It happens whenever I’m about to confront something I don’t want to confront.
It feels like a snake writhing atop my stomach, like it’s wearing my diaphragm for a hat.
It’s a nauseous thing.
I’m feeling it now because I know I should admit to Quiet Room Dude (his name is Walter) that I did make little noises to piss him off.
It’s so silly, so trivial a thing. It’s like a speck of dust on a shoulder, so easy to wipe off. But for whatever reason this little speck of dust has summoned a snake in my gut. And there he is, right ahead of me, the cure to my sickness. All I have to do is go over and humble myself, and say “I have a confession. I made little noises to disturb you. I’m sorry.” Even though I got this feeling inside me, I’m smiling at those words. Like, who hasn’t done little things to piss someone off, lol. So yeah, I can smile through this feeling. It’s always like this, this facing a fear. It was like this, even worse, the day I first performed a poem in front of others. It’s going to be there the rest of my life, turning up whenever I don’t want to do something, whenever there’s an obstacle to conquer.
I also feel so pitiful and lame apologizing over such a tiny thing. Like he’d even care? Ya know? But it’s not even about him at this point, it’s as simple as “I feel sick and I don’t want to. If I take action, not only will the sick feeling leave, I’ll feel really good afterwards. I’ve proven this to myself over and over again.” It’s taking your medicine, that’s all it is. And with that, I’m off to confess to good Mr. Walter.
He smiled, and we shared about our lives for a good half hour. I feel free. There’s a smile on my face. There’s no sickness in my gut. And I made a friend, who just smiled and laughed when I told him about the little noises (he didn’t even notice, haha).