The Rotting Stench of Fear

On the outside my life looks wonderful. I have a nice home and  my own business. All the bills are paid. I have a great guy, healthy children, the best dog ever and friends that I share a deep connection with. The American dream.

But something lurks beneath the surface. Something ugly and foul smelling.  It is the rotting, roiling, diseased part of my soul that hides from the light.

We all have that part of us.  Something happens when we are a child, something big and scary, so we build a little room in our soul, with a big heavy door and a lock.  We stuff the fear and the anger that we aren't supposed to feel into this little room. We slam the door shut and we turn the key. Then we walk away. We go on with our lives like nothing happened.

Over the years many things get stuffed into the closet. Things that are too big, too scary, too hard for us to handle. So we put them away until we are stronger, until we can cope better. The room gets full of nasty bad stuff, until there is no space left. We pack the stuff in and lean with all our might to get the door closed again. Occasionally something noxious may seep out from under the door but we pretend we can't see it. We pretend that we can't smell the stench and that everything is just fine.

Until one day the lock breaks, the door swings open and all the filth that we've hidden washes over us.

And that is where I sit, amid the rotting stench of my own fear. I drown in anger and frustration and bitterness. I struggle to hold my head above resentment, envy and greed. I am buffeted by judgments of self and other. Through it all runs the common theme of shame. I'm just not good enough, not smart enough, not beautiful enough. I have failed.

What I have truly failed at, is pretending. I have failed at keeping my darkness hidden. I have failed at soothing my soul with food and gossip and trashy romance novels and TV shows and the endless rounds of busy, busy, busy, that keep the truth at bay. I have failed at hiding from my fear, my anger and my sorrow.

After days of crying and saying awful things about everyone and everything I face a choice. I've purged enough with my tears and my bitching that I can squish the door closed again. I could probably keep stuffing into the closet for a number of years. I could put my mask back on and go through the motions, until it all gets too big for me again and the door breaks open and I'm once again drowning.

Or I could do something different. I could light a candle and go sit in that dark little room. I could sit there with all my demons and my broken parts. I could dig through the putrefaction with my bare hands and get to know the wounded parts of myself.  I could breathe in the stench of dying dreams and a broken heart. This is me, who I am, right now, with no pretending.

Could I find the strength and courage to face the darkness? Do I have what it takes to invite my demons into the light? Can I possibly pick up my broken heart and cradle it close to me so it can find comfort?  Is it wise to find a way to make friends with my broken parts? Is it even worth trying?

Today I have no answers.