Fear and the DON'T GO THERE Box

I have been afraid for most of my life. (Today's waking revelation).

I know you think I'm joshing you, but it's true. The take-no-prisoners, tromping-through-life-with-abandon, risk-taking, rule-defying, loud and obnoxious say-whatever-just-to-shock-you persona I have constructed is just a buttressed defense against the scared little kid I am inside.

Actually, I was less afraid as a child than I was as a young adult. And I became even more afraid when I became a parent. My biggest fear (I think), is letting people down, not living up to my responsibilities or who I think I should be, leading a life that is dishonorable, harmful, hurtful, or worse...insignificant?

So, I bluster. Thinking perhaps that volume trumped content, that a brave front would keep the demons of weakness at bay, I strode through life defiantly doing the very things that scared me, being arbitrarily argumentative, saying whatever popped into my head at the time, and presenting a made-up picture of a Powerful-Woman-Not-To-Be-Messed-With. Sometimes, I even believed it myself.

People close to me knew some of the truth--Bill, my kids as adults, Mom, close friends--but for the most part, the facade held up pretty well for most of my years until now.

But the post-cancer Pam is having a hard time patching the mortar in that wall lately. It all seems so stupid. What is the point of being Powerful-Woman-Not-To-Be-Messed-With, if something so elemental as your own body chemistry messes with you? It means that PWNTBMW was a complete lie, and now the only roles available for this over-the-hill actress are Poor-Girl-Putting-Up-A-Brave-Front, Damaged-But-Carrying-On-Anyway, The-Good-Patient (yuk), or False-Cheerful-I'm-a-Survivor-Hooray-For-Me (double yuk)!

I just feel so...put-upon and passive. As if from now on, I'm going to be a person that things happen to, instead of the heady person I wanted to be, the one who makes things happen. As I write this, I can already hear the emails and phone calls, asking if I'm depressed. Not really, no. I just feel a bit aimless, rudderless, trying to figure out who I am, at this late date. Not the same, yet still battling the same old demons of self-doubt and fear.

Cancer took away my confidence, my misplaced faith that nothing bad could happen to me. That confidence has been shaken before, and I've always recovered, scarred over a little, but with my optimism refortified. The process is tortuous and it takes time, and I am not a patient person!

What is bringing all this to the forefront is my trip back into the belly of the beast tomorrow. Back up to UVA, Charlottesville, the scene of the crime, so to speak. For a check-up for recurrence (there's that fear-inducing word). I tried to talk my way out of it, complaining that it was too far to travel for a quick "hi, I'm fine," meet with the too-saccharine team at the Breast Cancer Care Center, but the doc and his nurse insisted.

"What's left to examine?" was my practical, cheerful, emotions-in-check question. Wow. Sorry I asked, when I heard the nurse's response. Great. More stuff to worry about. The problem is that once this thing called cancer happens, you're never done with it. The hits just keep on coming. So I'm putting on my Good Patient suit, marching forward reluctantly, head down and sighing all the way. [insert expletive here].

Now, there's a DON'T GO THERE box in my head, a place where I put all the scary stuff I can't deal with immediately, and it's getting a little over-full lately. That's all. But I'm beginning to wonder if I need a bigger box, because stuff is starting to bulge out of the top and sides. And if I upgrade to a larger container, doesn't that start to take up space in the closet that used to be reserved for the good stuff, the stuff I want to keep, the stuff that makes me happy?

So, no, I'm not depressed. Angry? A little. Resigned? Oh yes.