Enough

Fear is like stumbling in the dark. You never know when it will reach out and grab you. Better to leave the light on, so fear will stay in the closet. It still calls to you, but it can’t grab you unless you turn the lights off.

When I was a kid, my mom enrolled me in acting classes to learn to express myself, to bring me out of my shell. Only, I wasn’t a turtle. I was just unsure, and cautious from being loved so hard. Mom said that’s what good mothers do, and that it hurt her more than me. No child should be loved that hard. You want to talk about fear? Put a seven-year-old on stage until she stammers, then runs off having wet herself because her mom stared at her when she forgot her lines.

I feared disappointing my mom because that’s when love hurt the most. Soon I feared anyone stronger than me, and silence was the easiest way to manage the fear. When grownups spoke to me, I gave them a blank stare, then they mumbled to themselves words like idiot and dullard.

This office is different. None of that Zen crap, lavender incense, and miniature desk top waterfalls. This one is sunny and breezy, and the therapist is dressed in cut-offs and flip-flops. She pressed a button on her phone, and Bob Marley began streaming in the background.

“What’s going on?” she said, smiling politely. “How can I help?”

You tell me. Isn’t that what I’m paying for?

She typed on her laptop, followed by a quick glance. “Tell me about yourself.”

Like you care?

“Go on,” she said. “Where ever you want to start.”

How do I know where to start?

Anything I say, she’ll type on that laptop. She already knows what’s wrong with me. I can tell by the way she looks at me over the top of those glasses, so why tell me to go on? Who wears purple glasses, anyway?

I play with the ribbing on the edge of the armrest. How do they sew such tiny ribbing in a perfect line? She’s staring at me. She already knows what I’m going to say, so type it into your stupid computer already. Type idiot. Type dullard. Type what you’re going to type. Just stop staring!

“You know, everyone has fears,” she said.

Is that supposed to make me feel better?

“Do you have fears?”

Where do I start?

The woman typed on the laptop, then closed the lid and set it on the floor beside her chair. She leaned back the way grandma did when she told stories of the old country. Hands softly resting on her stomach, caring eyes, tender look. Grandma never spoke of acting classes or being loved too hard because everything in the old country was hard. They pushed through the hard things because they had no choice. There were no therapists in the old country.

“You’re not defined by what imprisons you,” the woman said. “You’re defined by your ability to break loose of what holds you back.”

Can I go now?

“You break loose the same way you break free of self-doubt. You keep doing the thing you’re not capable of doing until you master it, break free, and no longer fear it.”

She let her words marinate.

“I have no magic words or praise to boost your confidence,” she said. “Breaking loose comes from deep in your soul, when your insides scream, ‘enough!’ It’s then you find the power to free yourself, to push through and step outside.”

The woman leaned forward. “Tell me. Have you had enough?”

Nothing in me screamed. It was more of a cry.

“I have,” I said, and my whisper hushed the silence. “How do I start?”

“You just did.”