For the past couple of weeks I’ve had a regular little unwelcome visitor. In fact, he’s sat with me right now, watching everything I’m doing and ready to interfere at a moments notice.
You probably know him too – his name is fear and he seems to be a regular caller to most people I know.
He’s been particularly busy recently after the atrocities in London, Manchester and across the world and has blanketed heavily over us all, making us second guess even simple everyday decisions like whether to pop into town, catch the train or send our children on school trips.
When he comes to me he sits in the pit of my stomach making me feel sick and nervous, and unable to concentrate. He sucks the joy out of everything like a Dementor. He lords it over me, reminding me not to get too comfortable, or happy, or content because with every good thing that happens the potential for dark, bad, horrible things are just around the corner.
When fear visits he steals the sun and taints everything with varying shades of grey. When he’s succeeded in making everything look like a rainy November afternoon, his cheerless brother sadness also takes up residence and the two of them claim squatters rights, throwing the biggest pity party in my honour.
Am I cursed?
Is my life destined to be one long disaster after another?
What’s the point in even trying when we all know how it’s going to end?
I’m going to die…
My kids are going to die…
WE’RE ALL FREAKING GOING TO DIE…
Boohoohoo poor me.
The potential for good vanishes. I notice only the depressing and tragic and all the while my stomach churns and leaps. My fingernails disappear.
It’s pretty boring living life this way and I hate that I allow fear and sadness to the driving seat. Life seems to slow down…
But then slowly, slowly chinks of light appear, blazing through the crepuscule and melting the ice. Fear’s biggest enemy arrives at the scene like a rainbow suited super-hero.
Today I have hope.