Am I Strong?

Sometimes people tell me that I’m strong or brave and my response is often sheer bafflement. Me, brave? I have massive anxiety. I’m afraid of storms because of a childhood dream of a witch knocking at my window. I’m terrified of conflict because of a childhood growing up with abuse. I will do almost anything in my power, including agreeing with people I vehemently disagree with, if I can avoid conflict. I don’t speak against power as much as I used to because I lost everything doing that and am not anxious for that to happen a second time.

Strong? I’m struggling still with the desire to remain alive. Every morning I wake up and try to do something before my workday starts that makes me enjoy being alive, that belongs to me. Right now, since I’m not supposed to run, that usually means biking outside for as long as I can manage in terms of my schedule. Is that strength? From inside, it feels like desperation.

I push myself way too hard and am extremely unkind to myself. I very rarely find myself capable of saying even such a thing as “I did my best” or “some people might miss me if I were gone.” It doesn’t feel strong. It feels like I’m broken and have become the walking dead. I cured a bunch of fears of death simply by feeling like death would be a relief in comparison to being alive at this point. I carry so much on my shoulders, so much guilt and responsibility, that I often feel like I’m at the point of crawling on my elbows and knees.

But then I remember—that is what people mean when they say strong and brave. They mean that I am open about how hard it is, and they watch me continue to get up every damned day and somehow continue to do ordinary things and sometimes extraordinary things. I’ve created beauty in my afghans while I’m doing a job I don’t much care for. I somehow manage to make my space my own (and these days a lot of people at Fidelity know me as “the yarn lady,” which is super funny to me).

I keep getting up in the morning. I keep finding small happiness in what I can. I don’t believe in big, long-term happiness anymore. I think that some people get that, but I think I’m not one of them. I spend a lot of time trying to manage my feelings of revulsion about myself and the fear that there is something disgusting in me that God saw when He took Mercy from me and decided I wasn’t a good enough mother for her. And I keep doing every possible thing I can for my kids, not what I’m told is enough, but giving them all I can when I see what they want. I love fiercely. Some of my friends know this. I am protective of my clan, even after being rejected by my former people.

Sometimes I can hold my head high. Sometimes I am the walking wounded. Sometimes I am the limping wounded. Sometimes I am weak, but even in my weakness, I am strong enough to let people see how it is from the inside, when you are still fighting to be strong. And even brave.

I’ve been working on this afghan that is meant to be a kind of kintsugi, and believe me, I’ve had to unravel it multiple times because it didn’t look “broken” in the right way, if such a thing is possible (I guess it must be possible). I don’t think I’m quite sewn back together with gold. I’m still broken pieces lying about, but maybe someday I will be able to manage to put myself back together.