There is something terrifying in what I don’t yet understand about myself. My subconscious needs to protect me, so my body is littered with little pouches of padding wrapped tightly around tiny nuggets of truth.

I feel a packet lodged in the back of my throat, speaking in the face of confrontation almost never happens easily.

There is one wrapped around the right hipbones of my pelvic cradle, it threads in and out of the muscle that could support my core and remain soft and comfortable when I sit in a cross-legged position on my yoga mat. I can’t recall the time that is was, though.

There is definitely one hooked on the tendon behind my right knee — the section that runs through the beginning abundance of my thigh.

Two of the most distressing ones have been melted together, loaded into a psychic shotgun, and blasted into my liver and pancreas. Some of those fragments have been dug loose, but a few remain — they went deep.

Writing is a therapeutic practice for moving through blockages and recognising what each knot of fear holds bound at its centre. Each time I come to a place in the story where my fingers falter and the stream of words squeezes to a trickle, there is where fear is.

This week I chased myself into a whirlpool that drained into the depths of my unnaturally deep navel. There it puddled growing stagnant, smelly and oozing with infected emotions. Finally, I allowed the newest character in my story to grab hold of the padding of that particular truth and rip it open. My aversion to her gaped wide and raw.

It was like a dam bursting!

My fingers started dancing on the keys again, her beautiful personality became fleshed out on the page, and it was so freeing. But, I forget — this is what it is like every single time.

Always, on the other side of fear is freedom.


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