Insecurities

It feels frail and vulnerable, like a baby conch nestled in the palm of a hand, or an infinitesimal snail shell.  There is a rushing and roaring in my ears when I think about my most intimate secrets on display for many to read.  My stomach gasps and squeezes, and my thoughts begin galloping to nowhere on a hamster wheel.  Breathing becomes a chore and I wheeze out sigh after sigh.

Writing about this is to embrace some dark, broken, dank part of me.  Sharing private details with more than just myself is terrifying and exhilarating.  I admire so many others who have done this very thing, and being on the other side of it makes me realize the bravery and courage one must have to spill secrets onto a page.  Funny thing is: I don't feel brave or courageous.  I feel scared.

I feel scared and scarred and split open for all to see.  I feel lonely and ashamed and worried and anxious.  The other day, a client and I were discussing her life and its direction.  "I don't have meaning in anything I do anymore,"  she said.  "I don't see the worth in it any longer.  It's like nobody cares."

"It's like there's no solace," I responded.

Solace.  Comfort in the time of sadness.  A soothing of distress.  I feel no solace in writing this; in fact, it stirs up just the opposite.  But I do it anyway.  I feel compelled to do it, to tell my story, to process the hell out of these last few years of my life and make some sense of it all.  Perhaps I will arrive somewhere I didn't expect to be.  Perhaps it will give me some sense of peace or closure.

In the meantime, you must know this: I am scared.  Splayed for all to see, the intensity of my darkness is cracked wide open.  I don't know how to close the wound.  I only know how to wash it out.  And that cleansing can be incredibly painful.