Random, Aimless and Unplanned – It’s Okay to be Afraid. You know?

Am I afraid?
Sure, I’m afraid.
I’m afraid of a lot of things.
But who says fear is such a bad thing?

Fear tells us, “Hey, we have to be careful,” or “hey, something doesn’t seem right.” Above all things, fear is an excellent motivator.
Fear can lead us to the breaking point, and fear can lead us to the reasons why we dared to climb a mountain top, if we choose to overcome.
Or we can see the adverse and give in.
Right?

We can live in fear or we can rise above, or we can fight back, move forward, and we can overcome and find ourselves on the other side of a personal victory.
Or not . . .

I was told the acronym for F.E.A.R. is either Fuck Everything and Run or Face Everything and Recover.
I have been split between the two of both decisions for as long as I can remember.

Am I afraid?
Sure.
I have different fears though.

I’m afraid that I will end up alone. I have a fear that I will die somewhere, alone as ever, and unfound or uncared for and worse, perhaps the only reason why I’ll be discovered is because the stink reached the hallway somewhere.
I have a fear that I will die and that my death will be unnoticed by those who I love and care for—and as for those who I love dearly and truly, and as for the deepest love within my heart, I have fears that I will die and not be missed.
I am afraid that I will not be successful and I have fears that I will miss the window, and lastly, I have a fear that I will die with a coat of regret on my tongue because I failed to deliver myself both honestly and truly and worse, I’m afraid that I died without ever taking the chance of saying what I need to say.

I love you.

I have fears of the dark and, of course, I understand that my fear is more about the unknown or the fear of not knowing what’s in the dark.
I’ve never been too cool with big spiders. I have fears of learning that I have cancer or some other terminal illness.
I’m not afraid of dying in my sleep anymore, but then again, this would all depend if I ever have the chance to pull off my trick and die in the arms of my loved one.

I have fears that I will be hurt, as in emotionally destroyed, and ruined, and once more, it will be like the first time I can recall being laughed at or humiliated in school. I equate this with the time when I was in second grade, for example—I wet my pants in the lunchroom and everyone laughed at me.
Everyone laughed . . .
Or there was that time at basketball practice. Remember?
I never shot a layup before, and this was about to be my first time. I remember being excited. I remember the vision in my head and seeing myself leap in the air, like a professional athlete in some highlight reel, and I could see this in my head. I could see me toss up the ball, as if to be flawless and effortless and with such grace, I saw myself approaching the basket, cool, like a tiger with a strut of confidence, and the ball released from me and hit the backboard, and then bounded into the net. I could see this clearly, —only, reality was not like my fantasy. I awkwardly dribbled the ball. I was not flawless or graceful. I dribbled to the net and then I must have leapt and shot too late, which caused the ball to hit the bottom of the backboard, and then BAM!
The ball bounced back and hit me right in the middle of my face.
I can recall the explosion of laughter from everyone else on the team. I can recall how this set the tone for my relationships with the other kids, or otherwise, my so-called teammates.

I don’t know which hurt worse, the sting from the ball after it hit me in the face or the explosion of laughter at my expense.
I remember the sound of laughter was like something I had heard in a cartoon by none other than Charles Schultz, when Charlie Brown did something stupid in class.
Yes. This is how it sounded.
And for the record, I have other memories like this, but they are not the reason for this entry.
So, for now, I will move on.

I am afraid that I will never be “enough.”
I have fears that no one will ever see me as truly valuable and therefore, my fears of being inefficient or insufficient will all be proven. Next, I will find myself alone and unwanted, uncool, undesirable and unable to find my place in the circle.
I am afraid that I will be seen as incapable and so, I will be unable to find my purpose or understand my reason for being me to begin with.

No one wants to be the punching bag.
No one wants to be the unwanted one.
At least, I don’t.

I am afraid that deep down, I am only ugly at best.
I am afraid that I am nothing more than my fears and my insecurities. I am afraid that as much as people inspire me, or as often as people compliment me, at best, they offer their words of encouragement no differently from how they would congratulate a toddler for going to the bathroom or learning how to tie their shoes.

Of course, I know that I have advanced since those days. At the same time, I have this debilitating fear that somehow, I am equally as delayed or challenged as I was when I was just a boy. I am afraid of feeling or thinking or looking the way I do when I was stupid or weak and struggling to read well or stuttered when reading aloud in class.

There was laughter about this too, which was not always as loud as when the basketball hit me in the face. But sometimes, the under-breath snickers and quiet giggles and whispers from one kid to another are worse than when the whole class erupts with laughter.
Either way, i’m not sure which hurt worse, the sting from a punch in the face or a kick in the ass, or hearing people laugh at my expense.

I am afraid that I will be the last to get the joke. And worse than this, I am afraid to find out that yes, I am the joke, and everybody around me (including you) was in on it.

I am afraid to lose what little I have. And money is really nothing to me now.
I have lived with it and without it.
I can see how money does not buy happiness.

I am afraid to find out that my so-called friends were never friends at all and that the love for me was never what I thought, or it was never love at all.

I am reminded of a song, “if it wasn’t love at all,”
I am reminded of the chorus—

“If it wasn’t love at all
what were all those feelings, and why?
If it wasn’t love at all,
can’t I just go on dreaming tonight . . .”

If it wasn’t love at all, then why would I be where I am?
Why would I care so deeply?
Why would I be so afraid, like I was as a child in the dark?
What am I afraid of?
If it wasn’t love at all, then why would I be this hurt or this afraid to take another step?

Mrs. Simon asked, “Can’t I just go on dreaming?”
I think this is a great question.
And yes, I am afraid of reality and how this robs us from the wonders of fantasy.
I’m afraid that my fantasy might not come true.

I’m afraid of heights.
I’m afraid of falling.
I’m afraid to lose everything, which, perhaps this is why I was always too afraid to risk everything or to be so forthright because similarly to the under-breath snickers and laughing from the other kids in the classroom, I understand the foolish regard of being lied to or hurt.
Or worse, I know the shame of putting myself out there, so far and so deep that no one could mistake me or my feelings—and at the same time, I know the shame that comes when I found out that as much as I loved, my love was not equal or returned, or enough, or wanted.

I am afraid of rejection. I am afraid to find out that people, “actually” hate me.
I’m afraid to go or stay and I’m afraid my anxiety attacks can be debilitating to the point where I can’t think, I can’t breathe, and more than anything else, I can’t be free enough to be me—or happy.

See, fear is okay. And so are the acts of caution.
It’s not the fear so much as it is the disabled feeling which comes when the fears are wild and irrational and so consuming that I fail to appreciate the moment.
I fail to see the truth, or I fail to feel the love, because if it wasn’t love at all, what were all of those feelings—and why?

I take a different meaning when it comes to this song.
But to hell with it.
Let me put this out there.

So, in fairness to myself, it is uncool, of course and perhaps this is unmanly or untough, or maybe this is too sad or cowardly to admit to my fears—however, I had mentioned to you that I am afraid.
Yes, I am afraid.
But I can be just as brave by telling you this.

However, no fear is bigger than my fears of loss, which I have, and I have an abundance of this. Sometimes, this gets so bad that I can’t even talk or when the anxiety hits me, or when the fears that I am somehow, grossly undesirable or worse, that I am too weak and too feeble, or too stupid, too unwantable and thus, I am rejected and someone else is chosen over me; I find that my stages of depression can vary from bad to worse.
I see my levels vary upon the day or depending upon the moment or the influences around me, or even better, when the fears of loneliness overtake me and when the fear that I will die alone, unloved, because I am simply unlovable, or when the depression strikes, I find myself, almost squinting, as if to be stunned by a bad emotional headache, and I cannot see or think clearly—I can’t calm down, and I can’t relax.

More than anything, this is when I find myself drowning in emotional quicksand.
This is my biggest fear.

I am afraid.
Yes. I am.
I am afraid that the love in my heart is like the silly value of a child’s finger painting that sits on a fridge in the kitchen until it curls or fade, or until it figuratively and inevitably does and gets tossed away.

Why do I talk like this?
Why share this with you?
Why expose this like some kind of unsightly tumor?

Do you want to know?
Well, either way, I’m going to tell you . . .

I have been this way for as long as I can remember.
I have lived with thoughts like this for as long as I can remember.

At the same time, I have lived with the idea that I am and will always be so terminally unique because who could relate?
Who would understand?
Who could I tell?
I could never tell anybody this . . . except for you.
And who knows?
Maybe this could be helpful for someone looking to pull the plug because they’re wondering the same thing.

I expose these ideas and thoughts with hopes that I can remove their venom by exposing them, or if anything, I can write this and remove this from my head, like an exorcism of the soul, and once I hit send, the fears can evaporate and become as harmless as an empty vapor that no longer exists.

If it wasn’t love at all . . .
What were all these feelings?
And why?

I know why.
Because it is love.
At least I can say it.
At least I can feel it and so, if I were any of my fears or if I were truly incapable or inefficient, or insufficient, or if I was just ‘not enough’ or if I was so weak then how could I possibly feel so strong about another person in this world.

For the record, I know who I am.
I am like the little drummer boy who approached the Son of Man with nothing more than a drum.
I am him, poor and humble, and while everyone else had riches and jewels, all the drummer boy was able to offer was his drum—

I have no gifts. I have what I have, and it might not be much.
But figuratively speaking, of course, I have this drum, and it might not be much, but I can play it for you—because if it wasn’t love at all, then I would have nothing—not even a drum.

Am I afraid now?
More than ever.
But the one thing I can say is that I showed up.

I exposed the truth about my lies.
I shared myself and my drum and in my most humble pose, modest like the tiny creature yearning to live and be wanted, I can say that I am here, wanted or not, come sun or rain, hell or highwater—if it wasn’t love at all, then why . . .

Thank you, Mrs. Simon.
In answer to your question—I think the answer is yes, we can go on dreaming.
Tonight~