wingspan

i wish someone had told me i'd be doing this by myself

Mathilde Van Gheluwe

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i tell my mom that i think i am becoming more courageous.

the descriptor feels clunky and foreign, an unfamiliar weight on my tongue. it is never an adjective i have used for myself.

if prodded, i may grant that i think i do my best to be kind, or that i am thoughtful, or nurturing, or funny, or even clever, but never courageous. no, that has never been in my lexicon.

lately, though, that might be changing.

a cherished friend whom i have not seen in two years sends me a text saying that she will be in town on saturday, and would i like to grab coffee that morning and catch up? my nerves are frayed wires in an open circuitboard, ready to spark at any moment. i see crackles of every worst case scenario, every minor yet catastrophic embarrassment, every potential flaw, every increasingly fantastical reason that she may be lying, actually, and has no desire to see me. but before it kindles into a flame that consumes me, i tap out a yes, i would love to! i follow through, it is a wonderful time, the embers quiet and die out. no one is burned; i am unmarked by the thick fog of soot at my feet.

a professor whom i deeply respect and admire extends an offer to me that i am not yet ready to accept. a wave of “appropriate” excuses and apologies crest on my tongue, threatening to flood out of my mouth with a force of guilt that knocks them backward, but i halt it. a sea stack against the tide, i gratefully decline. i am polite yet concise, refusing to acquiesce to my brain’s absurd notion that i must tear myself open to be deserving of saying no. i press send, exhale, don’t flagellate. they respond not an hour later, cordial and understanding as ever, letting me know that the proposal stands whenever i am inclined. no one drowns; they are not even misted by the saltwater breeze. 

a colleague neglects to adequately explain their expectations for a collaborative project. panic rises in my throat like bile, the possibility of failure a refulgent set of headlights on the road before me. my pupils dilate against the garish light, and for a moment it all goes black. i blink, swallow, regain my bearings. i ask for clarity, explain what i need to complete the task, refuse to undermine myself as i do so. they apologize and immediately correct the course. no one is blinded; no collision occurs. 

my therapist asks how i am feeling, and for once i do not say “fine”. for once i do not deflect the attention to someone else. for once i allow myself to confess that the flashbacks are more persistent lately, that my heart feels like an exposed electrical socket, that my hands shake and my stomach knots whenever i have to return to where it all happened, that i feel paralyzed by the shock of my grief and terror, that i fear that my loneliness will eat me alive. for once i do not make a quip to soften the edges of my rage, i do not choke back the tears, i do not concede the urge to apologize for answering a question at a greater and more candid length than i have ever deemed permissible.

for once i breathe fully, expand my chest, indulge in the discomfort of outgrowing this narrow hallway, relish in my elbows scraping the drywall.

the next time, the corridor seems wider.