Fear is a Bully

 Having been raised in fear, it is hard not to look back now and see that fear was a form of bullying.

It was how we were controlled.

How we were taught to behave the way our parents wanted us to.

Not because we were bad kids.

We weren’t.

We were good kids trying to navigate a world that taught us to be afraid.

Fear was used as a way to teach us.

And I learned the lesson well.

As I moved into adulthood, OI became my own bully.

I criticized myself.

I punished myself.

I expected more from myself than I would ever expect from someone else.

I carried the voice of fear inside me.

It wasn’t until I came into recovery that I began learning something completely different.

Kindness.

Gentleness.

Compassion.

I began to understand that I didn’t have to hurt myself into becoming a better person.

But even then, fear was never far away.

It simply changed its form.

For me, fear became control.

If I could control enough things, perhaps I could prevent something bad from happening.

If I could make the right choices, keep everyone happy, and stay one step ahead, maybe I could finally feel safe.

But control was just another way fear kept me in its grip.

Today, I have surrendered omuch of that.

I don’t want fear deciding how I live.

And yet, I can still feel fear trying to bully me back into my old ways.

But I am learning to recognize the voice.

Fear may still knock on my door.

It may still try to intimidate me.

But I don’t have to let it run my life.

I have surrendered the need to control.

And I am not going back.

Fear is a bully.

And bullies lose their power when we stop believing they are in charge.

Weathering the Storm

 We all face storms in our lives.

I have certainly had my share.

My childhood.

A marriage to a narcissist.

Overcoming addiction.

Watching my daughter struggle with addiction for eight years and then losing her.

The many losses that followed.

And now, my health challenges.

Each storm has asked something different of me.

And each time, somehow, I have found the courage to face it.

Not because I was never afraid.

Not because I always knew what to do.

And certainly not because it was easy.

I simply kept going.

There were times when I wanted to give up.

Times when the storm felt bigger than anything I could possibly handle.

But I learned that I don’t have to know how the storm will end.

I only have to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

The one thing I cannot do is give up.

I think of the words from A Course in Miracles:

“All things are lessons God would have me learn.”

I don’t always understand the lesson while I’m living it.

Sometimes I question why I am being asked to walk through yet another storm.

But perhaps I don’t have to understand everything.

Maybe my job is simply to stay open.

To listen.

To learn.

To trust.

Every storm has changed me.

Some have broken my heart.

Some have humbled me.

Some have shown me strength I didn’t know I had.

And perhaps this storm will teach me something too.

I don’t know what is waiting for me on the other side.

But I know this:

I’ve weathered storms before.

And I am still here.

So I will keep walking.

Keep trusting.

Keep learning.

And when the next storm comes, I will remind myself—

I have survived every storm I’ve faced so far.

And I can learn from this one too.

When Night Falls

 I don’t have a clear memory of exactly how I felt as a child.

But there are some things I know for sure.

I know I was afraid of my parents and of being punished.

I remember bedtime.

My sister and I shared a bed, and we were told that we better be quiet—or else.

My little girl learned to become very still.

Even into adulthood, I could sleep all night and wake up in the exact same position I had fallen asleep in, barely moving.

I also know I had nightmares as a child.

And there was no one there to console me.

No one to tell me that I was safe.

Sometimes I see the similarities between those nights and what I am experiencing today.

My little girl seems to show up most strongly at night.

I can feel her terror.

It is as though some part of her is still waiting for punishment.

Still waiting for something bad to happen.

And when my physical pain becomes intense at night, I wonder if something inside her recognizes that feeling.

Pain can feel like punishment to a child who learned early that punishment was always waiting around the corner.

I don’t know exactly what happened in those early years.

But there are things my body seems to be carrying that my conscious mind cannot fully explain.

What I do know is that something in me feels afraid.

Something in me is still waiting.

And perhaps my physical struggles have stirred up that old fear in ways I am only beginning to understand.

There is trauma here.

I can feel it.

And maybe I don’t have to uncover every detail to honor what that little girl experienced.

Maybe I simply need to sit beside her when night comes.

To tell her,

You don’t have to be perfectly still anymore.

You don’t have to wait for punishment.

And when the pain comes, perhaps I can remind her of something she never heard enough as a child:

Pain is not punishment.

You did nothing wrong.

You are safe with me.

Maybe this is what healing looks like.

Not forcing the memories to come.

Not demanding that the fear disappear.

But staying beside her in the darkness until, little by little, she learns that night does not mean danger.