I have a lot of fear about this stupid bunion surgery.
Seems to me fear is a cousin of failure. Nobody likes either of these guys. They’re basically butt ugly, insecure bullies. They come in, take over, raid the liquor cabinet, hunt out all your expired prescription drugs, and wreck your house. They hang around, and demand your attention like a fire alarm. They’re the people who just won’t leave the party.
Fear is a warning of danger, I suppose.
“Think about this, what you’re doing, experiencing, creating,” it says.
“I got you, dude, I did my research, and I’m ok, your job here is done.”
“I’m staying,” it says, sauntering around in my mind, looking for permanent residence. “I’m staying in this lovely place with all these other interesting thoughts racing around. I want to be just like them.” And then it gets all comfy, in like this gaudy barcalounger (Barcalounger? I can’t really believe my mind furnished itself this way, but there it is).
“I’m not giving you another minutes of my time,” I say to my fear straight up.
Because, see I know the only way fear gets to have any kind of life is to give it attention. So I try to ignore it on account of its bad, bad behavior. “You’re in a permanent time out,” I say. “You’re dead to me,” I say, throwing my nose in the air. It lies down, like a dog on a hot day, saving its energy for better times.
Although I’ve sent my fear its eviction notice, it seems to continue putting the laundry on the line, and using the air conditioning practically non-stop (and of course, you can’t believe what it’s done to my cable bill). I’m glad I don’t always allow it to get the better of me. There are plenty of times I get the better of it. But not this time. Not yet, anyway. But I’m going to keep trying. “Trying.” That’s like a cousin of optimism. Those guys are really nice.