I’ve been living in a lot of fear lately.

I was going to beat around the bush or disclaim away, but it’s truly the bottom line.

I realized it today while I was texting Joanna. I had planned to try an extra day at work this week and as I laid in bed I realized I was just almost paralyzed with the what ifs of it all. 

What if I go too hard and something happens.

What if I miss something.

What if it all shuts down again.

What if. 

A few weeks ago I noticed my clothes were incredibly loose. I had finally had all the swelling in my body go down. My feet looked sickly because I wasn’t used to them not being swollen. 

And my brain automatically said what if you’re losing weight rapidly and you don’t notice this time.

So I did something the 90s diet teen in my body railed against.

I bought a bathroom scale.

I was right by the way- in about 8 weeks I’d dropped 40 pounds. I’ve been the same since then but the fear in my brain just keeps asking- what if you keep dropping. What if something’s wrong.

I am just beginning to really grasp how scared I actually was during the end of September through October last year. In the moment I had no space to actually delve into the fear and the what ifs. There was no room to really grasp all the things that might go wrong because I just needed to focus on each moment. If I would have allowed myself to drop into those black holes while laying in that hospital bed, I might have not been able to pull myself out.

I had to keep fucking going.

But, there were moments, small pockets of time before I knew what was going on in my body, while I was being wheeled place to place or walking through the hospital halls with an oxygen tank and a walker where my mind would flash with the wondering if if this was all I would have. 

My body had shut down on me in terribly scary ways. I hadn’t been able to breathe or walk or eat. I would forget what I was saying in the midst of saying it. My body hurt, I had to get blood transfusions, my arms were covered in bruises. I woke up everyday not knowing what they were going to try next, what test I might have, what doctor might come in and tell me another thing that would completely tilt my access.

I didn’t, and still might not, have the words to express all the things I felt then. I still might not have the words to express all the things I feel now.

I do have the words to express how proud I am of myself during that time. Because even though I was scared and sad and angry and so many others emotions in between I can look back at those weeks in the hospital and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was a good human. I was kind to the nurses and doctors, I didn’t lash out, I didn’t take my emotions out on those around me.

But I do know I’m still scared. I still have that fear hovering. That thing telling me to be careful. That the floor could drop out from under me.

That I might never get pieces of myself back.

I know logically, that I’ve come so far. I know that my body is bodying a little better now.

I know I’m moving forward.

But I’m terrified.

And the question that popped into my brain after that was simply this:

What if I’m never enough again?

I know from years of Christian women’s ministry and teaching kids at camp, that the party line is I am enough. (My party line that is: I don’t subscribe the bullshit that we aren’t enough- that’s not the Jesus I love).

But damn, the fear of never being able to come back to myself is aggressive and ugly.

Because in those moments when the fear peaks it’s head through the door and whispers what if this is all there is.

I would love to tell you I started writing this because I already knew how to conquer the fear. I guess in a way I kind of do. 

I can tell you I wrote this because I’m not the only one that deals with fear fall out after something traumatic. It could be a divorce or a death or an accident. It could be dealing with burn out or diagnosis.

When the other shoe drops and your world caves in fear loves to find a way in to tell you that this is how it’s always going to be.

I hate haunted houses. I don’t go to them, I don’t come near them, I’m not about that life. But in college I would go to Knott’s Scary farm with friends and we’d go through the mazes and I hated every moment, but once I started walking through the only real way out was to keep going. To duck your head and not make eye contact with the clowns and just keep fucking going. 

Because eventually you’ll be out. Eventually the clowns will have to torment someone else.

Eventually you’ll be able to look up again.

But, you can’t do that if you decide to sit on the floor and let the clowns surround you.

You have to keep fucking going.

I’m not going to always get this right.

I’m not going to always shake the feeling that the shoe might drop.

My body might not want to body.

I’m probably going to sob in the shower because I have to deal with the ramifications of all that once was again.

But I owe it to myself to keep going.

I owe it to the Meg who laid in a hospital bed and the Meg who couldn’t get out of bed.

I owe it to that Meg because she got through her own mazes.

I owe it to that Meg because I actually get to be this Meg.

And I owe it that Meg because simply:

We both really fucking hate clowns.

Here’s to you getting through your mazes.

With love,

Meg