fear of getting what I want

I think Marianne Williamson is right. I fear more the distinct and real possibility of getting what I want more than I fear not getting it.

And that’s fucked up.

Why is it scarier to think that something is possible—that I can have, or be, or do whatever it is that I want to have, or be, or do, and most importantly, be happy while doing it? Why am I scared of writing a really amazing book and putting it out there in the world? Having a perfectly healthy body? And why the hell is the possibility of getting what I want so scary? The health, the amount of money, the creative projects, the popularity, the success, the writing? Enjoying my days, in and out, from where I am to who I am with to what I am doing? What is it about happiness that freaks me out?

Answer: I think it will go away. I think it won’t last. So I push it away before it comes, to save myself the disappointment.

Which is also fucked up. Because if I push it away before it comes, then I never enjoy the good shit in the first place. Somewhere my inner defense mechanisms have concluded that it’s easier—less scary—to not have my deepest, most inner desires, than to have them and need to deal with them when they leave—because there’s no way they’ll stay long enough for me to realize they’re here.

Or hell, that I’ll even enjoy them and know that more are coming.

Over the years, I’ve developed a strong and disgustingly ugly habit: I’ve been taught to worry. To plan for economic downturns, keep emergency supplies on hand, save for rainy days, look both ways for cars, watch out for strangers, don’t answer the phone, don’t be extravagant, don’t let yourself enjoy things. (Except when what I’ve been suppressing all erupts in a binge because I for one can’t live such a stingy life. After all, this is the universe that’s given us vast blue skies and multitudes of flowers and so many songs and stories that we could never know them all. It also gives us burritos from Ay Chihuahua, Bud Light Limes, coffee with cinnamon, Klondike bars, and fresh mandarin oranges from the tree. It gives us shiny black shoes and new purses and Tom Ford cologne and pottery mugs. French notebooks and Japanese pens. The universe is quite abundant. It’s me who’s stingy. Dare I say us?)

Still, “worry is praying for what you don’t want.”

It’s almost counterintuitive for me to go completely and wholeheartedly into a project, believing in it and enjoying every step of the way, because I know from past experience I might get hurt. (I might fly, too, but this essay focuses on the hurt. So does my reflex reaction) Somewhere deep down, I’ve learned: letting myself openly enjoy something leads to vulnerability.

And being vulnerable means, I’m, well, vulnerable.

I could get made fun of, lose all my money, die, get embarrassed, get hurt, fall into a pit, become a laughingstock, go crazy, be criticized unfairly and harshly, and, well, all sorts of other bad things.

But the thing is, I know those things can happen when I do things I don’t enjoy, as well.

So…this is awkward. I want to enjoy my life and to have a delighted happy heart, but when I get close to that, I become scared, because it might hurt, so I stay small and therefore it doesn’t hurt so much. Except that hurts, too.

Are you following? Yeah, it makes no sense, but I do it ALL THE TIME.

Over the years, I’ve learned over and over again that opening up my skin and showing you my blood and bones and nerves is where the good stuff is. When I am vulnerable, I am free. It’s where I want to be.

So then, why do I go back to the starting line of being scared over and over again? Of not letting myself simply be happy and have fun? Be delighted in the new projects, finishing up the old, and all the middles? The endless middles?

Why do I keep having to go through the process of being frightened of what I want and wanting it so badly that I keep pushing it away?

All I know is that the closer I get to feeling joyful, to laughing and following my bliss, to feeling free, to letting myself eat the fresh berries and color the paper using new colored pencils and reading the book all the way through because I can’t put it down and writing four times my word goal in a day and putting on the softest clothes possible and letting myself be me—when I do that?

That’s where the good stuff is. And it’s not scary at all.