701- X026

When I discovered that I was in fact capable of feeling fear—not just feeling it but having deep fears—I naturally bought rock climbing shoes and decided that I was going to confront what I thought, up to that point, was my only fear.

Even though I had unsuccessfully tried to do it many times—and by many times, I mean twice—I climbed and got my certification on the same day.

I wasn’t naive enough to think that solved the issue at the time, but I took the experience as some sort of symbol that I am strong and I can do anything. And I marched into this journey with the sole purpose of conquering fear itself and restoring myself to being this brave woman I not only thought I was but was also proud to be.

At first, that shit was easy, and it felt like I was on the field just dominating fear. “Oh, what’s that? I am afraid to look at men? I am gonna look at them. I am going to look at them so much I am going to stare at them.” 

“Wait, I can't focus unless my house is spotless. Bet now watch me make this mess.”

But the fears kept coming, bigger than the previous ones I had barely survived. As soon as I discovered one and patched it, another sprouted up like I was playing whack-a-mole. Even though I was winning the battles, I never really made it whole. I got weaker and weaker after each win, wondering if I even had it in me to go on to the next phase. But when I looked back, there was nothing to go back to. I tried to look ahead, but I was incapable of making predictions, and that’s when I started to confuse the fact that I had fears as proof that I am a coward. Even though I tried to tell myself that I could make it to the mountaintop, not all of me really, truly believed that. I, with all of my heart and soul, wanted to quit.

For a while, I found myself standing behind myself over the edge, criticizing the fact that I could not make the jumps. And I would say, “What’s wrong with you? I used to be so strong. What happened to you to make you feel so small?” while ignoring the fact that I had just made my world bigger, and thus my battles more complex. It wasn’t like a fight with an actual opponent. I was the hero, I was the enemy, and it was hard to tell which was what.

I grew impatient with myself, shocked that, after all, I never really had it in me to do the hard things. At times, I was tempted to just push myself from behind. Something in me knew that I was capable of flying, but there was something else in me, something that was only concerned with the margin of error, where I might be wrong in my calculations. There is a chance that I might not grow wings and fall to my death.

Finally, myself and I had to have a long conversation. A conversation that lasted months, maybe years, though I suspect that conversation has been there for as long as I have been alive. It became a shoulder for me to cry on with no judgment. A place where I could admit how small I felt.

On the other hand, I grew a level of patience that I never thought was possible, though I hope to be even more patient with myself someday. I let myself get away with behaviors that I would have never allowed before, and slowly I found myself no longer a commandant trying to push myself off the ledge just to prove that I can grow wings. I instead sat back and cheered myself on when I took a step forward, even if my next step was backward. I applauded the moments when I paused without a ten-page essay explaining in detail why I should deserve a moment to breathe. I stopped looking at the watch.

It was not always easy, but I think that may have been the bravest thing that I have done thus far. My therapist told me so once, but I didn’t have the evidence to agree or disagree with her yet.

I allowed myself to feel things and make decisions with no clear evidence other than the fact that my gut told me so, until this moment, where I am finding myself with this bird’s-eye view. Looking down at the version of me standing in front of the ledge, one foot out, trying to calculate how far I am going to have to fall, trying to figure out if there is a way to climb back up and how I am going to heal my broken bones, and the version of me that is just standing behind, trying to push me off the ledge, but knowing ultimately the choice was up to me, and staying there despite feeling the impatience. I watch the two versions of me sitting on the grass on what was starting to look like a beautiful mountain with a beautiful valley beneath, rivers and spring water nearby, just chatting and bonding with no care for the fact that I still haven’t jumped. I smile knowing that I love both versions of me and I am both versions and more.

To be honest, I can’t point to the exact timing when I jumped. Or maybe I never really jumped. Maybe there was no abyss to begin with. Because at this moment, from where I am flying, I am only seeing beautiful mountaintops and incredible valleys. I recall some small steps, some bigger steps, a couple of jumps here and there, some falling, some crying, some beautiful walks, and even moments of simply admiring the view. Maybe I have made it to the other side. Or maybe I am still on the same side with a much better view.

Am I still afraid? I can’t say I am not. I can’t say I am either. All I know is that I don’t have to question whether or not I have wings while flying.