Burning my fear.

My head started to go to a dark place last night while Matt was out at his second job. I started thinking about my past, and what would happen if that beast got loose again. I was suddenly fearful that I would lose my mind and physically harm myself, or my cats, or my theoretical baby, or even my husband. The visualization was gruesome and terrifying. I did not act on any of it, and tried not to entertain those thoughts. I played a game on my phone for two hours to make my brain concentrate on something else.

Then, a friend pinged me on Facebook, and I started talking to her, and I came back to myself very quickly. I told her about all of the positive changes I have been making, both in thought and action, and she was very proud of me. I explained that I had been doing inner child work, both with my therapist and on my own. I told my inner child that I would protect her and take care of her. I told him that he could still come out to play, and didn't have to die, even if I was a grown-up. That helped.

All of the negative thoughts are rooted in one simple and counterproductive emotion: fear. Fear makes me forget who I am, where I am, the work I've been doing and the progress I've made. Fear is an asshole. So, in order to rid myself of it, I went outside in the middle of the night, and spoke to the only star I could see. "Burn my fear!" I said, three times. Then I came back inside, and drew the word "FEAR" in giant, angry letters. I burnt it on my altar. I asked Loki to devour it.

BURN MY FEAR.
I left the ashes of my fear on my altar. I will leave them there for a little while, before I wash them away, and prepare for my next objective. That objective is getting that job I applied for. Tonight I'll make an offering and throw positive energy at it. I'll keep doing that until I get a call.

On a different note, Matt and I have been talking a lot about our theoretical child. The pregnancy "scare" and the resulting epiphany has changed the way I interact with the world around me. For instance, we were in Target, and instead of pathologically avoiding the baby aisle as I used to, I took Matt over to look at a convertible crib I had put on my theoretical baby wish list. We saw some onesies that made us go, "awww!"- little superhero costumes, complete with capes. Yes, our theoretical baby would be a geeky baby. My fear of being a parent has been replaced with thoughts of enriching a child's life with the knowledge I have accumulated in my life. Our kid would be raised on art and music and hockey and Doctor Who and Star Wars.

But I don't necessarily consider having a child to be a goal to actively work towards. Truthfully, it's unlikely I'll be able to get pregnant easily. I'm 36 and I started my period at 9. I don't imagine I have a lot of viable eggs left. The entire point of this experience has been to make me realize that I am capable of raising a child because I am an adult. Being a parent doesn't mean I would have to stop being who I am. I had this image for a long time of getting pregnant and becoming a mom-zombie who wears frumpy flower-print dresses and writes a blog about how her baby is her whole world and talks of nothing but binkies and breast-feeding and poo poo. I know now it would not happen. I know that Matt and I would make great parents- not perfect parents, of course- but nurturing, caring parents mindful of the mistakes our own parents made. We could do it. We aren't making it a priority, but we're preparing mentally and financially, just in case.

Oh, and, TMI WARNING...

... Matt and I are going to stop having sex like terrified teenagers shrink-wrapping their genitals in case that one little drop gets through, and start rutting like a married couple for which children are a welcome possibility. I am sick of condoms.