Look in the mirror. There is nothing wrong with you.
You're a beautiful woman. A wife. A mother.
You are strong. You have been through so much.
You've seen buildings collapse. You've survived heartbreak. You've watched loved ones suffer and beat the beast. You've watched others succumb. You're incredibly strong, powerful, and an amazing woman.
So what is it that this holds over you?
It's time to let it out. Let it go. FACE IT. BEAT IT. Kick it to the CURB.
I am SO done with you. I'm SO done.
It's been so long and I think I finally need to tell you to shove it.
I mean, seriously. How much longer can I have this fear? How much longer will I let this keep me trapped in my own home? Keep my daughter home with me like this? Without an opportunity to grow and flourish in ways I never did.
Ha. I give you too much power. I do. Honestly, I know that I do. I just need to remember to stop. And that's hard. It's not easy at all. But you know what?
I'm done. This is an official termination of our relationship. I'm taking your pictures off the wall. I'm throwing out the old journals with horrible memories. I'm taking back my life. I'm a year and a half away from turning 40. Forty! Imagine. Who would have ever thought that I'd be 40 years old and still not driving?
I'm anxious. I'm feeling it in my chest. My breathing labors as I contemplate the change. But I am doing it. I'm done with you.
I have reasons. I thought I'd have them years ago but I let you take over. I let you control me. I don't have to do that any more. I know it won't be easy, but you need to move on. Find some other sucker if you must, or just disappear into thin air, okay?
I know I won't immediately be able to forget you, but that's how you work. So I'll talk myself down. I'll walk through that fog and find my way without you by my side. And I'll make it.
It's time for you to leave now. You can find your own way out. I'm pretty sure you know where the door is. It's the same one you walked in through oh so many years ago.
And then. Then and only then. I'll get behind the wheel and I'll move. I'll hold the power and I'll push the anxiety in my head on its way. And I'll be doing it. I'll be driving.
Goodbye. Good riddance.
This post is in response to this week's Red Dress Club prompt to "write a formal complaint letter to your deepest, darkest fear."