The Longing to Rise Above Fear
I screamed into the dark, haunted by the memory of my father’s anger.
“What’s wrong with you? Stop screaming!” Tears streamed down my face as a sensation like pins and needles pricked every inch of my skin.
In that suffocating darkness, there was nothing to see except the eerie glow of spider legs moving against me.
The sheer terror I felt is what ultimately jolted me awake.
I couldn’t help but cry out into the void, “The spiders are getting me! The spiders are getting me!”
My father’s voice came through, infused with annoyance and exasperation:
“No, they are not. You’re just dreaming — be quiet and go back to sleep.”
I remember drawing in deep, steady breaths, desperately trying to compose myself.
I was well aware that my father could easily lose his temper, and I could hear his patience wearing thin.
Yet, despite my efforts to remain calm, tears continued to silently slip from beneath my tightly closed eyelids.
I could not shake the memory of the laughter that had pulled me from sleep, nor could I forget my uncle’s unsettling voice echoing in my dreams.
In my dream, he had come to me again, lifting me up and placing me down into the cold, dark outside cellar.
I could still hear him clearly as he closed the cellar door above me, leaving me trapped in the ominous emptiness and darkness for what seemed like hours.
“The spiders are getting you. The spiders are getting you. They are going to bite you everywhere. I am feeding you to the daddy long legs,” he taunted, his laughter ringing in my ears as I screamed and pleaded for him to let me out.
It was always the same — my cries fell upon deaf ears, discarded like meaningless whispers.
In that dark silence, even with my father nearby, what compelled me to continue crying was the painful realization that my pleas still remained unheard.
I had learned early on that it was often better to remain unseen and quiet- or otherwise there would be worse trouble.
Even when I didn’t feel strong, I understood that showing my vulnerability was not an option.
I knew that had my mom been there, perhaps I wouldn’t have felt so utterly alone in my fears.
My mom would have held me.
She would have understood the reason behind my recurring nightmares about the spiders.
Looking back now, I often wonder if I would have confided in her.
I remember how desperately I wanted to shield her from pain, even if it was mine.
It hurt her to see me cry, and I couldn’t bear that thought.
Out of all my father’s siblings — twelve or fourteen, I can’t quite remember, though I think my grandmother miscarried two — it was my dad’s youngest brother who died within a year or two of repeatedly putting me in that cellar.
He died in a motorcycle accident.
That was the first time I experienced mixed emotions about death — and guilt over those feelings.
While everyone around me was grieving his loss, I recall feeling relieved instead.
I remember sitting in church, thinking I was a bad person for that relief, even wondering if God had taken him because he was so cruel to me.
Later, I tightened my skates and put my mixtape cassette into my Walkman, Tiffany and Madonna filling my ears.
There was an overwhelming sense of joy as I flew across the concrete, closing my eyes and getting lost in the music.
In those moments, I felt truly free and, for the first time in that space, safe.
The irony wasn’t lost on me: the same concrete I loved to skate on was the very ground that covered the cellar where my uncle used to torment me.
Even with that outside cellar at the center of the ground beneath me, there was no longer any apprehension that he might find me while I played.
How could the place that once embodied my deepest fears also become the stage for my freedom?
Looking back, aside from swimming in the irrigation ditch, playing with my dog Pedito and tending to my pigs, rabbits, and horses, there were two things outside of nature I absolutely adored: my typewriter and my skates.
Skating, in particular, felt empowering.
Each glide across that concrete felt like reclaiming control from my uncle, who had tried to fill that space with fear.
That same ground had once made me afraid — and yet, I chose to make it my own.
Today, that memory is a metaphor for how we keep moving forward, even with fear beneath us.
It’s almost symbolic to think of this memory as a lesson in rising above our fears.
Just like the cellar that lies beneath the surface, we all have fears lurking within us that may try to control us or hinder our progress.
Yet, had I stayed away from that place, I would have missed out on experiencing the joy it also offered.
The real victory for me came from empowering myself to stand tall and confront a space that held both fear and joy.
Who says we can’t find joy in places that once scared us?
It’s our choice to face the things that hold us back, or to let them shrink our worlds.
Let us always choose to rise above the obstacles that confine us.
At night, I sometimes find myself reflecting on those spiders that gave rise to all sorts of unsettling dreams, particularly dreams of falling.
The ones where I plunge from a skyscraper, and I know that if I don’t wake up, the fall will end me.
It’s in those moments of vulnerability that I remind myself I’m grateful not to often remember my dreams.
While I’ve managed to confront many fears, others still grip me tightly — especially the fear of being truly seen, and the haunting belief that I am not enough.
I think back to my teenage years when my dad would scrutinize my hair after a shower, often expressing his disgust.
I knew my hair was clean, but it wasn’t the cleanliness of my hair that bothered him; it felt as if he was disappointed in me as a whole.
I can still vividly recall the moment he finally allowed me to leave the bathroom to get dressed instead of sending me back for a fourth shower.
Staring at my reflection in the mirror, tears streaming down my face, I wondered if I would ever be enough — if I would ever be beautiful or smart or good enough.
That moment along with others became intertwined with my understanding of self-worth and went on to shape my relationships.
I realize now that this deep-seated belief of inadequacy makes me gravitate towards emotionally unavailable men.
They represent a safe distance; they won’t truly see me or love me, thereby reinforcing that unshakeable notion that I am not good enough.
Even if they do express some form of affection, how could they be comfortable showing genuine emotion when they’re often disconnected from their own feelings?
I remember Billy asking me if he treated me poorly, if I would want him more.
I would say no quickly, but perhaps I was lying to myself.
It frustrates me that I still carry this fear — that I am not enough without the titles I wear: Mother, Older Sister, Boss, Business Owner.
Each of these roles has given me a sense of worth, a form of validation that makes me feel loved and desired, especially as a leader.
I have always found identity in being the oldest child, the helper to my mom, the mentor to my brothers.
In these roles, I have felt powerful and sufficient.
However, being in a leadership role also deepens the notion that I must be strong.
It convinces me that my value lies in supporting others and providing strength, rather than in being seen for who I am.
This cycle of seeking validation through accomplishment and strength often leaves me feeling hollow when I look beyond those titles.
It’s time to confront these fears head-on, to recognize that my worth is not tied to what I do for others, but simply in who I am.
In regards to twin flames, I recently came across a thought-provoking idea:
Runners don’t run away from chasers; they run away from themselves.
They refuse to confront their fears and their trauma.
Of course, their problems are theirs, and it is not about us.
However, chasers also have their own self-work to do.
When we chase them, we often forget our own lives and our own issues.
In this dynamic, both are runners: they run away from us, and we run away from ourselves.
According to your astrology you were born on a first quarter moon.
On February twenty-fourth there happened to be a first quarter moon and
while standing outside before starting work and gazing at that cold and lonely moon, I couldn’t help but ponder what I had read.
I found myself asking, is that what is happening here?
Am I deceiving myself into believing that I am genuinely working on my own growth when I am actually escaping into this desire I have for you?
Am I running away from myself?
A heaviness settled over me as I contemplated this question.
Turning in one direction, I felt the wind’s stiffness; the biting cold stung my empty hands.
Is it the wind that feels so harsh, or is it the fear pushing against me?
I won’t admit to being afraid.
I am never afraid.
Not of anything.
However, what others can’t see is that I am.
I’m not afraid of surviving on my own, nor of the dark, and certainly not of the spiders — at least not so much anymore.
What I am afraid of is you.
I fear that you see me in a way that I have never been seen before.
It was another dream.
It wasn’t real.
But the thirst was.
The great pool of water glimmering in the distance was him… He had been a part of her life before this one, and now he called to her again, echoing through time.
Yet, the water that lay ahead was nothing but a mirage.
In her desperation, she learned that her thirst not only birthed the vision of this body of water but also conjured the image of a man cloaked in shadows — his face a hazy blur in the distance.
His eyes pierced through the darkness, and she felt a magnetic pull toward him.
He reached for her… As she hesitantly touched his hand, she felt the roughness of his fingers against her own.
It hardly mattered that, in his pictures, they appeared smooth and uncalloused — now, the harsh texture against her skin sent a shiver of uncertainty through her.
It was a dream, and yet it felt so palpable.
It brought back the memory of the night before, when she had awoken with a heart that ached for reasons unknown, her chest heavy with unspoken fears.
She was falling, and terror gripped her.
Every time he released her hand, it was as though the mere weight of her fingers was too much for him to bear.
She was certain it had to be him, yet the unfamiliarity of his touch twisted within her, a cold wave of doubt.
How many nights had she etched the feeling of him into her memory?
Never once had she recalled such a rough, almost alien sensation.
Was this real or imagined?
The lines between reality and daydreams were indistinct, obscured by the many nights she had conjured him into existence.
His dark and discerning eyes had always left her breathless in past dreams, but never before had she experienced the harshness of his palms.
She knew him.
Or at least, she thought she did.
Somehow, she remembered the gentleness in his touch and the ruggedness of his unshaven face against her hips, but now, everything felt different, unsettling.
This was a new dream — a reality where he was unyielding, and she was pinned beneath him.
She looked deeply into his eyes, silently pleading for him to stay, terrified of the thought of being seen in her rawest form.
There was something profound swaying between them, a fragile connection she craved him to feel.
Yet within that longing trembled the fear of exposing her weaknesses — of being turned away and rendered invisible.
How easy it would be for her to turn and run, to be the one to escape first, to protect herself from the possibility of rejection.
Yet as she stood in that uncertainty, she battled the urge to let him see more of her — wondering if he might discover she was somehow both too much and not enough.
She was torn between searching for his name, craving some sign of his awareness, and reclaiming her power by hiding the parts of herself that he could see.