An insight into how I’ve let fear get the best of me.
It starts like a pregnancy. Usually unexpected, but beautiful. Pregnant with the thought of my dreams, goals and aspirations, I beam with excitement and anticipation.
I envision what one of my babies will look like, I even think of names.
While my dream is still an infant, a few weeks old, I meet a man. His name is Fear.
At first I don’t let him in, but eventually, I crumble, craving affection. I let Fear in, let him creep through my space like a bad smell. I lie, telling him ‘I don’t usually do this’.
The seduction of Fear causes me to second guess what I know to be true, real, and possible. A bad smell is something we all try to get rid of; open the window, spray some air freshener. For some reason though, I let Fear stay, and I let him get comfortable – make him a drink and even feed him. Naturally, as Fear and I get cosy, we talk and share more between us, and with that, I let him meet my beautiful, promising baby.
Fear starts to feed me doubts about my baby. “Could you really raise him though?”, “Have you got it in you?”, “I don’t’ think you’ll nurture him that well”. Although I know these are just distractions, I allow myself to be immersed in them. They keep me nice and safe in that redundant comfort zone – a zone that Fear has convinced me I belong in.
Overtime my complacency prevents me from realising that Fear has been living with me for 3 years, rent free! I soon realise that, in that time, my baby has gotten thin, malnourished. Neglected and close to death, I know I will have to bury my child. Again.