Running Into The Fire

My autobiography is a complete departure from my other books (poetry, and a recovery workbook), all safe and sane subjects. This one is unquestionably different-it's a counselor's autobiographical confessional of her own struggle with the family curse of depression, and a heart wrenching description of her 15-year old daughter's suicide, and that counselor happens to be me. A blogger who read an early version said, "It was like crawling up into your soul with you." Writing it was like emptying my soul; evidently it worked-the blogger felt she knew me. Months before the book's launch, I started to get nervous. Nervous, because since the 4th grade I've had a star in my eye, dreaming of the day I'd become an author. I'm still that starry-eyed girl, and as I stood at a precipice looking over the edge, I wasn't sure if I was going to fly or fall with this book. Once you've taken a leap of faith and published a book, does it really matter if it's popular? Isn't the act of leaping what matters the most? What matters is the leap of faith you take all by yourself, when nobody cares or applauds or notices. Those brave moments matter the most; moments when nobody is watching are the moments when character is made. The bravest thing I ever did was to defy the voice in my head that told me to stay quiet, to fade into the background, to hide-and to bury myself with my daughter.

After her death, something deep inside that I didn't even know existed wouldn't let me die. It pulled me off the ground, picked up all the cracked and busted pieces, and said: You will not run from the fire-you will run straight into it. The crazy fighter gene in me rose up to defy that confused and humiliated voice of shame. I turned to face the blaze which had been shadowing me, heat so hot I felt my heart melting. The shame of all my failures stood immovable and immobilizing, its fiery eyes defying me, mocking me. "You'll never be able to do it," it sneered, "you'll never be able to tell the whole truth, because it will ruin you." I was certain it would ruin my career. "People will see how small you are, how powerless," it scoffed. I did feel small-so, so small. It was inching towards me, heat rising like a vat of boiling oil. As it spewed accusations, it dawned on me that if I was already ruined, I had nothing to lose. I had already flopped and failed, and in the biggest way possible. I smiled because I saw I'd been running from shame so long that I'd never stopped to consider doing the opposite. Running into fear might actually be the only thing that could save me. I held my breath, closed my eyes, and dove. I leapt into the flames without any guarantees, without anyone there to pull me back, or to rescue me. The pain took my breath away and singed my heart, but as I fell I didn't burn like I thought I would. The threatening flames evaporated; as I laid my head back on the ground, my hair spilling all around me, I began to laugh. The laughter came bubbling up from the girl inside me. She was laughing because she was forgiven, and because she was forgiven, she was free; girls always laugh when they are free.

My leap of faith required me to forgive myself for my humanity, my shortcomings, and my failures-to defy the shame which had tried to engulf me, and to release my daughter for all time so she could be completely free. That night I wasn't the only soul in the room that was forgiven. When we surrender our self-imposed stories of failure, we become a fresh new page that life can write upon. We are untouchable by the past, innocent as a child. We can also set those around us free. Delighted to be let out into the world again, I run out to play, knowing it's okay to look back, because nothing is chasing me anymore. I sense my daughter doesn't have to look back anymore, either-ever since the day I ran into the fire.

http://www.ninabingham.blogspot.com