To be brave, I want TO BE BRAVE.

I am not brave, certainly not today. Truthfully, I am fearful, afraid, scared; brave isn’t even in my make-up bag, not today. I now and then talk a good game, with years of practice my lips move and I sound as if I don’t care, or I might instead retreat into silence, find my place of quiet and stay mute. But brave? No, I am not brave, not today.

Whenever someone says to me, you are brave I find myself searching, looking over my shoulder for who they are addressing; it can’t be me I am not brave. I am a survivor, to that I can agree but I am most certainly not brave. Life has thrown some curve balls; I have caught most of them with my chest, or my face or worse my heart. I let those balls batter me into submission, time and again sometimes even shouting defiantly, “Throw another one, I will do better next time”.

Brave, no I think rather I simply missed the ‘flight instinct’ in ‘Fight or Flight’. Oh hell, I might have missed both in all honesty, since it seems I do neither the right way.

What am I afraid of? Why am I a puddle of abject terror?

Am I afraid of being alone? No, but I am afraid of being alone for the rest of my life. I am afraid of never being loved again. Sounds stupid when I write it or say it aloud, I am afraid that perhaps I have never been loved in my lonely-old-womanlifetime and I am simply afraid I will never know what being loved means.

I am afraid of growing old alone. I am afraid there will never be anyone in the world who will look at me and see me, who will find me beautiful and want me. Oh hell, that is happening now isn’t it so what will be different? Why am I so afraid?

When I look in the mirror what I see is a woman out of energy, worn down, tired and broken. My body isn’t what it was, well whose is? I get that, I really do except I will be 56 this year, I am by society’s standard Fat, Obese even. I don’t get to run away from this, nor do I get to hide from the judgment, it is the truth. My body betrays me every single day; this is a simple reality of my life, my world. My body is defined not by muscle tone but by every injury, my day by pain.

What would I say to a new maybe lover, “No not that way, don’t bend that or don’t look there and sorry if I wake you in the night screaming or pee on you during a seizure.” No, I can’t imagine having that conversation, except maybe to chase off would be suitors.

I am not brave; truthfully I am a mass of quivering and abject cowardice.

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