I’m not brave
Almost daily sometimes, I hear that I’m brave, or an inspiration. “Inspirational” is subjective, I can’t really argue with how I affect people. If something I write stirs something good, I’ll take it. If me riding around town with a little plastic tube in my throat helps someone do something they’re afraid of, great. I can’t tell people how to feel.
The thing is though, I’m not brave. I’m just not. I’m full of fear, and flaws, and damage. I fuck up all the time. I’m scared of being lonely, and scared that anyone I get close to will leave me because they might not like what I am, so I often push them away first. I’ve been known to enjoy liquor way too much when I get too uneasy. Two summers ago, I was doing fuckin’ vodka shots for brunch. I don’t do that stuff now, but I did, and it wasn’t brave. I have to get a fresh tube in my throat every five weeks, and the way I handle it is knowing that I’ll get amazing drugs for the procedure. Drugs to make me sleep through the hard part, and drugs to kill the pain and the nervous when I wake up. That’s definitely not brave. Nothing about this paragraph is brave.
I don’t see myself as brave, I’m just as fucked up and screwed up as anybody.
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