My grandmother calls me “the brave one”. That word seems to be applied to me a lot these days. At first I found it to be a nice compliment. Now, it makes me so angry.
I am not brave. I cry and fall apart, I just don’t often do it in front of you. What would it look like to you if I were not “brave”? Would I sit in the corner of the room rocking back and forth? Would I stop speaking? Would I just die?
I don’t know how to be anything other than what I am. I put one foot in front of the other, every day. Sometimes my steps are steady and other times I fall into a pothole of darkness. I get scared. I get sad. I worry. I am not brave. I am just getting through it.
Sometimes I think they call me brave because it takes the pressure off of them. If I am brave then I am ok, taking care of myself, not needing support. If I am brave, they do not need to find a way to give me strength. If I am brave they can walk away without guilt.