Bravery?

What does it mean to be brave? Is it brave to be honest? Tell my story the way it happened? Why would I hold back? How does that serve me?

Brave is climbing the second flat iron with my youngest son, knowing if I fuck up, I'll surely be gravely injured.

Brave is waking up every day after losing my son and my purpose in life.

Brave is taking a mile-and-a-half hike to look for elk when I'm about to pee my pants because I forgot to stop.

Brave is finding a new therapist when you know you've outgrown the one that ushered you through the last 16 years of your mental health crises.

Brave is saying no to the invitation to dance with friends because your broken heart needs to be still this week.

It's curling up into a ball in your bed in the middle of the day because your nervous system needs a break.

Brave is telling all of you that I don't feel brave; I feel like myself. I don't want you to think I'm brave because it lets you distance yourself from me.

I'm afraid most days. Afraid I'm not doing enough to heal, afraid I will never feel okay again, never really know what okay is. I want to feel like myself again. But who am I without being brave?

I start the day with a list, most of which I don't finish. I have had ‘water the flowers’ on my list for two weeks now, and I can't get myself to pick up the hose. It takes 10 minutes, but I can't bring myself to do it.

I have a list of people I want to reach out to, but my phone feels like it's 100 lbs.

I can't seem to go to the grocery store because there are too many decisions to make, too many steps to take.

I wish I felt like myself.

I don't want to be brave, admired, or anything else that takes me away from being ordinary or belonging to an average group.

I find it difficult to shower. It's difficult to apply makeup. Breathing in a relaxed fashion is something I am continually practicing.

Organizing my day is taxing. Decisions are accompanied by the familiar feeling of anxiety in my chest. I would rather not be in charge of anything right now. My brain is not working at full capacity.

The reset is nowhere near complete. Impending holidays, a big purge before we move, and sorting through more of Dermot's stuff make me rest my head on my desk as I write this. Short, shallow breaths are present. I'm dressed half in my pajamas, half in street clothes. I am not ready for the rest of my to-do list today, let alone the tasks needed for the next six months.

Fuck the list; I will ask others for help with the list (That's brave, right?) To keep my mental fitness today, I will not reference my list again. I will walk my dogs and visit my horse, not because I am brave, but because that is all I can do today.

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