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I can't tell you how badly I wanted to volunteer to do something to help after Hurricane Katrina hit. A lot of the refugees came to Dallas (and I gained a couple of good friends due to that exodus), and volunteers were needed for a lot of things. But despite my intentions and fervent wish to be helpful and ample amount of free time, all I did was donate money. At the time, I blamed it on the shock of being newly single (though there was a reconciliation just around the corner), living by myself, being incredibly lonely and unhappy. But how much of that was allowing myself to be stunned by my circumstances, and how much was me not taking charge of my life?

I've been something of an anxious coward for years. It takes so much effort for me to make scary phone calls (from making healthcare appointments to ordering pizza to calling an old friend, and I wish I was kidding), and more than once, I've driven to an event, driven around to see what I could from the car, and then left feeling foolish, fearing being seen as foolish for trying to participate, being in the wrong place, showing up alone, doing it wrong. I feel like my intentions are written across my forehead and are a source of ridicule to the world. It's kept me from participating in a lot of things, made me back out of commitments, made me afraid to make promises and plans in the first place.

Being too afraid to participate in things is something I've been working on. And I'll admit, part of the reason I'm working on it is because I fear how other people judge me for my cowardice and my willingness to quit. But another part is me being more comfortable with myself, thinking much less about how I'll be judged, because what do the opinions of strangers really count for in most areas of one's life? And why do I think I'll be judged negatively? Outside internet comment boards, the world is generally eager to approve of other people's efforts.

Maggie let me know yesterday that she was proud of me for attending one of the counter-protests against the Westboro Baptist Church in Dallas this past weekend. And I admitted to her that I squelched my urge to flee, driving up and down the streets around the protest looking for both a parking spot and the courage to get out of the car. She said that the Eve she knew a year ago wouldn't have gone at all, and she's right. The Eve of last Friday went, had a good time, and didn't need someone else to come with to make sure she flaunted her space invaders/Futurama sign. I'm sure I would have required company to make me go through with my intentions of showing up a year ago.

I really feel like the support that Maggie's given me, the support I've gotten on this blog, and working out some of my issues with myself by writing blog entries for Fanci Fun Time have been instrumental in helping me be and act a little less afraid of doing things. At any rate, I've started to see more clearly through my own excuses. That's not to say being able to order pizza online instead of calling hasn't been a great improvement to my life, but instead of just whining to myself that doing something would be hard or scary, I ask myself what is stopping me, telling myself it's not that scary, other people do it all the time, etc. That's another thing: the world generally doesn't know your insecurities, and it doesn't judge you for having them unless they cause you to screw up in a major way that affects other people and society at large.

My life might not be the best, but it's the one I'm responsible for making for myself, and I can't be a woman who goes to protests, advocates for animals, writes that damn book already, gets her broken-down body parts examined and fixed (hello plantar fasciitis doctor's visit!), has a successful relationship and great job, has a stable financial situation, and takes awesome trips if I expect someone else to push me out the door or into a desk chair or out of the airlock (wait, what?) to make these things happen.

I am Eve, and I can do things. Not everything. Just many things. And many things I didn't think I could do before.