Love + Fear

Antithesis: (n) a person or thing that is the direct opposite of someone or something else.

It’s been a masterclass in my own fear. Instead of running from it, I’ve stared that black mouthed beast in the face. Said hello. Studied it.

Someone shut the door and locked it. Just us in here. Them, foaming at the mouth with hunger and anticipation. Myself, once frantic and panicked, now calm. Observant.

There is no running now. No escape from the current circumstances. Just the moments ticking by as the standoff grows heavy. I see the showboating and motions meant to instill fear. Cue the panic. Create the chaos.

I watch, quietly.

The beast continues stamping, rearing it’s head and flexing the ropes of muscle that run from its neck.

Still quiet, watching.

The beast is becoming more agitated. It is used to more motion by now, more noise.

The movements become more furious, more unhinged. The beast bucks and throws itself against the wall, unknown objects in the dark crashing down. Snarls in my face and howls with anger and desperation.

It has no bearing on me. Where the beast has made use of the whole room, I have moved less than an inch since we entered. Breathing low, eyes curious.

It has exhausted itself, finally. It stamps and breathes heavy. The power and fury leaving its body in a torrid stream of tension. Its head hangs low. Its breath hot and subdued.

One tentative step forward. Then another. I flex my right hand and reach it out slowly, careful not to startle the beast. Place it gently on its head. Voice not above a whisper.

I ask:

“Who are you?”

It starts to transform, taking different shapes from the black bull-like beast to forms that span across my time here.

I see a truck, the one I begged myself not to climb into that night.

I see a hospice bed, empty with the covers pulled down as if the inhabitant has just left.

I see a bike left out in the rain.

The thing in front of me no longer a beast but objects from my past, moments that have ascribed my understanding of the thing in front of me.

I see the shower, steaming hot. I see the marble cutting board. I see a plastic hanger within arms reach. I see a poster board with a single butterfly painted on it. I see dishes haphazardly put away in a dish rack. I see velvet. And cardboard. I see myself.

The shifting stops and in front of me is me. I’m young, curled up, crying quietly. A talent I learned young, how not to make noise.

I lean down but I don’t touch her yet. Observing once again. Understanding.

I feel the tears well up and I let them go, release them onto the cold, indifferent stone. I understand. All things done here were done out of love. What do the powerless have but their voice?

The howling. The snorting and snarling. The stomping and smashing and blustery anger. The jeering, the taunting. The minimizing and the doubt. The constant, furious doubt.

All her. All trying to protect me from something she couldn’t protect herself from.

Another tentative hand, this one my left. I lay it gently on her cheek.

“There is no protecting me.”

She starts to change again. I sit on the floor as the form of my son appears. He is just as he is now. Just over a year, happy, chaotic, full of energy and curiosity. He launches into my arms, burrows in my neck.

I see all of the fear that has entrapped me since his birth. The fear of being the provider. The fear of the monotony. The fear of presence. The fear of becoming someone I don’t recognize. The fear of becoming someone I recognize from my past. The fear of loving someone so much, you might as well be lay bare.

The thought of being made vulnerable in this world by something so fragile. So uncoordinated. The desire to protect myself from this vulnerability.

The door has been left open, I didn’t see in the darkness and confusion. Roman refuses to be put down so I shift his weight back and forth as I awkwardly stand. He sits on my hip as I stare at the door.

I ask:

“Where do you go?”