addiction to fear: i have it.

I’ve gotten to know two me’s. One of them is rather fantastic, and one is the root of all my problems.

One is upbeat, silly, rolls around in sweatpants and doesn’t worry about if her eyeliner is sitting just right. She laughs loudly and sees beauty in others’ flaws. She finds sunny days joyful, cloudy days cozy, and nights restful. Everything is colorful to her: people, places, objects, processes, ideas, abilities. She is uninhibited, empowered. She’s unafraid.

But the me that is afraid is horribly sour. She’s quiet, cautious, and still. The world she sees as hers is dull; the one she perceives to be apart from her is intimidating. Nothing she accomplishes is satisfying; others’ accomplishments only cause her to shrivel up more. She looks for problems, digs for minutia with which to be concerned. When she cries, it’s always ultimately because she’s terrified that she’s not strong enough, smart enough, impressive enough.

She creates real-world problems by fabricating them in her mind. She knows this. She knows that everything really is wonderful, that all she has to do is let go of that tightness in her chest. But she’s too afraid to do it, because what if her pride, her skills, and her reputation go away with it?

The answer, I think, is to distract her. She needs to be shown that living without fear is safe, but the only way to pull her away from it is to make her forget about it for a while. And sometimes, when it pops up momentarily, she might need to scare it away herself.

It makes me wonder if depression is nothing more than an addiction to fear. I think I’m going to treat it that way for a while.