Brave

I am not brave.

I'm not. I shy away from new things.  I cringe at loud sounds, and loud people. 

I prefer avoiding people. I stay home rather than face the crowds, even when it is not Christmas. I often break out in red splotches when I have to speak to a stranger. I lose my train of thought midsentence. I feel awkward in most social situations. So I keep to myself, so as not to risk being rejected.

I take the stairs because I am afraid of getting stuck in an elevator. Unless I forgot my inhaler, because an asthma attack is much worse than being stuck in an elevator.  If anything hurts that doesn't normally hurt, I automatically assume that it is a heart attack.  Except if it's my big toe.  Then I automatically assume that I have the gout.  I had to stop looking stuff up on Web's, because all those obscure diseases frightened me.

I don't stay out late if the parking lot isn't well-lit.  I walk with my keys held in my fist, pointed outward, even if I'm just heading into Walgreen's.  If I hear a strange noise in the middle of the night, I am almost always certain that it's zombies.

If there is anything, anything at all for me to get nervous about, I'm already there, my head tucked tightly under the covers, waiting for the Monster Du Jour to lose interest in me.

My child makes me brave. 

He smiles at me, and looks at me as if I were a superhero. His superhero. Because of that trust, I am brave. I find myself holding his hand and stepping out into the world, smiling at strangers and wading into crowds. I scoff at my aches and pains. I let the spider crawl on me. I start conversations with strangers!

I embrace all the things that I fear, while holding that little hand. I can handle whatever comes our way.

I am brave.



3.) Write a post inspired by the word: brave.