They Were There - Part 4

Almost everyone I love was marching last Saturday.  I couldn't get off the bed to join them.

I wasn't ill.  The weather was perfect.  I had the text for Mr 11 and 13 created and ready to be sent.
I couldn't make myself do it.  There is something absolutely immobilizing that takes over my heart and my soul whenever I consider being publicly political.

I held a sign on the street corner in front of my Representative's office, but went inside when the police protection drove away.  I was fine going up in the elevator and talking to her District Manager, but I went out the back door and avoided the protest on the way to my car.

I was scared.  I'm not usually scared.... at least the before-I-was-perforated me was not usually scared.  I suppose I am often scared these days, now that I put fingers to keyboard and think about it.

I sat in the middle of the row in the middle of the movie theatre watching Sing! with Amster and Mr. 11.  I didn't realize that I wasn't scared until the movie was over and Mr.  11, who'd pointed out the exits for me when we sat down, asked if I was okay.

I was.  I was surprised that I was, which must mean that scared is, on some level, my default. I'm not judging.  I'm stating facts.  The facts suck, but I'm here to bemoan my sad and sorry state and that, in itself, should make me sit down, shut up, and get out of my own way.

I'm so much stronger now than I was, and I'll be stronger 6 years from now, I'm sure.  Still, I cannot make myself join in.  I know that bullets can show up anywhere.  No matter how close I come to leaving the house, I never get past this:  I'll feel like an absolute idiot if I get shot doing this again.

It's unlikely, but so was the first one.

There's nothing inherently rewarding in the terror. I have all the sympathy I need whenever I need it; I don't need to act out.  It's more likely that my superego has had enough of my refusal to accept that facts are facts.

Whatever it is, it was there last Saturday, and it stole an opportunity from me.  When I type that, I want to rewind the clock and refuse to let the shooter take that, too..... until I realize that I'll feel like an absolute idiot if I get shot doing this again.