A Softer Kind of Armor

So I was sitting in the doctor's office last week, feet in stirrups, speculum looming in the immediate future and suddenly, I was tripping all over myself to explain to my new doctor (a woman as kind and gentle and compassionate as you would ever want to meet) exactly how to find my cervix. 

"Um, so- I guess have a really long vagina and my cervix is really hard to find, so I'll just tell you now that I need, like, the longest speculum you have." I said all of this through a cheerful smile, much like how someone would specify exactly how they liked their medium-skim-vanilla-wet-latte-in-a-large-cup, somewhat apologetic for the ridiculousness of the request, but also not willing to shell out $4.16 for a drink that is not quite right.

"Don't worry," said my doctor, "I am 100% confident in my abilities." And she proceeded to tell me where to relax and how. "Oh dear," she said as I forced myself to relax (a paradox particularly cruel when in stirrups) "you have had a bad pap."

I left, after a thoroughly improved gynecological experience thanks to my cheerful doctor and her new, softer, plastic speculum with light inside the tool. The whole procedure was so much better than my previous experiences-- the metal speculum, a hot bulb shining at my crotch, repeated insertions and removals, the smell of my own sweat, angling and agreement, that, well, yes, it is a tricky cervix to find, let's try one more time, just try to relax, don't tense. It was a relief. I had a renewed faith in the medical field.  

After leaving, I started to think about fear. I felt proud of myself. I feared the gynecologist and yet I went, again, and dealt with the fear. 

Of course, as a sexually active woman, I had no choice. I needed birth control pills, hence I needed a prescription, hence I needed a physical, hence I needed a pap. Fear was a luxury I sacrificed for the greater good.

It's not the only time I have sacrificed this luxury, fear. In fact, as I started to think about it, it's the only way I deal with fear. I plunge into the fear and beat at it. I slip on the gloves, pull on the shit-kickers, strap on my ammo belt... I don't allow myself to be afraid. Spider in the closet? WHAM! no more. Centipede running along the basement hallway? Not through the cloud of Raid I spray as thick as fog. Cute boy in the corner of the bar? I would much rather try to kiss him than fear talking to him. I don't do fear. 

Thinking about this method of attack made me realize I don't reserve my weapons and armor for my physical fears alone. I wear them everyday to cope with my fear of being disliked. My smile is my armor and my charm a weapon. I please people unconsciously and effortlessly, like scratching an itch or brushing hair out of my eye. I live behind a shield. I brandish  kindness daily. I barricade myself from the emotion of fear, from the fear of being disliked, from the heavy shame of perhaps being unlovable.

And to be honest, I think I am getting tired of all this fighting. I want to retire from the battlefield and hang up the weaponry. Of course, I am not exactly sure how to do this. How does a person begin to feel an emotion they have resisted for so long? Perhaps, just as I admitted my fear to my doctor, admitting my fear to myself is taking the first step.