Hard-Won Freedom: A Farewell to Harm

The following is my entry @ The Unsealed for the writing prompt "Write A Letter To Your Fear" 

Hard-Won Freedom: A Farewell to Harm

Dear Fear,

I know you’re upset I left you behind. There wasn’t enough room in the car for all your baggage and, if I’m being honest, had we brought you along, we never would have reached our destination.

This note may be little consolation, but it’s all I have to give. I will always owe you a debt of gratitude for showing me the danger ahead. If you hadn’t, the kids and I might not be alive today -not all of us, anyway.
Thank you for walking me out the door.

I can’t say I wish you were here, but sometimes, it’s like you are.
Sometimes, I realize I’m holding my breath for no reason.

On days I’m running late from work or the store, my heart races just like you used to make it do. But when I walk in, no one yells or slams a door. Suspicious accusations do not season dinner, and no one leaves the table upset. So, I exhale and keep moving.

I thought I saw you, that day, in the courthouse bathroom mirror. But when I looked closer, it was Courage staring back. You two look alike in a certain light.

I know you expected to hear from me sooner. We’ve been so busy rediscovering home.
It’s beautiful here. Safe, too.

Granny’s old house is a bit “mend-and-make-do,” but we toss eggshells in the garden instead of carpeting the rooms.

Hues of hospitality drape the walls. Music, not cursing, drifts down the hall.

The furniture is never thrown.

Open windows welcome kind-word breezes. The warmth of good friends coax our roots to grow. Drinking from a deep well of compassion, we’ve forgotten the road back to you.

I almost called you when Anger threatened to shatter our stability. But Family comes before Fear in my contacts, so I reached out to them before resorting to you.

They reminded me you’re bankrupt now, your energy all spent on fencing us in.

I know we will cross paths someday. But I’ve already grown so much since we left. You might not even recognize me when we do.

Oh, but Fear, won’t I recognize you? That insidious whisper, those suspicious, dark eyes? How could I ever forget your too-tight grip on this slipping-down life?

I will meet you head-on and return the favor. I will escort you through the door and send you back where you belong.

Fear, you excel at crocodiles and sharp lightning. Because of you, people avoid speeding tickets and poison ivy. But you can be irrational, too.

I know your real name is Afraid. It used to be my name, too.

Remember when we talked about your empty-bucket soul? How you never felt fulfilled because you couldn’t fix that hole?

There is a patch called Love. You really ought to try it. It covers everything.

First, sand away blame and excuses. It is a crucial step. Then allow it to seep down and completely absorb your being. Be careful not to confuse it with Indulgence, which costs more and eventually corrodes. Love’s brand is gritty and forms much thicker skin. Once it takes hold, the results are eternal.

Listen, Fear, I need to say this outright: we are never coming back.

Please do not pursue us. We’re doing just fine. In fact, we are better off now.

I’m sure you’ll find ways to occupy your time. Perhaps you can roam the beaches, reminding everyone about sharks or rattle tree limbs against the windows of sleeping children in the dark.

Give our regards to your mother, Pride and to your father, Cowardice.
Tell your sister Avarice we desire no visitors at all.

I bid you an ardent farewell.

Sincerely and Securely,
Hard-Won Freedom

Fight, Flight or Write

 I haven't talked much about my "healing journey" in these spaces. 

Outside of close family and friends, or in situations where I feel the need to clarify or speak directly into unfolding narratives, I haven't really shared the A-Z  of what I'm healing from. 

The drum we beat becomes our anthem. I love too many types of music to get stuck in one song. 

I'm still not sure how much of those rhythms I even want to revisit. I spent enough time there, waiting for the sun. Good news is, there's no rush. 

If and when the things I have to say about those topics and that time in my life seem necessary, whether to speak the truth about a version of events or to encourage someone going through similar things, I've found the words are well within my reach. They flow like a faucet, when the spigot is turned. 

Unless and until then,  I am not seeking to set myself up as an authority on domestic violence, abuse, divorce, et al. 

I never hope to set myself up as an authority on anything at all.  I'm a life-long learner, still figuring out who I want to be, who I am becoming. 

I am getting to know me and I'm taking my time. 

However, as a writer and longtime blogger, the temptation to turn any one fleeting thought into a full-blown series, complete with searchable keywords and a free, downloadable  .pdf of helpful resources is very, very real. 

The convenience of telling a friend who is midstream in mediation "Go to my blog, click the 'Survivng the Night' tab for exhaustive (and exhausting) coverage of my own journey as well as helpful links for your own journey" would be, it seems, quite convenient and efficient. 

But way less personal and much less personalized than the one-on-one conversations that occur, as needed, in real time, once in a blue moon. 

So, when I have a simple thought like "I notice that I'm noticing details more and I think it has something to do with getting better." or "I notice my attention span changing and it feels healthy." the writer within wants to 'talk' about it.  

And I have been noticing just that. I will watch a movie or read something I've already been exposed to in the past but I am experiencing it anew, with deeper saturation. I am able to be more present, more dialed in.  

It is a positive change, one I'm happy to notice in myself. It is nice to know that healing is possible. It is important to believe it, too. 

"I should share that," I think "for the sake of others who are nursing their own nervous systems. I should tell them that better things await, there are better things ahead"  (pun intended, if you spot it) 

I shared with a friend this week (and my little sister last week) that part of my challenge in writing now is I don't really need to. I am safe now. Free to speak freely, or to say "No" or, if I don't want to,  nothing at all.  

I no longer feel the need to start a new journal entry behind several blank pages of 'camouflage' (lest my words be intercepted and intentionally misinterpreted.)  It's a thing I still find myself doing out of habit sometimes, even after I realized I could breathe easy and start on Page 1. 

Not that long ago, I had a similar moment of realization about visual art & collage. For many years, I scrap / art journaled, primarily rearranging words and images I cut from the mountains of magazines  hauled home from library discard piles.  

(links: Orange Journal -  https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2018/08/the-orange-journal_27.html and Blue Journal: https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/2018/09/the-blue-journal_6.html  - I haven't digitized all of them but these were used for court) 

In my 'Scavenged Art Project' I made a point to use up so many of the clipped words I'd been harboring for years. I still do collage and couldn't pass up a busted laundry basket full of discarded magazines if I tried, but I've found my execution is evolving. 

I don’t need the words of others so much - I use my own now. 

(link: posts about  "Scavenged Art"-  https://kellybrewer.blogspot.com/search?q=Scavenged+Art)

Yesterday, I shared some old writing entries with that same friend and, as is often the case, I got a better glimpse of who I've been thanks to the visage from Hindsight Hill.  

Often, I remember I have an entry about a keyword or certain subject (in this case, it was about fire and matches) but I'll have forgotten the full context, and especially any palpable emotions I now see clearly in revisiting. 

So often, my words have been spillage, a way to cope. 

Did I think I was doing a good job hiding pain back then? Like a child who thinks she's hidden by keeping her own eyes closed, perhaps.  

Or was it necessary to bury these losses in shallow word graves and just keep moving? Like casualties in war time with the enemy fast approaching, we'll come back later with headstones. 

And then - - I see the date and, though it feels like four lifetimes ago, it was practically only yesterday. 

My lines are fewer now ... for now ... because I'm free (and apt) to speak aloud. 

And that's a good thing. 

At The Car Wash: Mike & Maurice

 

After weeks of procrastination, I finally took The Toaster through a car wash on Saturday. 

I was busy Mr. Miyagi-ing the tar specked panels when the music started to play. It was upbeat and catchy and most of all, I could hear it above the car wash's mechanical din.  

As I crouched at my rear bumper with sealant and sponge in one hand and a microfiber cloth in the other, I smiled a little internal 'thank you' for people who share their music at the car wash with those of us who neglected to turn any on - or have a lack of car battery confidence. It sets a nice vibe. 

After a little while, the music dimmed. In the quiet space left behind, I heard the gentleman at the vacuum next to me compliment the music. He walked over to the man who'd briefly served as car wash DJ and shook his hand. 

They talked about music and playing guitar. When Mr. DJ Man mentioned he wanted to take guitar lessons but was looking at ways to do so with his amputated finger, and when Mr. Vacuum Man mentioned not only does he give lessons but just happened to be en route even now to a job interview with a local music store, well... I had been quiet too long already.

After all, I had purchased Rye's percussion kit from that very same store once upon a time! 

And I know no less than four amputated finger stories - all different men, all different fingers... 

As synchronicity would have it, only a few weeks back, our church had the opportunity to host a children's choir from Africa - where amputated fingers figure in as royal status. I still had the poster Rye bought at their merch table in my messy, messy little clown car. 

This far exceeded my default quota for "meant to be" -  by which I  mean, obviously we were all meant to be friends from here til Kingdom come...  so obvious. 

I had no choice but to speak.  Moving my gratitude from internal dialogue to the more abrupt and awkward external channel, I stepped over and said that I, too had enjoyed the music. 

We introduced ourselves then. 

Mike was headed to the job interview and Maurice told us the song was 'Mullholland Drive'  by October London, a young man who covers Marvin Gaye with a style all his own. 

We promised to look him up at our earliest convenience. I have made it convenient for you to do likewise. 

(link to 'Mullholland Drive  ' by October London: https://youtu.be/L0IJisroj9w?feature=shared

Since I had already waded into awkward well past knee deep,  I asked them if I could take their picture for my photo project @SoHo Journal - an eternal work in progress about good neighbors, southern hospitality and unanticipated sunlight.  They agreed and posed for a quick candid shot. 

( link to SoHo Journal: https://sohojono.blogspot.com/ )

We talked about the guitar club at the local library and Maurice's missing finger. This was the perfect segue to share about Key of Hope children's choir  - I showed them the poster and started  Amputated Finger Story Hour. 

( link to Key of Hope: https://www.keyofhope.org/ )

Three fingers down, Mike had to get to his interview. We wished him luck, took his contact info and bid him adieu. I sure hope he gets the job - if he wants it. 

Maurice and I chatted on a while longer - we both had relatives who lost fingers to dynamite, back in the day. 

He shared with me how God had blessed him with the truck he was washing and we talked about lawn care come Spring. 

We talked about Fisher's bricked Lincoln and Maurice's recently departed father. We, too exchanged contact info and returned to vacuum our vehicles. 

See? I told you - meant to be.

Community - brought together by music. It's a lovely thing. 

Just as I dropped the token that came free with the automated brushless wash into the canister vac, a Wrangler with a duck-lined dash pulled in to the empty bay where Mike had been. 

The young man held a pack of chewing gum out to me "Would you like a piece?" I took one to be polite (but I didn't chew it . Ine must be cautious, you know.)

"My name is.... " he continued, and now I can't remember his name - it was Nathan or Nick or something with an "N" - and he seemed very nice but the vacuum only had 3 minutes.  He didn't say anything more, and I had already been out in the wild too long.  

So I headed back home with two new friends and a stick of gum. I also met a homeless lady - she said I could call her B. Love -  digging through the trash cans. I actually think we've crossed paths before- a long time ago, but I can't talk about her here. 

Even our Left Hand ain't supposed to know what the Right's got up to - but I do believe that even a long-procrastinated, messy, messy car -full of nursery class snacks and abandoned winter wear-  is sometimes 'meant to be' 

Besides, I wouldn't want the kids to worry. 

Invite a viking to church just one little time and it's chaperones for life ;) 

*Photo of Gum, Un-chewed