To My Fears

An Open Letter, April 2024

Tuesday 23 April 2024
1:06pm - 2:06pm CDT

To All My Fears:

This is an open letter to all of my fears and I am hopeful that you all become aware of this.

First of all, I want to publicly say, “thank you,” to all of you, Fear. You have done well to keep me safe from jumping from moving cars, from getting into situations with strangers that would be harmful. You have also highlighted areas of my life where I’d like to move forward—when I felt you and resistance preventing or slowing down my progress.

Fear, you helped me see just how important these areas are. So, just like an arrow, you have shown me the way to go on the meandering path. Fear, in all of your blinding tendencies for covering my eyes, you’ve actually brought me clarity. Thanks for that.

Second of all, I want to publicly admit mistakes I’ve made: in all of our interactions, Fear, I’ve melded with you, and I’ve accidentally let you become absorbed with me. I want to say I’m sorry for not allowing us to be separate entities. You are Fear and I am Molly. Together, we don’t function well. We have to be our own separate beings. I can see how important that is now. And, I’m sorry it took me this long to notice.

Third of all, I want to admit publicly that I’d like to change the wardrobe I’m wearing. As a child, I wore Fear like a cozy sweater, like a bulletproof vest, like an impenetrable helmet.

It fit okay for awhile…till Fears, you started to make my arms and neck really itchy. Because of how you held me and covered me, there was perpetual irritation that with each sneeze, my body tried to get rid of you. But, you wouldn’t go on your own. I didn’t realize it was you who were hurting me.

The bulletproof vest kept a lot of exterior issues away from me, but after years of sneaky little viruses—your different fearful and fear-some friends—they wiggled into my heart. And then, they grew and were trapped in my heart and in my body. Fear, your bulletproof vest prevented icky stuff from getting out of me, and also, it just doesn’t fit anymore because I’m 37! And, this vest hasn’t expanded: it’s still fitted to sweet, tiny, 5-year-old Molly. As a woman, I need to breathe deeper breaths now.

While I ran around as a kid, I was still learning and I hit my head a lot. I was grateful for the protection you offered me, Fear, from hitting my head. But, Fear, you led me to believe I couldn’t live without you. And whenever I tried to take you off my head, every sneaky little virus and memory that tried to keep me “safe” in the past, echoed in resounding, in banging—like a tiny marble in a tin box right next to my ear. Loud, annoying, incessant, painful, and eventually I forgot what it was like without all the noise. And as my mind has grown and healed, Fear, you’ve held on tighter and tried to convince me that silence would kill me—while you steadily suffocated me.

Fear, thanks for the times you helped me stay safe. Now, you’re no longer useful and I’m delighted to let you go on to greater things than piercing my soul with your deathly white-knuckled grip.

Fear, with each breath I’m releasing you—so, kindly I ask you to release your clenched and rotted, black claws: that have clung around my neck trying to keep me quiet from saying the “wrong” things and using my voice; that have pulled on every muscle and sinew in my back so every load I carry feels too heavy; that have pulsated my neck, keeping me too tight and unable to turn my head to be able to see clearly around me.

So, Fear, you must go now! I no longer can, nor will I offer myself to you as a home. I’m not going to stop being me—so, you’ve got to leave for good. Goodbye! And, so to you, Public, as my witnesses: please, steer clear of Fear and point it back to the Abyss and away from me. I don’t wish Fear upon anyone. And, so, one last time, I say to you, Fear: we’re done! Go away now and I am leaving.

Sincerely,
Molly Ovenden

P.S. There’s no forwarding address. I’ve changed all my locks, plus I’ve moved and…there’s no address anyway. Be gone! And, good day!