I have a sore on my toe. It’s not a nasty one, nor is it spectacularly painful. It isn’t even oozing an interesting color of pus. Why CeeLee, how very disgusting and irrelevant of you. It’s Saturday, don’t you have anything more…Right.
Back to the point.
The toe sore is completely unremarkable except for being utterly annoying, but concentrating on this is several quadrillion tons of preferable to thinking about what’s really bothering me.
Which is exactly my point.
In my not so distant past, I was an accomplished runner. I might have been something amazing-if it had been physical running, like my sister, She Who Runs In Rain-but…it wasn’t and I have the table muscles (think out of shape and looking it) to prove it.
No, my running was of a different and decidedly cowardly variety. More like jogging from situations involving confrontation, sprinting away from drama and hurtling over anyone and everything that posed the risk of pain, yeah, that
is was my sport of choice.
It’s kinda funny how life can be sometimes.
Turns out that when I started to wake up and things began to change, I lost my running shoes. The people, places, and things are still here and the desire to run is stronger than ever before but I can’t find those damn shoes. Anywhere.
And living fearless means facing stuff. Even the stuff that scares you into contemplating how nice Tahiti might be this time of year.
I do know that not everything that comes with change will be butterflies and kisses, even when the change is for the better. I know that it’s necessary to feel things, really feel them, and not run from them, I get that too.
But on some days, like today, when I’m sitting on my porch shivering in the damp air while pecking this out, I can’t help but wish that life lived fully wasn’t so hard. That I didn’t feel so raw from all of the emotions I’m not accustomed to having to deal with, the ones that come from facing fears head on.
Is that so wrong?
Oh, I’m not without a few wins. I’d be whining and lying if I were to tell you that. No. I’ve had several huge victories and multiple small ones since I’ve started stumbling down this path I didn’t know I’d chosen for myself.
I’ve started looking, really looking, at myself in the mirror now, where as before I was afraid to do more than the ole glance and grimace before I went out the door.
Before that I hadn’t looked in the mirror for 2 years. I could say it was because I had tragic accident with hairspray and a lighter at a concert or that a crazed weed whacker wielding maniac wearing swim trunks, a cowboy hat, and purple galoshes was grinning back at me whenever I did.
I could say that and it’d be so much more entertaining if I did, but sadly, not even so much as a horribly creepy clown (thanks Stephen King, thanks a buttload) was behind me when I did.
Sorry to disappoint you. I’m disappointed too. I must work on having as wild a life in reality as the one I lead inside my head. Because in there, I am fanfreakintastic. A true visionary and well spoken leader. One for whom medication isn’t becoming a more viable option by the day.
Anyway. I haven’t dared sneak a peek other than the cursory once over; hair not standing up, eyebrows in their place, no schmutz on me and no other glaring fashion faux paus, in 2 years because I haven’t wanted to see what’s reflected back.
Bet you thought it was a poor body image thing. Maybe part of it was and is-well, yeah, it is-but most of it was because I just didn’t care and didn’t want to see that I didn’t care.
Now I do care and I am facing myself daily. Sometimes more than once. Big win for me. Mega big.
I’ve conquered the belief that I couldn’t hold the job I’ve held for more than a month and I have and am doing well. Another win.
I’m learning that I can have friends-yes- but that I’m in severe need of learning patience. And that running them away just because I get scared isn’t quite the recommended way to progress. So that one’s kind of like baseball. Not over yet, just at full count and I will either tank or nail it. Still sort of counts, as it’s progress. Mostly.
Besides I’m the one keeping score.
But these things bother me. I’m off balance. It’s a strain trying to move forward when my steps are more like a toddler who’s recently learned how to walk, instead of my full-on wind sprints in the opposite direction.
And it’s worrisome when I don’t have a guidebook to follow. What if I’m making mistakes? What if this is the general direction I’m supposed to go in, but there’s an easier way and I don’t see it? What if, what if.
I’ve got to believe that though I may be making mistakes, falling down and getting toe sores unrelated to the current one, each day that I do get up and meet my own eyes in the mirror-is a good day.
Because I can see hope in them and the desire that the hope will never fade or that I’ll go back to sleep.
And dammit, that has to count for something, no matter how bad my breaking old patterns and habits hurts.