We throw the word brave around quite a bit in the Blogosphere.
Especially in our comments.
“You were so brave to share story of your parakeet’s infected feather. I know it must have taken quite a toll on you. Hugs.”
“I’m in awe of your bravery. It’s ok. Everyone’s kid gets constipated. Hugs.”
“Kudos to you for your bravery! I’m so sorry you suffered with bronchitis. Hugs and prayers. Xoxo.”
Who has two thumbs, needs a therapist, and is guilty of this?
Hint: it’s me.
I heard the word brave numerous times when I wrote about my grandfather’s suicide.
Here’s the thing.
I don’t think writing that was so very brave.
I have an anonymous blog.
Only two real life friends read here.
99% of the 40 people who read this blog will never meet me in person.
Basically, I told my imaginary friends that my grandfather killed himself and my family is extremely fucked up.
To me that isn’t brave.
Brave would be talking to my mom about what happened.
Brave would be letting my husband know what’s been going on in my head for the last two weeks. (Not that he cares or would listen.)
Brave would be reaching out to my estranged brother after all these years.
Brave would be dealing with my issues in therapy.
But I’m not going to do any of those things.
I’m going to go back to writing snarky little posts about my husband and kids.
In lieu of a professional therapist I will turn to my old pal Dr. Little Debbie and her associates Dr. Pepper and Dr. Reese.
And I will continue to cling to my cowardice like a security blanket.
You do know why the world is round, right?
So we can keep going in circles.