the aches of your heart.

Finally, on Sunday my husband and I skipped church (gasp!) to have breakfast together. Afterward, we visited a discount bookstore to peruse the stacks. Bookstore browsing is one of my favorite pastimes but it is also a place I go to be embraced by words and to lean into inspiration. We traversed the store, not needing anything but taking the time to look and jot down a few titles to pick up from the library later in the week.

Then, we journeyed home and pulled out a neglected game (Eldritch Horror). If you've ever played, you know how difficult the game can be, but this time, we won! And no one got devoured! We felt accomplished. It energized me to plunge into a book and lose myself between the covers, something I don't do as often during the daylight hours, but I indulged.

Why do I share this? For you to be inspired and because you need to allow yourself the same space to play and energize your soul. You need permission to stop. Maybe you don't have a whole weekend to devote to play and rest, but what about fifteen minutes? Five? Don't let guilt hinder you. Say yes to yourself and take care.

Breathe. Relax. You're worth it.
...

We will resume our journey into my aspects' fears tomorrow. Today, enjoy the now. Go play!

When Our Silence Awakens Anger

"This is ridiculous!" Anger announces, launching out of her perched position in the winged back chair. She begins to pace back and forth in the small space before the couch. "We've been sitting around for days hedging the elephant in the room. We need to do something!"

I sigh deeply. Fear has remained incoherent in her corner on the couch. Sadness eventually ran out of tears and now leans against me, a pile of used tissues surrounding her like fallen leaves. Disgust hovers close by waiting for her opportunity to snatch up the refuse. She's been compulsively cleaning since Myths disappeared. I've money on the rearrangement of the furniture any time now.

My internal gambling is the only joy I've been able to muster. Since Myths unveiled Fear's deepest trepidation, I've felt numb and listless. Joy eventually needed a reprieve from our somber disposition and retreated to her fields of sunflowers, or wherever we goes when we're too much for her.

I break away from my thoughts to find Disgust waving a feather duster in Anger's face. I perk up. This ought to be entertaining.

"I am doing something!" Disgust screeches, flourishing the duster like a sword. She squeaks as Anger grabs it out of her hands and snaps it into two pieces.

"You need to get a grip," Anger says, stalking over to where Fear slouches amongst pillows and blankets. "We need to help her. Brainstorm solutions, toss her into a cold shower... something besides this congregation of melancholic couch potatoes!"

I frown, leaning deeper into the couch cushions. "That won't help. Nothing will help."

Anger pins me with a narrowed gaze until I am squirming in my seat. "You," she growls. She takes two steps and is suddenly an inch from my face. "Snap. Out. Of. It." She moves away from me and looks at each of us, Sadness now awake from the confrontation, groggily wiping sleep from her eyes. "All of you need to snap the bloody hell out of this 'woe is me' attitude. You are all acting like her illusion is true. Why?"

"Because it could be," I mumble, looking into my lap.

Anger pauses, turning back to me. I glance up, hoping for an empathetic expression, but she's not Joy. "So? You might die tomorrow, but that doesn't keep you from making up dreams and taking care of business today. Why let a possibility and an extreme possibility at that, stop all gears?" She pauses. "You know what I think?"

"No, but I'm sure you're about to tell us," huffs Disgust, throwing herself into Anger's vacated chair.

Anger ignores her quip. "I think you're all being selfish."

"Now wait a minute," I start, pushing up from the couch to my feet.

"Denial," she tosses at me before continuing. "We all agreed we're in this together when Sadness faced her fears of abandonment and rejection, but Fear goes deep into a psychological delusion of her failure and you all just lie down, wringing your hands? And for what? It's not helping, that's what. If anything, it's hurting us. Joy has even left. Joy! We're depressing her." Anger shakes her head. "Never thought I'd see the day optimism would retreat in the face of a pessimistic attitude. You sicken me."

"You talk a big talk, Anger, but I haven't heard you say a peep since Myths left. You've been sitting here with the rest of us, quiet. Well, you know what I think?" I say, coming level with her. "All your self righteousn accusations sure as hell won't bring Fear back either!"

"Back off, little birdy," she says in a low voice, fists tighening, "or I might break one of those delicate wings of yours."

I poke her in the chest. "Try me."

"Stop," croaks a small, timid voice from the couch. Anger and I twist, about to rip Sadness to threads, but stop. Fear has spoken. She's back!

...

Join us tomorrow.

Fear Knocks

A word before you begin: The fear below is not the personified aspect I have spoken of before, but rather the general fear we all welcome and hold in our souls. Those fears once served a purpose, but no more. 

Fear knocks.

Rata-tat-tat.

Fear waits.

You peek outside.

A light illuminates the face:

twitchy, friendly, small.

"Hello and welcome," you call.

Fear walks in

and stays

speaks.

Warns like a loyal Labrador

Pointing out danger

"There, there and there!"

Gratitude flows

"Stay longer,"

 you say.

Fear smiles

and grows.

Opportunity, Creativity and Inspiration

knock at the door.

"Don't, don't, DON'T!"

Fear shrieks, falling to the floor.

"Don't answer, don't! Don't let them in!

"Beware! Don't dare! They are not kin."

Confused, torn, 

you stop

and stare as figures disappear

down the walk

away, away, away

into the dark. 

The loss

the gain

are measured like grain.

A question, drops:

"By letting in fear,

have I bargained to remain?

Can I stay besieged?

Who bears the blame?"

The scale dips 

shudders

decides.

 

Pack up the belongings,

part on good terms.

Fear's outstayed its welcome

"Goodbye,

All my love."

Fear walks

away, away, away

into the dark.

Then, one night,

a knock.

Rata-tat-tat.

Fear waits

once more.

Paralyzing Fear

"Fear? Fear, look at me. What did you see? What's wrong?" Joy crouches in front of the couch, hands reaching out to Fear who huddles in the deep corner, Sadness sobbing at her side.

Fear had sat in the same position, blinking only occasionally while we attempted to reach her. Joy's radiant smile had dimmed when Anger's abrupt shaking and sharp slap wouldn't even cause Fear to focus on anything but a distant mirage. Disgust has taken a seat on the couch but won't look at the quivering, weeping pair. She sips at a tepid drink from a sky blue cup, one of the few left in the cupboards.

I sit to Joy's right, stunned. When Fear had stopped registering our presence, I had gone from casual regard to concerned patron. I panicked. Now all I can think is this was my fault. I had pushed her, pushed them all by demanding they tell me about their fears. Before, she had been panicked. Now she was a mere bundle of frayed nerves.

"What have I done?" I murmur, reaching out a hand to touch Fear's knee. She starts back and I recoil to lean against the coffee table, cradling my hand as if stung. I look at my hands and whisper, "This is all my fault."

"Not your fault, madam," rumbles a deep voice.

I look up to find Myths standing on Joy's other side. I shiver. "Wh-what do you mean?" I stammer.

Myths waves a hand in Fear's direction. "She saw her biggest fear, fears, come true."

Joy extends a hand and clutches Myths' long, gray fingers. "Oh, please, Myths. You must tell us what she saw."

He looks down at their connected hands, her uplifted head and pleading eyes. I tilt my head assessing his dark gaze. He nods, curtly. He breaks the grasp first, clenching his hand into a fist.

"She viewed two realities. One overflowed with confidence, light and determination. Inspiration flowed, that version of yourself, " he nods to me, "had a full calendar and a stack of stories on her desk. This was the image of ultimate success. The other," he turns to look at Fear, "was ultimate failure."

Joy exhales sharply, Anger stiffens and Disgust takes a deep gulp of her tea. I wait for him to continue.

His gaze finds my own. "In this reality, there is little light or hope. All attempts of recognition or publication are denied. You cannot find words for projects in progress and inspiration has gone dry. Any avenue to regain creativity goes sour. Your husband, the one who has believed in and supported you the most, has lost faith in you and asks you to quit." I shudder at his words, a lump forming in my throat. "Defeated, you close the door to your dreams and walk away, never to create again."

Joy is aghast. "That's horrible!" She looks back at Fear, worry etched on her face.

I am silent, unable to look at anyone besides Myths.

Anger recognizes my anguish and marches up to Myths and pokes him hard in the chest. "Take it back! Show her something different!"

Solemn, Myths shakes his head. "I cannot. Until she faces the fear, it will continue to play on repeat."

"That's torture! You can't do this!" Anger is livid. Her face has become flush and her hair is beginning to frizz. In any other moment I would snicker, but I'm numb, hollowed out by his words. The ultimate failure and ultimate betrayal, too.

Myths faces her quietly, letting her rail. "It is my purpose to reveal your fears. I can do no more." With that he disappears again, leaving Anger waving her arms at empty air.

"We have to do something," Joy whispers. She looks at each of us in turn and asks, "What can we do?"

Silence seeps into the room, chilling all present. No one speaks because no one knows the answer.

...

Join us tomorrow as we continue to unravel this dilemma.

A Dark Illusion

"They don't see it. They can't," Fear thinks, staring ahead, paralyzed. She can feel the softness of the couch, the warmth of Sadness and Joy sitting near her, but it doesn't register. Before her, like one of her beloved movies, unravels her deepest fear.

The scene is split, as if a mirror divides the world in two. On both sides, Brianna sits before a laptop. Beyond their positions, there are few similarities.

On the left, she is clothed in a white cable-knit sweater with black tights, socks thick and fuzzy. Outside, soft, fluffy snowflakes fall to adorn trees and shrubs alike. A candle burns and a cup of coffee steams at her side. A stack of papers sits at the top of her desk and a calendar full of scribbles flanks her.

Fear can tell that the image on the left is peaceful. There is an air of certainty and determination about the confident tapping on the computer. She smiles, her tension easing. But then she looks to the right and, inwardly, takes a step back.

The right is dark. A storm rages outside, rain streaking the window panes. Brianna is wearing a black hoodie and baggy sweatpants, palm to forehead as she scrolls through something on the screen. Mail is strewn about the surface of the desk, with a few crumpled pages at her feet.

Fear feels concern overtake her hesitancy. "Brianna is normally a very neat individual. To be so careless is unlike her."

She takes a mental step forward, closer, deeper into the scene.

A fourth wall descends around Fear, blocking out the opposite scene so she is ensconced in the stormy room. A tremble begins at her hands and a shiver tip-toes its way down her back. "This feels like a horror movie," she thinks, turning in a small circle, taking in the room.

She stops her rotation when she hears a painful groan from the dark corner. Fear turns and finds Brianna, forehead pressed into the keypad of the laptop, hands clenching the back of her neck.

Fear creeps closer, so she can look at the illuminated screen. "We regret to inform you..." the missive begins. She looks to the side panel of the email page and sees multiple emails, full of the same short description. Rejection letters.

Fear jumps back, gasping, heart racing. She takes a closer look at the litter on the table and the floor. These have intricate letterheads and collegiate insignias. They're short, polite replies. The consensus is a resounding no, like a gong that clangs in an abandoned monastery, empty and eerie.

A door opens to Fear's left and she looks over her shoulder to find the husband has come home, soaked from the raging storm. His expression tightens when it lands on Brianna, his shoulders tensing. He shrugs off his coat before coming to stand before her prostrated form.

"Another 'No'?" he mumbles.

A small shake of her head as affirmation issues against the computer keyboard.

He sighs, backing up and sitting on the nearby couch. "Maybe it's time to give up."

Both Fear and Brianna start at his words, a knife in an already tender wound.

"We agreed I would give you time to try to make a profession of your work. But it's been a year with no progress. You struggle over your words to your novel, rejection letters flood the mailbox and you've not a had a new story idea in months. It's time to face it: You're not going to be a writer."

She snaps up her head, startled at his words. "But, maybe if I..." she attempts.

Fear's bottom lip quivers, her hands unsteady.

He sighs again. "Another writing book or course isn't going to fix it. You've tried that avenue, remember?"

She dips her head in a shallow nod.

"I'll give you a few days to..." he swallows, "to grieve. Then, I think it's time to start looking for a full-time job."

Brianna's head jerks up again. "I did that! You know I did! But there wasn't anything I was qualified for besides retail or management, and you know I've hated both those positions."

Another long heaving sigh escapes his mouth. "I know, but it's something," he says, resigned. He pushes up from the couch and moves away into the darkness of the bedroom.

Fear watches as Brianna turns back to the glaring screen. A shaky breath fills the silence as she closes all tabs and shuts the laptop. Fear watches as she leans back hugging her arms around her knees, the light from the window casting shadows under Brianna's eyes. Her expression is bland, like a stone pummeled too many times by incessant waves, all sharpness rounded out to leave a smooth surface.

"She's giving up," Fear gasps, watching as Brianna pushes away from the desk and slouches into the darkness.  "She's never going create again."
 
...

Fear Panics

"Fight?! What do you mean "fight"? I can't fight!" Fear screeched, hyperventilating. Anger huffed off the couch and returned with a brown paper bag which Fear promptly began breathing into.

I rolled my eyes and focused on Sadness, examining her face. Light had returned to her eyes and no tears welled., but I could sense a hesitancy in her still. "What is it?" I asked.

Sadness looked deep into a mug of hot cocoa Disgust had given her after her tears had subsided. "I'm not very strong. How will I be able to fight off those thoughts?"

"Simple," Anger interjected. "You've got us."

Joy nodded, smiling. "You don't need to be alone when things get hard."

"But... Myths..." Sadness whispered, glancing quickly to the corner where I had last seen him.

"Myths evolves," Joy explained, hugging an arm around Sadness's shoulders. "His purpose is for us to have our fears embodied so we can better face them. You're doing that."

Sadness's head dipped a bit in response. "Oh. Okay," she murmured, hands clenching a bit tighter on the mug.

"It's okay if you're still unsure," I said, knowing what Joy had left unsaid. Myths evolves, which means one fear will replace another. It's a cycle but one that doesn't need to be quite so daunting.

"Easy for you to say!" squealed Fear, shooting me with a daggered glance. "You don't have to face them!"

"What? Wait. Yes, I do. You're in my head, so yes."

Fear straightens, crossing her arms. "So? It's not the same," she scowls, indignant to my assumption.

I push back from Sadness, unfolding my legs and stretching them out in front of me, leaning back on my arms. Casual, I need to look casual and not defensive. I see Anger's sly grin in my peripheral. She knows my annoyance has peaked at Fear's outburst. I resist the urge to stick my tongue out at her and instead look up at Fear huddled in the opposite corner of the couch. "So, what are you afraid of Fear?"

She goes very still, her gaze fixed on a point in front of her. "Being disillusioned," she whispers.

...

Join me tomorrow for the break down.

Facing A Schoolyard Bully

In the writing profession, solitary work is expected. You can brainstorm or collaborate with fellow artists but inevitably, it's just you, the blinking cursor and your thoughts for company. But what happens when your thoughts are none too gentle?

Sadness revealed that the heart of her fear of being alone is the damage those thoughts can do. Those thoughts I speak of are the ones that scream defeat into your face and cut you till you bleed. The harshest of those thoughts are laced with Rejection, a venom that can kill overtime if not treated appropriately.

I've been prey to the gleeful ravages of Rejection. It met me early.

During elementary school, I experienced a schoolyard exile from my group of friends. To my memory, one day I was friends with them, laughing and playing Sailor Moon, the next I was no longer invited to play. When I wrecked my brain for any reason they could do this, I wound up with this slithering statement: They just don't like you.

My essence. My being. Something about who I was had been found wanting in the eyes of our clique's leader. No matter what I did to reverse the sentence, I was never again fully accepted by she-who-shall-not-be-named.

I've had similar run-ins with Rejection since those days on the schoolyard, but this one cut me deep. It left me wounded, unable to embrace my voice or to let it be heard.

For years, any time I wanted to write, my immediate thoughts were not filled with the joy of discovery, but rather with sadness and fear. What if I offend someone? What if they misunderstand me? What if they don't like what I have to say? Will anyone even listen? I'd get so wrapped up in the fear of facing Rejection again that I would eventually muffle the flame of inspiration, deciding it was safer to remain silent.

With nothing pouring out, I became sedimentary in my creativity. I wasn't exercising my talent and the result was volatile. Self pity reined my thoughts and I found a dark, dank corner of my heart in which to wallow. Depression ruled and still, I didn't create.

I began, however, to share this desire to create, to write, with others. Instead of ridicule, my dream of writing was nurtured and celebrated. Hope returned. Soon, my constricted breaths were loosening. I started writing in my journal. I learned about other women who had opened their computers and taken the chance to share, who had picked up a pen and written that story that wouldn't leave them alone. I followed the bread crumbs they laid and found myself again.

After years of silence, I'm finally writing. A story has taken root in me and won't let go. Having grown from a short story written for a class in college, its expanding and transforming into something I'm not quite qualified to write...and yet I am. I have my an army of champions spurring me on and the permission to create.

What Rejection had intended to keep silent and held captive in darkness, Acceptance has set free and will never be held captive again without a fight.

...

Tomorrow, our saga continues. Join to see what happens.

Selah

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: I humbly apologize for the interruption to our normal programming. We will return to our normal post flow tomorrow. 

Today, a pause and reflection on silence. 

This morning as I laid in bed, barely awake, I listened as the tinny whir of the ceiling fan became mute. The blades slowed their cyclical dance until they came to a graceful stop. I clicked the lamp at my bedside to confirm what I already knew: the electricity was off. Then the second thought dawned: I don't know for how long. So much for my plans, I thought, glancing at the time before rolling out of bed.

Having grown up in a rural community, I immediately started going through the checklist. Open the blinds to let in natural light; keep the refrigerator closed, but get in and out quickly if you need something; and remember, don't flush the toilet. This last one comes from living on well water. We had an electric pump, so if you flushed there would be no refilling of the toilet bowl. Even though I've lived in the city for 5 years now, I still forget that rule can be ignored.

Practical list aside, I began to take stock of how my morning was going to pan out. No internet, obviously. You need a plugged in router for that, but I could surprisingly open applications if I needed a false sense of connectivity. I didn't find that fulfilling, so I set the device aside and grabbed a neglected book off a stack. Time to catch up.

But then I stopped in my tracks. What is always paired with a good book? A big cup of some hot, steamy beverage, usually caffeinated and comforting. No coffee maker, no electric water kettle and a rusty, dusty water kettle meant no pairing, no caffeine. I cringed. I was intently aware of how heavy my eyes felt, the sand in the corners gritty, my body sluggish and unmotivated. I began to feel the stir of panic.

No internet was one thing, but no easy access to caffeine? I think I discovered the way America will come to ruin, in that moment. Sleep deprived, decaffeinated  people would suddenly become aware of everything, distraction and ease free. Cue the hysteria!

All the inconveniences aside, the silence gave me a gift: a respite from a to-do list of demands.

I had planned to wake up, down some coffee and type up a post I had drafted the night before. Then, I would get to work on household chores. Without the advance of electricity, many of those plans were laid to waste leaving me with the freedom to enjoy myself, by myself. Surprisingly, I wasn't intimidated by the prospect.

Too often, silence is a heavy weight of expectation. The voices of others become loud and demand I get to work, look at this post, read this book, do, do, DO! But without the immediate gratification of connectivity--something I often feel as a need rather than a privilege-- I found beauty in the present. I was able to slow down and embrace myself. What did I need? What did I want? I could finally hear my inner thoughts and they weren't crucifying me for my lack or my laziness. They were at peace, quiet, listening.

It wasn't until I heard the familiar buzz of the refrigerator two hours later, that those voices, like gnats, began to speak up and nag at my mind, pulling me away from my journal, my creativity. I felt disappointed. The reprieve had been revoked and I was being pulled back to the world of distraction. No matter my resistance, I knew the inevitable: The siren call would win.

And it did, but not without a change.

For so many years, being alone in the silence has intimidated me. I haven't been too kind on myself. My husband says I don't know how to rest. While I think he is right, I think the bigger issue is that I haven't known how to love myself. Taking moments of self care, saying no, or giving yourself space... these are the things a person who loves and accepts herself/himself does. I'm only just beginning.

...

Tomorrow, we resume our regular post flow. Join me as I go into how rejection from our past can affect our present and impact our future.

Being Alone

Sadness stirs next to Joy. Wiping away a tear, she looks into my eyes and confesses, "Being alone."

I swallow, my throat constricted with sudden tears. "That's your biggest fear?" I whisper, kneeling before her.

She inhales a shaky breath. "Y-yes. Being alone... it makes things...worse." She shivers. "It's like the walls start talking to me."

"S-sorry," murmurs Fear. All eyes to turn to her. "I guess I sometimes get a little too into my monologues."

I quirk an eyebrow. "You mean the movie quoting happens even without Myths around?"

Anger groans from her new perch against the couch. "You don't even know."

Fear shrugs. "I like dramatic scenes."

I shake my head, chuckles echoing around us. Sadness even exudes a small grin.

I turn back to Sadness. Hating to end the small joy, I focus back on her fear. "It's more than that, though, isn't it? More than the silence and being left to your thoughts?"

Sadness avoids my gaze. "Yeah. Being by myself isn't bad, not always. It's the feeling that those voices--Fear's, Myths' or my own... It's the feeling that they're it. They're all I will ever have, echoes and isolation. It's believing that everyone has abandoned me and it's all my fault." She hides her face in Joy's side, tears shaking her shoulders anew.

I nod, resting my hand atop hers. My own tears finally break the barrier and trickle down my cheeks. I know her pain, I realize, squeezing her hand in mine. I know her pain because ours is one and the same. I've experienced it before; many, many times before.

...

Join me tomorrow as I share how pain from our past can infiltrate our present and impact our future.

Myths Dispelled

I start, hiding behind Joy. "Wh-What is that?! Where did he come from?"

Photo Credit: Tiffany

Joy laughs, pulling me forward and wrapping an arm around my shoulder. "That's Myths. You wouldn't notice him because he doesn't want to be seen." She pauses, taking an offered cup from Disgust, before moving across the room to stand beside the creature. He smiles a bit brighter.

"Myths represents each aspect's biggest trepidation."

Oblivious to our conversation, Anger huffs up to me, disrupting my focus on Myths. "Would you mind?"

I sigh, bending over and lifting Sadness to a standing position. She remains sniffling next to me as I look back to Joy. Myths is gone!

"Where'd he go?"

Joy smiles. "He's still here. Remember he doesn't want to be seen and you don't want to see him, so he stays invisible."

I look between her and the space where Myths had stood awkwardly a moment before. "Can you see him?"

"Of course! I have no fears."

I roll my eyes. "Of course not," I mutter. I look around and notice Fear has become quiet, Anger leaning solemnly against the bedroom door jamb. Disgust has returned from the kitchen and draped an arm around Sadness at my side, but none of them look towards Joy. "That doesn't explain why the others became so upset or why they won't look at you now."

Joy walks to the couch and sits down, pulling her feet up under her. She pats the seat next to her, welcoming me and the others to join. The others slowly make there way towards her, but I remain standing.

"Mentioning Myths makes the others uncomfortable. Imagine if there was a spider in the room. If it's small, you're okay to leave it where it lounges, giving it space but keeping track that it never crosses that invisible boundary." Sadness cuddles up to Joy who offers a tissue to dry her eyes.

"But if the spider is large and imposing, you might become paralyzed. You might flee the room, shutting the door or you might smash it with a frying pan. Myths is the embodiment of our fears. We don't want to face them."

"Ahem," Anger coughs, shooting Joy a scathing look.

"Except Anger. She knows Myths exists and fights his affects."

 I nod, understanding blooming. "That explains why she was so calm while the others..."

"Went bat shit crazy?" Anger quips, grinning. I sigh, always the virtue of truth.

Joy frowns slightly, displeased at Anger's choice of words. "Yes. We-- they-- go all squirmy when presented with their fear."

"Okay... but what do they fear?"

A collective silence descends on the assembly.

Sadness stirs next to Joy, wiping away a tear she looks into my eyes and confesses, "Being alone."
...

Join me tomorrow as I explore how Sadness's fear manifests in my life.

A Curious State of Strange

I didn't realize that getting to the bottom would mean hitting bedrock. For the last hour, I've sat surveying my aspects in some strange manic state after I asked for the truth about the myths.

Disgust had done an about face, immediately walking back into the kitchen after I confronted the others, returning minutes later with mugs of tea or coffee for everyone. She's repeated the process three times. After the third trip, she ran out of mugs and had to use juice cups. Now various liquids scatter the room like discarded Skittles, stale and unappetizing.

I shake my head as Anger shoves away another cup, annoyance rising. Disgust merely sits it on the table, blinks hard, then turns back to the kitchen, Anger yelling obscenities at her back.

Sadness quivers on the couch, a pillow and two stuffed animals added to her fortress. I run my hands through my hair as Fear starts to recite various quotes from Lord of the Rings. She's gone from Pirates of the Caribbean to Finding Nemo and has briefly reenacted a scene from Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. I cringe as Anger tells her to shut up, not hearing the door open and close.

"Are we having a party?!" squeals a honeyed voice from my right. Joy stands, barefoot, a garland of wildflowers adorning her head. Frolicking in a field of flowers, indeed.

She smiles brightly as I stand from my arm chair and walk over to her. "Thank goodness you're here," I sigh. "They've been like this for an hour." I gesture to the couch where Anger is now shaking Fear. I flinch at her vigor. I look back to Joy, pleading, "Maybe you can talk some sense into them?"

"Hmm..." she murmurs, unhurriedly unwrapping a scarf from her shoulders and hanging it lightly on the hall tree. "How'd they get to be so... strange?"

"That's a long story," I mutter, rubbing the back of my neck. "Sadness and I were talking-"

Her head snaps away from the others to beam at me. "You talked to Sadness? That's wonderful!"

I shrug, uncomfortable with her enthusiasm. "I thought I'd try... I don't know what," I trail off, shaking my head. "Anyway, she said something about each of you having a set of rules--myths-- that you adhere to that might help me understand why it's so hard for me to write. But then Fear interrupted and Anger came home..." I sigh deeply, shrugging slightly again. "With all of them together, I thought maybe I could get some answers, but then..." I gesture to Sadness now clinging to Anger's leg, Anger's attempts to dislodge the weeping leech failing.

"Oh, well, there's a simple explanation for that."

"Oh really?" I scoff. "And what would that be?" I cross my arms and arch an eyebrow.

"Him," she states, pointing to a corner of the room vacant of mugs and crazed aspects.

In the corner stands a tall, slender man dressed in a dapper suit with long gray fingers and deep black eyes. He smiles a little and waves a hesitant hand of acknowledgement my way.

... Join me tomorrow to learn who the mysterious man is and why he caused such a stir.