Was That ME?

Sometimes it just blows my mind that about four years ago, I had the mental and emotional capacity to travel alone across the country on a bus. Like, I packed my own bag! I booked my own hostel! I busked on my own street corner and made my own friends and I don't even think I really panicked when I found out I was pregnant and had to come home! Who WAS that reckless, hair-in-the wind gypsy? Was that ME?

And sometimes it just blows my mind that about two years ago, I was engaged, and I was living with my fiance, and that I was not only working two jobs, but also (sometimes - keyword sometimes) doing laundry, and dishes, and cooking food, and playing with my baby girl, and maintaining a semi-healthy adult relationship. Who the hell WAS that responsible, domesticated wife-and-mother? Was that ME?

And sometimes it just BLOWS MY FUCKING MIND that only about three months ago, I was writing all the time, and performing every week, drinking vodka with abandon, becoming a regular at the Mercury, having no trouble with my words, with my words, with my words...

Who was that confident, sure-of-herself poet? Was that ME?

Because I can't even remember how to put the tip of the pen on the paper. I can't even remember how to open my lips to speak. I don't think I should be allowed to touch another human for at least half a decade, for fear of creating a mess like the last one, and you can't let me travel, because I get lost as soon as I walk out of my front door. How could I possibly be the same woman that did all these things? How is it that I, who am now afraid of going outside, once jumped on a Greyhound with the intention of never coming home? How is it that I once thought of myself as brave and now have to shut my closet doors in the dark and sleep with my head under the covers?

I've been thinking a lot lately about how little kids hide behind grown ups when they're afraid. I'm starting to think it should be the other way around. We have so much more to be afraid of. I have so much more to be afraid of.