Dal diario di Aelfwine: HEART SHALL BE BOLDER.
If we are to study courage, how do we recognize fear? Suppose you have had to hide fear since you were born. Or repress it - this could be a matter for another discussion: is it the same thing? Anyway, you always had to put up the classic "brave face". Otherwise... what happened? At best, you were teased for being weak. At worst... well, you could get angry, and if you got angry... a chain reaction that you *did not want* to happen.
So you grow up, and you are practically unable to distinguish fear. Or rather, you only have the physical reaction - cold hands, fluttering heart, the works. Some things, quite clearly and reasonably, cause you this reaction. But what about all the rest? Everything leaves you apparently indifferent - until you freak out massively. So there had to be something to fear in it, hadn't it?
So you cannot use the primeval criterium of healthy fear to understand whether something is good or bad for you. You tackle everything as your duty, or as a challenge. You have courage aplenty; but you're using it at random. Suppose there's a social occasion: you hate to go, but hey, you can't shut yourself up with your computer all the time, can you? On the other hand, you can't always please others and act as you're expected to act, right? Two perfectly opposite mantras of our society of self-hating hedonists. So what do you do? Tear up along the middle, that's what you do. And this goes on, not only with parties but with journeys, romances, everything.
It gets to the point that the physical reactions of fear do show up - every damn time, just to be on the safe side. You are afraid of meeting new people, because you don't want to have to be in that undecided situation anymore. You are even afraid of answering e-mails - they could contain invitations or nice words that you might be forced to return, thus being sucked inside the machine again. It gets to the point that someone just mentions introducing a new person to you and you feel your face burst into flames of embarrassment. Someone gives you a plant as a present, and you, who adore plants, leave it there for hours in terror, not daring to touch it. You might even feel safe in certain circles; until someone says something petty or rude, a tiny threat which a thicker-skinned person might brush off, very remotely, and you get so scared and feel so threatened that you throw your grenade and dash into your foxhole without looking behind.
At the bottom, there's always the dread that they might find you out. You are not the charming individual you seem to be. You're so dumb you can't even decide for yourself. You're even a bit unstable. You're so reclusive it damages your job. Now there's a very clear risk in interacting with people: they might criticize you, scold you, vent on you... what? what?...
*Whatever it was that you were afraid of all those years ago.*
So you just pick up your sword, or your grenade, whatever war metaphor you like, and start fighting again. Not just against fear. Against the fear of the fear, the bundle of lies your brain surrounds your fear with, the confusion that makes you unable even to distinguish the target. Hoping that by chance you'll hit bull's eye. Hoping you'll hack at it hard enough to break through.
Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg. |