Things I’m Not Afraid to Tell You

The only time I’ve ever shared that openly was in an email to my Patreon group. Five minutes after I pressed send, one of my patrons cancelled her sponsorship and never contacted me again.

I sat down to write to you about something else entirely and the words just wouldn’t come. Sometimes it happens that way. The planned piece suddenly evaporates before it’s even formed. I used to try to force the words out, believing that it was a matter of discipline and perseverance, and that I simply needed to try harder and focus my distracted mind.

But aren’t we all tired of trying harder?

Instead, I thought about what I’d tell you if we unexpectedly found ourselves together on a sofa with cups of tea, or in a field with tall grass and just enough sunshine to warm us. What I might let slip as a substitute for small talk. What I’d say if I wasn’t afraid.

And then I remembered that I’m not afraid. Well, let me rephrase that. I am afraid of many things. Fearless is not a word I’ve ever been able to identify with and I don’t expect that to ever change.

But I’m not afraid to tell the truth. I never have been. And even when I am fearful, I say it anyway because the alternative is enough to make me want to crumble in on myself. A world where we’re all pretending and glossing over feels like such a waste of life to me. Yet, in many ways we already have that world.

We’re so shiny and put together in the snapshots we share of our online lives.

But maybe there’s a chance that, like me, you’re craving something deeper today. Something that isn’t particularly neat and concise in a tiny little box with a tidy little takeaway. Something simple and true.

I’m not afraid to tell you what’s true for me.

I’m not afraid to tell you that I still can’t lay down with ease since the brain tumor, and that when the nausea rushes through my body I wonder if it will ever completely leave.

I’m not afraid to tell you that most often I type with one hand because I’ve never quite mastered typing with two. Or that I’m afraid of my husband dying because I’ve never known anyone else who knows me as he does. Or that I stole a pair of shoes from school when I was seven years old.

I’m not afraid to tell you that I haven’t seen or spoken to my sister in at least two decades. Or that my relationship with the rest of my family is almost non-existent. And when I see memes or quotes about the importance of family above all else I want to scream in frustration, and sometimes hide in shame.

I’m not afraid to tell you that, as of right now, I wouldn’t be able to afford our future mortgage payments on my earnings alone, and that for so many years I thought how wonderful it would be to have a partner who earned substantially more than me so that I wouldn’t have to worry about making more. But how I came to find that I actually like making money for myself and I don’t like the idea of having to rely on anyone else financially.

I’m not afraid to tell you that the most beautiful poem I’ve ever read also rips my heart out in a way I can never articulate.

I’m not afraid to tell you that I haven’t seen my libido in a long time.

I’m not afraid to tell you that, more often that not, I don’t feel like I fit in with a lot of the coaches I see online who all seem to have a certain look, similar copy, and some kind of secret code that I don’t want to decipher. Or that ever since I can remember I’ve always felt Other.

I’m not afraid to tell you that I talk to trees.

I’m not afraid to tell you that when I watch reruns of Sex and The City I feel a sense of nostalgic safety and reassurance but it was Queer As Folk that got under my skin and impacted me in a way that no other series ever has, even though I hadn’t seen a single episode until 2016 and I sobbed like my real life friends were gone when it ended.

I’m not afraid to tell you that I really do love the woman I am, and that the small child inside of me is in awe of who she’s become. Or that anger is my go-to emotion and that despite having a deeply spiritual and sensitive side, I don’t always behave as well as I might. Or that sometimes when I have insomnia I quite like that the world outside is finally peaceful and I can hear myself think.

I’m not afraid to tell you that I’m writing these words from someone else’s kitchen table and that sometimes traveling from place to place is the only way I can come back to myself.

I’m not afraid to tell you that I have been bullied, and been a bully. That I have been cheated on, and cheated. That I once drank Bacardi and coke before work because I didn’t know how else to get through the day. Or that bulimia was the perfect way to punish myself and still stay in control.

I’m not afraid to tell you that communicating with animals is often easier for me than speaking with humans.

I’m not afraid to tell you that much as I fear the idea of unraveling in front of you I also fantasize about letting you see me whittle all the way down to a single strand because your judgment couldn’t make me fray any further.

I’m not afraid to tell you that despite being vehemently against the Catholic Church, the scent and songs sometimes comfort me when I remember them. Or that the half-Irish side of me dreams about hills and open spaces I’ve never visited, as though I’m forever being called home. Or that the anonymity of being in a city soothes and suits me.

I’m not afraid to tell you that I had an abortion when I was 36 and the only time I’ve ever shared that openly was in an email to my Patreon group and five minutes after I pressed send, one of my most supportive patrons cancelled her sponsorship and never contacted me again.

I’m not afraid to tell you that, wherever possible, I refuse to move out of the way for men.

I’m not afraid to tell you that the knowledge that everything is temporary floods me with fear and relief in equal measure. Or that weekends are hard for me because that’s when my dad would drink and behave differently and I’ve never had that Friday feeling because of it. Or that poems are my sunsets and silence is my safety net.

I’m not afraid to tell you that leaving is always easier than returning for me, that books are amongst my best friends, and that in the season of things falling and dying, I come alive over and over again.