I'm Stuck and Scared

"I'm stuck and I'm scared."

Something had set me off as we were setting out for a walk, and five minutes of gasping sobs were just slowing into hiccup-sobs when Cam passed me sunglasses, walked out into the sunlight, turned, and extended his hand across the threshold.  

We'd made it a block when I sob-sputtered those words. I go on, "I—I want to update your blog. I got a message from a friend of yours yesterday, and sh-she said that you've affected thousands of people. That's why I started the blog—because other people love you, and I'm the one here with you—" 

And the words gush out again because it soothes to free them: "But I'm stuck and scared. And I don't think I want to write that on a blog."

And then the beauty happens. The reassuring voice I love makes it past the tears. Miraculous to me, his words penetrate through mangling fears that have stymied my voice—both on a blog and in general—for a month: 

"I think it's just fine for a blog. I think it's even a great first line."

I'm so light, now that he's made fear look naked and weak. I'm so light in this miraculous moment, that I almost feel giggly as I realize the tableau we're making. "I feel like a toddler. I'm c-c-crying while I hold your hand and w-w-walk up the sidewalk."

Cam's voice smiles. "That's okay. At least you're not throwing a tantrum on the ground."

I still sound like an oxygen-deprived Muppet. "What if I did? What if I flopped to the ground and pounded my fists and stomped my feet and screamed that it's not fair?"

"That would be okay. Whatever you need to do is okay. The sidewalk's pretty nasty, but if that's what helps, who cares?"