Fears Unleashed

I'm afraid. Terrified, really. Not the shy-child-hiding-behind-his-mother's-leg kind of scared. No, I'm talking about the agonizing, heart-in-your-throat-so-scared-you-can't-scream-makes-a-grown-man-cry kind of scared. I'm not afraid of terrorists. I'm not afraid my plane will crash, or afraid of mean dogs, getting robbed, dying, sharks, you name it. I'm not even afraid of being alone. But weakness terrifies me. My own weakness, to be exact. I'm afraid, terrified, horrified that the world at large will know that I, in fact, am not perfect.

I don't yell when I get mad. I don't throw things, bang cupboards, slam doors, punch the wall. In fact, I don't do much at all. I don't talk. I don't look at anyone. I might go for a drive, or, if I'm sure nobody's around to see it, I may cry. See, to yell, or even to acknowledge that I'm angry, would be to admit weakness. To admit that I don't have absolute, complete control of my emotions, that I'm flawed, and have allowed outside forces to penetrate my walls. I would have to confess that I wasn't strong enough, tough enough, forgiving enough to prevent anger from entering in.

I haven't always been this way. It all started the first time my love went unanswered. Don't get me wrong. I've always been surrounded by an abundance of love. I've always had a solid list of people who are there for me me, who I know will always love me, even if I get mad occasionally. But I've loved before, competely, totally, with everything I had I loved. But he didn't love me in return. At least, not the way I wanted him to. Yet I loved him, even to the point of exhaustion. I'm not talking about the beat down, defeated kind of exhaustion that makes you curl up on the shower floor, sobbing for hours, feeling nothing but emptiness and the hot relief of the water running over your back. Rather, I felt the triumphant, accomplished feeling of exhaustion. The no-regrets, reveling kind of feeling. The marvel of feeling emotions that I had never known existed, of knowing that I am forever changed. No, I don't regret loving that way. I'm not bitter at the outcome. Real love, by definition, leaves no room for regret or anger. Instead, I'm more thankful for the love that I do have, and eager to find that kind of love again, to feel the way I felt then. But I can't pretend that this unrequited love didn't effect me. That would be a lie. It's not possible to feel that way and come out unscathed. My fear is the wound I bear, the reminder of everything that I gave and can never entirely get back. It's a reminder that I made it, and came out mostly on top. It's something that I'm almost proud of. Almost.