LaToya B. Galloway
I have two great fears: being late and change. All my other issues revolve around my fear of not being on time and life’s constant need to ebb and flow with or without my consent.
I know this is my first time presenting myself… telling the story of me… and I know what they say about first impressions, but I need you to know where I stand and what transpires inside of me so that you will get the when, how and why of my writing.
When I was younger my fear of being late was overwhelming. I would wake up hours ahead of time to guarantee getting to my destination precisely when I was told to be there. If I thought I would be late, knots would form in my stomach, my hands would sweat and I would become a jittery mess.
I walked to school with my best friend and she was notorious for being late. I would sit in her living room feeling the knots curdle and beat against my stomach, my right leg jumping- more than anxious, more than ready to be on the move. She would come waltzing down the steps like we had hours instead of minutes. I would jump up and be out the door while she was still putting on her coat and stuffing books in her book bag. My silence spoke on my behalf as we huffed up the hill trying to make it to school before the late bell.
I pray for change like Hannah prayed for a son. I wake up between four and five every morning. I take the same route to work. I come home fix dinner, watch some television, go to sleep, wake up and start it all over again. My daily routine could be a sequel to Groundhog Day. I sit outside of myself shaking my head in disbelief, wondering when … and how long…
It is 5:57 in the morning and I have to get ready for work. Instead I am sipping tea, sitting at my computer, listening to Brian McKnight, trying to compose this. For this moment, I have let go of my fears. I may be late this morning but right now it doesn’t matter. I am breaking my routine and it feels like a first dip in the ocean on a too hot summer day- cold and shocking and exhilarating.
Fear dissipates when I write. It is my comfort zone, my work out session, my time on the couch with the therapist. I am Me here and Me is okay. I am no longer the silent angry one huffing to school fearing rebuke for being late. I am no longer the annual control-freak that cannot break from her daily routine because it may upset the balance of things.
I write for the same reason an alcoholic drinks- to hide pain. I write the way a bulmic eats- cramming it down until I am stuffed and then aahh, purging myself until I am empty. I write to avoid the issues plaguing me. I write because I don’t think I am thin enough or pretty enough. I write to get back at Johnny who wouldn’t circle yes in the second grade. I write like an addict craving her next hit. I write like an anorexic staving to perfection.
And so, I will write to make sense of myself and the world around me. I will write to vent and voice my opinions, concerns, fears, frustrations, and joys. I will write because, most days, it is all I really know how or want to do.
