The irony is that yesterday, David and Goliath duked it out within me about that very thing–sharing my truth when I’m most vulnerable. Goliath fought to keep truth in; David fought for its freedom.
I’ve been battling chronic health problems now for over four years. Some days are better than others; yesterday was not one of them.
Most days, I’m able to offset the discouragement of my physical symptoms with the joy and purpose of writing, and simple pleasures like reading on my porch swing. Yesterday was not one of them. I was a hot mess.
I hate asking for help. I hate bothering people. I hate that I might be perceived as needy. I hate exposing my raw feelings, and yesterday, they were rawer than beef standing in a field, mooing.
But I know that this journey I’m on, to write the story of my difficult motherhood, made more difficult by my son’s brain tumor, is intended to help me to grow. The universe is challenging me to break free of my old habits. If I don’t, my pain will not have been worth it.
But old habits die slower than a hosta in poor soil. Yesterday, I scrolled through the contacts in my phone, and saw many friends I could call. How blessed I am. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t reach out. So I put my phone down and cried even harder. Then I felt worse, because I knew what I needed, and it was so simple, but I was too afraid.
I knew The Sunlight Press essay would post today, and I thought, Have I learned nothing from this process? I understand better why I hide my truth, and writing is a wonderful outlet, but sometimes, Goliath must fall at that very moment, not weeks or months later. Sometimes, David has just one shot, and it’s now or never.
I believe our greatest fears are our greatest opportunities for growth.
So, with a deep breath and a prayer, I did it. I texted some friends, who called me right back. I cried, they listened, and I felt better. I even laughed. The physical pain remained, but the emotional pain went poof, like a cloud of dust in Golliath’s fallen wake.
New habits take practice, and sadly, I’ll have many more opportunities to learn. I expect each time I reach out, it will be a little easier. And each time, I’ll have good fodder for my writing.
Over 30 years ago, when I worked in Washington, D.C., I took the Metro to work. It’s always crowded on a subway during rush hour, and you get used to being jostled by people, bodies crammed together. But one morning on the platform, I thought a man purposefully touched my butt with his hand. I didn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure. But then I watched the nicely dressed middle-aged man as he walked through the crowd, hands at his sides. As he passed several women, he distinctly turned his hand out to brush their back sides.
I wanted to run after him, yelling and making a scene. But I didn’t. I don’t make scenes. I don’t cause a fuss. I don’t take a stand.
About 20 years ago, I was in a small public library, standing in front of the reference desk, speaking to the librarian in my best library voice. A man materialized behind the woman, facing me. From my peripheral vision, I suddenly realized he had his penis out of his pants, in his hands, right there behind the librarian’s back just a few feet away.
My face flushed but I didn’t look up or otherwise react. So deeply ingrained is my reticence for making waves that it essentially overrode my fight-or-flight instinct.
I quickly ended my conversation and hurried back to the table where I had been working, sitting with my back to the reference desk. I sat there for a few minutes in panic, thinking only, “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God.” I was irrationally afraid. If I confronted him, would he find out where I worked, right next door? Would he find out where I lived, not far away? Would he come after me?
Then I packed up my things and scurried out, keeping my eyes to the ground. I never made a scene. I never made a fuss.
When I think about those incidents now, I re-envision them in my head:
I am running after the guy in the subway, yelling at the top of my voice to keep his hands to himself, warning women, calling out to security.
I am looking up at the guy in the library, staring him down, yelling in a non-library voice to “put that thing back in your pants RIGHT NOW.”
I almost dare these incidents to repeat themselves so I can take a stand.
But two weeks ago, I did it again – I failed to take a stand.
My blog that week was a nice story about our mixed-up order in a restaurant and the waitress’ authentic apology and how it helped me to feel connected. I had it finished several days ahead of time. When I opened it the morning of my scheduled “post day,” I hated it. It was missing something.
In a personal blog, it’s not enough just to relate a story. There has to be a reason for sharing it. There’s always a life lesson or an “ah-ha” moment or an opportunity for personal growth in the story and it’s my job as the writer to find it and share it.
As I write, I always ask myself, What is this really about? What’s the point? What am I trying to say? Why am I telling this?”
When I looked at my draft that morning, I couldn’t answer those questions. For the next five hours, I frantically wrote and rewrote. Then, around 4 pm, an hour before I’m scheduled to post, it clicked.
There was a much bigger lesson there about saying I’m sorry related to what was going on in our world. It had been trying to speak to me, calling to me as I banged away on my laptop, but I didn’t listen. The words were fighting to organize, but I didn’t let them.
I didn’t hear the message in my own story because I was afraid to take a stand.
And once I heard the message, I couldn’t wrap my brain completely around it in an hour, so finally I had to let go and hit “publish.”
Now I’ve had some time to get my thoughts together:
My I’m sorry blog posted about a week after the incidents in Charlottesville. All the Jimmy Kimmels and Jimmy Fallons of the airwaves were taking a stand. My 100 + subscribers and maybe 2,000 followers on various platforms isn’t much of a audience, so I didn’t see how it could make a difference for me to take a stand. Why bother?
The answer to that question, which I figured out too late, is this: because people who are hurting or scared need to know that those of us who are not hurting or scared in the same way will stand up for them, whether one or a million people are listening.
I know how I feel in my heart, but if I don’t speak up, how will anyone know I will stand with them?
So whatever the color of your skin, your sexual preference or orientation, religion or lack thereof, nationality, or political persuasion, I am an ally. I won’t let my fear, whether it’s real or irrational, make me look away, walk away, sit down or shut up when you need me. I will make a scene, make a fuss, speak out.
If you stand for hate, I will pray for your heart and soul, but I won’t stand by if you take it out on another human being. And I will hate what you stand for and hate your actions, but I refuse to hate you, even if you hate me. We already have too much hate in the world and I won’t add to it.
I’m sorry it took me so long to take a stand. I’m sorry it took Charlottesville to wake me up.
That’s my authentic apology and I hope it helps us all, small in number though we are, to feel connected.