I do not like conflict.
I once told my stepfather to stop tickling me; my tickle center had switched off; he tickled too hard. This was an attempt to set a boundary. His response is the one I fear receiving to this very day; it is a trigger. Fearing the outcome of setting a boundary, in turn halts my setting boundaries –the opposite of the goal. In fact, I happen to roll back on my boundaries often, believing I have no rights to them –and I’m 48 years old. I think it is about time I get to set boundaries and have them observed. But the fear of being attacked for setting boundaries, the fear of being isolated and shamed is built-in, it has become rote for me. I act on that one broken loop and it trips my life up time and time again. If I cannot set boundaries though, I cannot reach goals, I cannot feel heard, and I know I won’t be happy. I think it’s about time I stop being afraid of conflict, besides my stepfather is an idiot. What do I care if he does not like being told not to tickle me? I was allowed to tell him not to touch me, not to talk to me. Let him feel his shame for overstepping boundaries, it was not even my shame to carry. This is good to no longer worry over. I release it.
Most of the things I worry over happen to be financial, and I believe that is likely global, too. To me I find it difficult to understand why basic needs cannot be met in a world so abundantly lush in the things we need.
I worry that on vacation at the nearby campground we staycation at, that one of my children will drown, break a bone, be bit by a poisonous bug/snake, or fall. Last year I left them at the campsite for 3 hours while I took one to the doctor. When I returned, the remaining children had over-looked their littlest sister’s complaints about a spider bite; there was a welt the size of a tangerine on her arm and she complained of pain and weakness. We had to monitor it, the bite could have been anything, it was the dead of summer and the campground was lit every weekend with out-of-towners.
I fear my child dying of something invisible like Radon gas, or a stranger stealing them in the night. I fear animals attacking us as we swing 6’ in the air in our hammock tents. I swear I have to quell the terror of imagining my offspring climbing trees too high, needing fear-of-heights-me to rescue them. I worry about angry people, about those people who stormed the capital; I can see signs of that mentality all around. Some of my old school mates are skeptics and flat-earthers; they live in constant fear of being robbed so keep guns at the ready –these people aren’t fit to own guns; they’re high-alert to danger cues –and anything can be taken as a danger cue when you’re looking for one.
I fear people who laugh at others, who sneer and jibe with insults like “snowflake” and who think no one deserves a hand up, just like they experienced. I fear people who are full of their belief so much they have to press it into others and are not satisfied until they’ve converted “just one” to their way of thinking. I fear adults who do not listen to children when they try to share insight, who ridicule their innocence and grow angry with their curiosity. I fear children being overlooked and pushed aside to let the older people do it; for they clog up the works, they slow down the tempo, they keep us from adapting and evolving: “us” being humankind. I fear being left alone, punished for things I haven’t done –for this has been my past, it is my present. I fear those I love believing the lies of my mother. I fear losing those I love; I fear losing my mother –even though she is already lost to me.
I fear I have broken her, my mother. I fear she pushed me so hard I could not stand her, and in this great pushback to get some breathing room, I pushed a victim down, my mother. I pushed her so hard she could not see the truth I shared; she could only see her pain, her hurt. Instead of one-upping my every complaint, what if she had listened? What if she heard me, finally? What if she acknowledged that what I was feeling was valid, that my experience is not her own?
I worry my stepfather will outlast my mother. I want a chance with her alone, again, but he’s always there, he knows how to redirect her shame onto me, giving her relief she needs from the constant chatter within. He knows her needs. He knows how to manipulate things in her favor, for her protection. He sees me as her enemy and rushes to protect and soothe her from my “attacks” -which are simply me setting boundaries and standing up against abuse.
I fear taking someone else’s life path that I do not end up respecting. I do not want to spend my whole life toiling over …what-ever this is, only to look back and say, “Why was I even doing that?” I hope I have a purpose; I fear I’ll be set to rest in an unmarked grave, forgotten, unimportant.
I fear losing everything I have, yet I know that if it were all removed (it has happened before), I would survive; I would gather new things. Having nothing hurts, but it is a lovely starting point, too. Clutter is clutter either in mind or the physical.
I fear memories. Everything is all memories –either my own, which cause triggers that stop all growth, or memories from other people who have lasted through the most dreadful experiences and shared with the world. I fear I will become one of those memory makers with my artwork, placing fears inside my readers. I want to be sensitive to others, as well as tell my story.
I fear exposing myself far too much, letting myself be borne and open for cruel insults. I have lived through this many times: in my own home, in my own bedroom, with my own mother and her father. I never have to fear becoming any of my children’s enemy; I treat them with honor, I treat them as valuable and with respect. Yet, I fear sharing too much of my story.
And I fear not sleeping through the night. I fear those men and women I spoke of earlier; the ones who cannot feel safe, who have never known safety, who fear intrusions and robberies; who search the night to vanquish evil –for they become the very evil they fear.
But most of all I fear the might within myself. I am afraid of what I’ll become once my story is out. I fear my ties to family will sever, completely. I fear my words, my artwork, my memories will hurt my family. I know it will; it is their secret shame they want no one to know about. Keeping me silenced was their only strategy, and it worked for a long time, generations in fact. I fear breaking this generational curse, I fear the repercussions, I fear and thrill at the thought of seeing my daughters become the women they were meant to be. I fear our might. I fear our strength will be too much for this world.
I think the world should start fearing us.