I am fear in that I am me. I am the little bubble of anxiety rooted in the most shallow parts of my guts, bursting into all-over trembling when my crush walks by in Moody. I am the quiver of my voice, the stop-start stutter and tumbling over the words I went over in my head at least six times before opening my mouth. I am fearful, but I won't let it stop me.

Something I try to do that isn't necessarily good for me is avoiding conflict as much as I can. This means swallowing my tongue and half my tonsils when someone calls me a pussy or tightening the white-knuckle grip of my calloused fingers around a can of pepper spray when some pig yells, "nice ass!" out the window of a car. Always afraid of the consequences, yet never seeking out the benefit of speaking up sometimes. I should do that more.

This meant letting fury, then sorrow, drench my insides after the arguments with my roommate occurred more and more often. It became crumbling from the inside out and reverting back to the response of "no" when people asked if I was okay. I could've lied and said I was fine, but I wasn't. None of what was happening was fine, so I spoke up.

Anger is a dangerous thing to hold onto, so I let almost all of it go, reserving just enough to fuel my writing-- to give me power. I never used to write about my feelings, but if I did, I never shared them with anyone.

My secrets rolled away from me like the waves of my least favorite beaches. I thought I'd be safe from my over-sharing tendencies since I'd be hesitant about being so open with people I'd never met, but each time I opened my mouth, I found more coming out than I'd originally thought, and these things always came back to crush me.

I kind of stopped caring about what people thought, which is neither cool nor uncool. It was just a thing, and I lived with it up until last week when I realized there's not really anyone who is worth such an internal fuss. This bled into my writing, and I decided I'd just have to say what I had to say-- backlash be damned!

Well, there was a bit of an opposition toward my newfound attitude, and it manifested in me until I got to the point where I was so frustrated I couldn't even hash out my feelings by writing. Why be honest if it led to more problems than I started with? I took some time to realize that the people who were so easily hateful were not the ones I needed to be focusing on. Anything said against my writing is something said against me because my words are a part of me, as much as their criticism is a part of them.

I won't apologize if my words hurt someone-- not when I'm trying my hardest to remain neutral in my writing toward others. I said what I said for a reason, and nobody is going to quiet me.