I almost wrote a bunch of words about realization.  They flowed from my fingers with uncontrolled passion.  As they jammed against each other on the cold white page of this blog window, their fury overwhelmed me.  I could not let them stand.  Highlight — delete — then start over again.  I’m left with this truth:

I never acted from the desire to be right or wrong; from the need to win or lose.

 Fear drove me. 

Fear of being left.

Fear of being unloved.

Fear of waking alone and hearing only the echo of retreating footsteps.

Fear of the raised hand, the elevated voice, the beet-red face, the spew of expletives.  Fear of the stony silence.  Fear of the disapproving glare.  Fear of the face in the mirror.  Fear of the quivering inside me.

This “year without complaining” has never been about self-improvement.

Always:  It has been a journey to a place without fear, without the moments of lying in a darkened room wondering what the slamming door portends.

A journey to acceptance.  A journey to joy.