I’ve had people call me brave recently and it makes me smirk. I twinge hearing it – how bold and brave I am.

I don’t feel it. This week I was afraid to get out of my car and take pictures of the gorgeous sunset. I began calling people until I reached my mom who talked to me for 45 minutes while I captured some shots including this one which I love:

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On Monday, I had soccer just like I always do. The game was at 6:50pm and by 4pm the nerves kicked in. I was panicked. This is a nobody league with no stakes on a Monday night. The nerves didn’t die out until the game started and the ball was at my feet.

Last night, I managed to get myself to the gym where I eyed the new sled that was recently added. I had watched other folks use it the last two weeks. I have used sleds myself previously. Yet here I was paralyzed with fear wanting to use it but not knowing how to start. I eventually amped myself up enough to walk over and start.

I’ve worked out for so many hours of my life – I know my way around the gym. I’ve played soccer for 20 years. I have been taking pictures since I was around 9. These are not unknown activities to me but it doesn’t matter. Anxiety doesn’t discriminate although I wish it did. I wish it made more sense.

Today I laid down on the floor of my apartment not wanting to move. I couldn’t think of anything better to do. I didn’t want to do anything including sleep so this seemed like the best alternative. I didn’t move for a while. I don’t know how long. I don’t care.

I finally got up. It wasn’t a brave act – I don’t like when folks call the maintenance of dealing with mental health brave. It was a quiet, simple action. It’s okay for it to just be that. For me and for my context, that’s all it was. What got me up was remembering that I didn’t go through feeling so horrible for so long unable to sleep unable to control my own thoughts just to end up sprawled out on the floor of my apartment. I trusted my former strength and took the leap of faith that it would carry me through the rest of today too.

On second thought, maybe if I actually had furniture in my apartment, the floor wouldn’t have been as enticing. Minimalism and mental health don’t always mix well it seems 😉

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