9 - I think my desire for beauty will kill me.
I’m afraid of dinosaurs. I have a recurring nightmare where a T-Rex chases me. It gains on me, nips at my ankles until it catches up and kills me with one swift bite. I’m afraid of heights. Heights that allow your stomach to explore the inner workings of your ass and come back up again for air. I’m afraid I’ll lean too far forward while standing on the lookout of a national park, and my leg will slip on the morning dew that coats the velvety grass. My desire to see something beautiful turns into the thing that ends my life.
I’m afraid I won’t see all there is to see in the world. I’m afraid I’ll move home post-grad and take an ill-paying job in NYC simply because it’s New York, the greatest city in the world. Years later, I’ll live in a suburb near my parents while my husband trains into the city daily. I’ll do school drop-off and walk the dog. I’ll live the same day over and over until it feels like a nightmare. I’ll wake up one day and realize I never got to see London again like I promised my 21-year-old self. I’ll wonder why I never hiked the Swiss Alps or took a boat out in Santorini. While I’m wondering, my husband will come home, kiss my forehead, and I’ll ask how his day was.
I’m afraid I’ll fall hard for a man who thinks he loves me but doesn’t, that I will come home one night and his stuff will be packed up and gone, the only remnants being the ring from his morning cup of coffee on our antique wooden table. I always asked him to use a coaster. He always asked me if I was happy, truly happy. And I never answered.
I’m afraid I’ll write a book, and it will sit on my computer because I don’t want people to laugh at me or what I have to say. My classmates tell me I write well, but then I read their stories and realize I have nothing special to show. I write about my life, and mid-way through, I find what I have to say unimportant. The time I do write a good sentence, I call it luck. A good paragraph turns into a one-off, a rare writing day. I doubt and second guess until the part of me that kept a notebook in my bag for “random thoughts” dissolves into a memory.
I’m afraid I'll never think I’m good enough for anyone or anything. To be loved, to be supported, to be rivaled, to be jealous of. I’m afraid I’ll amount to nothing, and the hours and hours of pouring my heart and soul into my computer will be deleted and lost with the other files I stored as a confused and curious girl, talking out her problems with the click of a keyboard against grown out nails.
Some hate fear, some seek it for the boost of adrenaline, and some avoid it altogether until it shows up unexpectedly and bites them. But being scared shows that you care, that you don’t want to fuck up something good. Fear is nerves firing back and forth, telling you to stay alert. It keeps you on your toes, keeps you alive, and keeps you moving.
I’m afraid of a lot of things, but I like to feel the fear before it consumes me. When it’s steaming and the kettle is screaming and I hear it but let it hurt a little longer to see how far I'll let myself go, I like that feeling. And then I turn down the heat, everything settles, and I’m okay.
Sometimes, I’m afraid of my own shadow, but then again, it’s better to feel afraid than to feel nothing.
