Given everything I’ve been dealing with – fear about the
unfolding political scene on one hand and the recurring nightmare of an
upcoming parole hearing for the man who raped and murdered my mother on the
other – I have at times felt powerless. Not just powerless but unable to summon
the energy to continue what seems like an endless, life-draining battle. I
become prey to fear at these times, fear that I will slip back into unending
waking nightmare that was my experience of PTSD. I have worked hard to claw my
way back to health, and when I am overwhelmed, I forget all the lessons I have
learned and the ways I have changed.
It’s said that fear is False Evidence Appearing Real (or
Fuck Everything And Run). It takes courage and a dedication to clear-sighted
integrity, seeing what is real both in myself and in the world, to overcome
those fears.
But I’ve also heard courage is fear that has said its
prayers. I don’t have to be fearless. I’m not sure that’s possible without
massive self-delusion. To do what I am called to do even though I am afraid is the essence of courage.
Where do I find such courage? It’s commonplace to suppose
that “doing something for someone
else” or because no one else can do it is the best way to overcome fear. I’ve
done my share of acting according to this belief. I find that although it is
sometimes effective, it’s harsh instead of nourishing. It’s a position of
desperation. I soon find myself “running on empty.” I’m the last person I take
care of or even give consideration to. In fact, the very notion that taking
action when afraid can be nourishing
came as a startling revelation to me.
There are so many things I cannot change, the past being at
the top of that list. But I do have some say in my own attitude. Instead of seeing
myself as desperate and without any choices but to plunge ahead, gritting my
teeth the whole way, I can see myself as resourceful. I learned to do this for
others when my kids were having a hard time in their teenaged years and my
therapist pointed out that they didn’t need me to inflict my own worries on
them, communicating that I thought they were incapable of handling their
problems; what they needed was my faith in their ability to find their own creative
solutions.
So if I’m going to be creative and resourceful in facing the
parole hearing and the distress rampant in my community, I need to think “outside
the box.” Not attending the hearing is an option that never occurred to me in
the early years. Once I let go of “I have
to do this,” I see other possibilities. Some I can anticipate on a
reasonable basis (another family member might attend, a representative of the
D.A.’s office might – actually, does – attend; I could send a video of my
statement; I could hire an attorney to attend in my place), but I must also
keep in mind that my imagination doesn’t dictate what happens. Many times I
thought I knew all the possible outcomes, only to discover that what actually
happened was something I had no way of anticipating.
There’s also the aspect I hinted at above, that instead of forcing myself to do something
terrifying, I try to discern where I am led. That implies a leader, a caller,
or one who summons, and these are reassuring concepts for people of many
faiths. I don’t mean it as a religious tenet. “Being led” is shorthand for
finding the actions that are right for us. That sense of rightness is akin to true
vocation. What lies before us may be perilous, filled with reversals and
setbacks, but following that path brings us deep satisfaction and sometimes even
joy.
I’ve found that it’s equally important to remember I am not
alone. The rugged individual, dragon slayer mode doesn’t have any room for asking
for help or delegating or letting someone else take point. All of these things allow
me to catch my breath, so to speak. Once I’ve stepped back, I can evaluate
where my abilities are best applied and how much energy I have at any given
time. Knowing what I’m good at, what I may not be skillful at but am willing to
tackle, and what I really, really don’t want to do allows me to make mindful
choices. When I ask for help, I often discover that those toxic areas aren’t
the same for everyone. For example, making phone calls is easy for some people
and grueling for others.
Instead of “I have to do this. Alone. No matter what it
costs me,” I move toward “I’ve created a support network, and together we can
handle this.” Sorrows shared are thus divided; we carry each another when one
of us stumbles. My resourcefulness includes the strength of others. By tackling
daunting tasks in community, I become not only stronger but more resilient. I
learn again and again that I am resourceful in my friends as well as my
individual abilities, and that makes me powerful.
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