The Fear of Doing What I Can’t
Keeps me from doing what I can.
What will I say when I see him? Which person will I experience today? Will he sneer at me with wild eyes, or will he flash his million-dollar smile and pretend all is well?
Will he be the bully from my childhood or the ever-loving, omnipotent, arrogant father? There is no way to predict it. I don’t know why I try.
I wonder about Mom… Will she be sober enough to converse with me? Or will she be sick again?
If she’s sick will it be diabetes-related or kidney-related, rheumatoid arthritis-related, or related to her most recent surgery to remove her mangled foot? She’s had it rough since the amputation. God only knows what ailments she’s dealing with today.
What am I saying? She’s not dealing with anything. I guarantee she is high as a kite.
Frankly, I understand if she’s high on pain meds. I don’t blame her. Between the pain of her illnesses and putting up with Dad, I’d be “medicating,” too.
I don’t know how she’s done it for almost 50 years. I’m not sure if I chalk that up to perseverance or mental illness. Perhaps it’s a little of both.
My foot taps abruptly on the floor of the plane. Conscious of my anxiety, I clench my fists and focus on taking and releasing slow, deep breaths. “Careful,” I whisper. “Now is not the time to hyperventilate.”
I pick up the menu. Perhaps a glass of wine will take the edge off.
Of course, nothing but soda, water, and fruit juice are available… I stare out the window.
The world is beautiful from up here. There are only wisps of clouds, so I can see the shades of green and brown from the trees and the geometric shapes of buildings beneath us.
My eyes follow the river, winding along the valleys and through the Appalachian mountains, separating NC from TN. We are flying above the plateau, so I know we will land in Nashville soon.
I’m usually excited about visiting home. But not today. Today I dread walking off this plane because of what I’ll be walking into.
I reach for my phone to check the time. I’m going to be later than I thought. Who knows how they will react?
I know my anxiety stems from fear. Despite the amount of therapy and medication I’ve taken over the years, the amount of fear hasn't changed. It continues to define my interpretation of the world around me, and my life is proof.
I’m not sure any amount of rehabilitation will ever change that. I just need to accept it as part of who I am. The fear shaped me and will for the rest of my life. The problem is that the fear of doing what I can’t keeps me from doing what I can.
