In my other world, I was my parents’ child. I said what they wanted to hear. I behaved how they wanted me to behave. I did what they said. I worried a lot.
The world where I breathed easily was mostly in my head. I thought all kinds of thoughts, but the other world bled over into it too often to ignore. I couldn’t get settled.
Over time it just became so difficult to live that interior life that I began to let it slip away. I was their child, his wife, their mother, the good Christian, the stay at home mom, the baker, the seamstress . . . and on and on.
I broke.
He asked me, “How did you used to feel?” And I answered, “Afraid.”
“Not all the time?”
“Yes. All the time.” But that wasn’t quite true. Sometimes, alone in my head, I wasn’t afraid.
I’ve spent nearly 12 years trying to learn to breathe in the ease of being myself all the time, not just in my head. It’s been a long road. Recently I passed a milestone of sorts.
I sent a letter to them. I told them the unvarnished truth of what they’d done and how badly it had hurt at the time, and how much it still hurts. I never dreamed I’d say those things to them. I was terrified the sun would fall from the sky. I’d stop existing. The world would cease to spin on its axis.
None of that happened. The world is still here. I am still breathing.
Nothing changed, except I wrote the truth. My two worlds collided and neither one ceased to exist.
They still live in their world, but I’m breathing easier in mine.
What happens when you brace for a collision and it’s almost imperceptible?
I’ve asked myself over and over for the past week, why did I wait so long?
The answer is actually quite simple – I had to get to the place where I wouldn’t be surprised by their non-reaction. I had to understand whatever I did was for myself, and I was worth facing the fear of collision.
linking up at Red Writing Hood
