I relate to the dog in this picture. I am being stalked. Just because I have tendencies toward paranoia does not mean every mistake, misstep, sin, ugly word, stupid, stupid, stupid in my past is about to catch up with me. So best choice, STOP in my TRACKS, TAKE no more CHANCE….DARN IT! NO! NO! NO!
Do you know that the worse paralysis is not lack of controlled body parts? The Worse PARALYSIS traps one in FEAR of DOING, LIVING, GOING.
As a teenager, I lived in constant fear of being not quite good enough. I experienced extreme social anxiety. Then, because God has such an unusual sense of humor, I fell in love with and married a man, who walks into a room of strangers with his hand out to shake. I married a man who strikes up conversations with just about anyone. Do you know how hard that was for me? Probably not, unless you too have been or are socially awkward, like me. I have improved. Unfortunately, some of that baggage is still packed in my trunk.
Oh, I read and I believe that I should not be concerned about what others think of me. BUT, still I sometimes retreat from new situations, not always, but sometimes. Part of that is simply because I an an introvert. Time alone is essential to me so that I can recharge my battery pack. Like my cell phone, if I get down to 10% I have been chatting way too much. Just know, that doesn’t mean I don’t like people, because I do. And I am basically a happy person.
Last night Doubt paid me a visit causing me to focus on all the past attempts I have made at writing, sharing, reaching out to others. In particular, D pointed out that I had no idea how Barefoot Book Club with its Facebook page would even work, especially with the rear view mirror images of past attempts to start something new. I woke this morning and wrote the verses in the picture below.
While kicking Doubt’s butt out, I still haven’t a clue if Barefoot Book Club will soar, fall, or just mosey along. I also have no illusions that Doubt will go away and stay away.
But living in a paralysed state of mind, fearful of trying is not an option.
When I was about ten years old, I went to the park a few blocks from our house. While swinging, I stood up in the swing pumped and pumped until I was nearly level with the top bar. My foot slipped and I plunged to the ground, knocking the breath from my body. Lying there in the gravel and grass, the swing twisted, slowed , and came to rest, before I could breathe without hurting. I got up and went home. But within a few days, I was back on the swings–the joy of swinging won out over the fear of falling.
So I will keep on loving, writing, reaching cause I love the joy of swinging more than the fear of falling.