When I embraced motherhood, I accepted fear as part of the role. I feared being a mother would be hard, that something would happen to my child, that, with all I have to give, it wouldn’t be enough.

For a while I was succeeding at pushing these fears away. Then, suddenly and without invitation, on a day when it all felt like too much,  you appeared – a deeper, darker fear.

Like a true villain, you waited until I was alone in the house – alone and feeling vulnerable – and then you came in. You entered silently and with no warning. And you attacked.

You stood in front of me and told me it was too hard. That I, in fact, can’t do it. That I will never be able to.

You closed the blinds and sucked the oxygen from the air. You became a physical presence and, momentarily at least, a part of me. With your hand on your hip and your finger in my face you told me I’d never be able to handle this role and there was only one way out.

For the briefest of moments, I thought you were right.

But you are not right, and you are not a part of me.

And you did not win.

The temptation was not nearly enough.

The effects on others would have been far too great.

I have revealed your presence to others and I’m no longer alone with you. The bottles of pills have been removed. Your suggested path to peace is not an option I will choose.

And yet you’re still here. I feel you dancing around my consciousness as I go about my day. In the quietness of the evenings I see you sitting in the chair in the corner, and when I wake up in the mornings I see you there still. You barely move, as though to suggest that overwhelming me takes little effort. You merely flick your barbs at me, each tiny movement filled with contempt.

You’re never going to get better.

Deep down, you don’t want this life and you know it.

You’re ruining him. He sees you as weak.

Run away. Find an apartment where you can live alone and not have to deal with any of this anymore.

You’re going to have to make a choice. This bubble of support is going to burst soon and you’re going to be left alone in a heap on the floor.

You want this fixed? You want it to all go away?! Just take the easy way out and it will be done.

You put all my fears into one tidy package labeled “the way out” and you threw it at me. When I let it fall to the floor you didn’t retreat. You attacked again, telling me my choice meant I’d be stuck with a life I can’t handle.

How dare you? You think the easy way out is something I’d ever choose? You dare to assert that I can’t do this role? And do it well?

I’m here to tell you that you underestimated me. You underestimated all of us, for I am not alone in this. There is another option. A different path. A way out.

The only way out is through.

See that door? I’ve gone through it and I’ve locked it behind me.

Your path, your presence, is not an option. You are not welcome to stay with me any longer.

Do you hear me? I’ve rejected you. So consider me gone and move on.

____________________

This post is non-fiction and written in response to a prompt from The Red Dress Club: “Write a letter to your deepest, darkest fear.

This is the story that has been waiting to come out – constructive criticism is welcome, but please be kind 😉