These Fears

I am writing and not writing, postponing writing, postponing thought, fearful of what thoughts may come. Fear of fear. Fear; the leap of acid at dark footsteps, at sharp tooth dogs clawing the pavement behind me, at the unsettling of twigs that snap and fall. Do I want to write a poem today? I feel my weight in the chair, the criss-cross of my legs, pulling on sacrum, my neck. I am not comfortable. Comfort and fear, ever opposed unless you/one finds the thrill in risk taking, a satisfying rush of adrenaline. Fear leapt into. Not the endlessness of fear that paralyses, stiffens, everything stops, starched. Stiff starched collars. Grandfathers and great-grandfathers. Time when stiffness was lauded; places where it is still. Stiff collar, stiff bowler hat, stiff upper lip. Stiff. Unyielding. Starched with fear of revealing, unfolding. Perish the creased thought, the rumpled mind. The unmade bed. The undusted sideboard. The silent indications of life and death. I was here, I writhed here. I grappled and grasped here. And there, I passed on by, left alone, settled, undisturbed, unsettlingly so. Disturbance. Don’t disturb me. You are disturbed. Your passion disturbs me. Keep the disturbance at bay. No! Disturb, dance around, fling and throw. Leave nothing settled… No rest? Rest in the flow of heave and ho. I have no idea what I am writing about. Does that matter? Nibbling fears of nonsense, scampering away with small pieces of me, hobbling me. Grinding to a halt now. Keep going beyond this fear. Who cares what I write? Tomorrow, today, it will be passed, gone. It’s not leaving an indelible imprint. It is a moment in time. A marker of a minute, a coming together, a series of thoughts in the presence of others. So unimportant, and so significant.

I am not scared anymore.

I used to be scared all the time. Scared of myself, scared of my thoughts, because you just don't know how far you're going to fall once you step off the ledge. But I am not afraid now. Life teaches you how to live it when you live it long enough, and I know what to expect, when, how. I walk around with my survival handbook in my pocket. Page 4: Ride it out. Page 20: Ignore the allure of flowing blood. Page 22: All scars heal eventually, in different ways. Page 30: You have valuable lessons to pass on.

Yes, but what about the fears?

There's the fear that the handbook won't mean much in times of true desperation. And my biggest fear, that I will die before my children are strong enough to face life on their own. Oh wait, I also fear my sister dying before I do. Do I fear death? Not my death. I am not afraid of dying, I am afraid of the gaping hole death leaves where a person once stood. Everything else can be dealt with, one step at the time. I guess.

These fears, the up & down fears, the melting ice-cream, dripping onto everything else, seeping through, when all I wanted was a treat, a bit of comfort. Drip, drip, drip.

I am not afraid anymore.

Ice cream, you scream we all scream for ice cream. My mum gave my dad an ice cream maker - in the early Eighties I expect, when such things emerged on the market. A great whirling, churning machine as a big as a fridge. We had a recipe book with it and tried everything in it but the consensus was that ‘brown bread’ ice cream was by far and away the most popular amongst us. Dad was engaged in the ice cream making machine for about half a year then I expect he drifted off towards another interest. The heavy machine which was impossible to wash with its multiple constituent parts and fiddly attachments was relegated to the bottom drawer. I was not afraid much as a child. I don’t recall being afraid. My sister was afraid, she was afraid of my mother. I understood the word fear when my sister spoke of her fear of my mother. But I was not afraid. I liked the dark, I like spiders, I liked physical challenges such as jumping off diving boards or riding dangerous horses. I felt brave then. As I have got older I have developed vertigo. But it only assails me when I am afraid of something else, such as when my mother is dying. I am afraid of being betrayed. I have learnt that. Not in my head, but in my bones, in my blood stream, at a cellular level. I am not afraid of the end of the world. I welcome chaos. These fears. What are ‘these fears’? The madness I have known all my life. My sister jumping off bridges, my brother ranting, paranoid, unable to clean himself. But in the madness lies such a clear and relevant truth, that I do not fear this madness. Only try to listen. Once I thought I was mad. Dad said yesterday when my brother was found on the streets of Oxford selling the Big Issue, by which time the police were looking for him, Dad said, feeling profound relief, he said to me: “It must be hard not being the mad one in this family.” It’s like the prodigal son. The one who comes back will be valued more highly than the one who never went away. Shucks, that’s life. I’m ok with that. I’d rather not be sectioned and medicated, thanks. I’d rather not lose years and months and friends and light.