On cowardice

You know that sensation? Like having a very heavy backpack hanging from your shoulders and pressing down on your chest? The one that crosses the line between emotion and physical sensation.

That sensation is anxiety. Worry. Fear. Pain seeping out and making your breathing heavy.

And you are saying to yourself: “Hey, Sisyphus, you bloody idiot, this has nothing to do with cowardice!”

But bear with me.

If we agree that bravery is not the absence of fear, then, using a bit of bad math, we can also say that cowardice is not the absence of bravery.

And in that case, I can call you a coward to your face and get away with it.

Cowardice is so bad that we use it as an insult. It is something we men learn to fear since we are kids. Bravery and honor are the way. In wartime, cowards get shot like traitors. And when things get hard, you are expected to bravely put your life on the line for others, even if your instinct, the most primitive voice in your mind, tells you that you need to lie down and soil yourself so you look unappetizing to the predator, like a hognose snake doing thanatosis.

But those definitions of cowardice are too wide, too open, too categorical. And there is a kind of cowardice that is perfectly acceptable.

If soldiers can be executed under the charge of “cowardice in the exercise of duty,” then this charge has a name too:

Cowardice in the exercise of duty to yourself.

And, accepting that, we can define cowardice as inactivity when faced with something that needs to be done.

Are you uncomfortable yet?

It will get worse.

Possibly worst.

It doesn’t matter who you are, what you do, or how much risk you take. There is something, someone, somewhere, that you just won’t face.

Even if it is just telling your honest opinion to someone’s face.

There is something you are too much of a coward to do. And if it is something irrelevant, fine. Congratulations. You have found the luxury version of cowardice. The artisanal, hand-crafted, low-stakes kind.

Like when they bring you regular Pepsi instead of Coke Zero and you say nothing.

Which, by the way, could be excellent practice for growing a pair.

But if the thing you are avoiding matters, if it is a conversation, a decision, an apology, a goodbye, a beginning, a wound, a truth, a duty, then that inactivity starts becoming something else.

Not fear.

Not prudence.

Cowardice.

And if your fear of dying alone — you will — not being good enough — you aren’t — or not being able to manage that XXXL sounding rod — you can’t, you’ll hurt yourself — keeps you from doing what you know needs to be done, then congratulations again.

You have not discovered wisdom.

You have not discovered prudence.

You have found cowardice wearing a fake mustache and calling itself “self-care.”

The thing about cowardice is that sometimes it is good.

That fearful apathy protects you. It keeps your feet on the ground. It prevents you from sounding yourself with the equivalent of an ICBM.

And for that, we should be grateful.

There are fears that exist because your body has read the manual and your brain has decided to improvise with crayons.

Some avoidance is not cowardice. Some avoidance is your last functional neuron standing in front of the blast door saying: “No, absolutely not, we are not doing this today.”

But that emotion, like every other is advice.

Nothing more.

Fear is information. It is not command.

And sometimes, there is no room for fear.

No room for delay.

No room for cowardice.

And in those cases, delay is poison.

Sometimes cowardice is like a toxic boyfriend listening in on a call while you have breakfast with your friend, making sure nothing inappropriate happens, ensuring you do not have fun, and above all, making sure you do not break out of his control.

In this context, cowardice comes from an illusion of control.

A little ceteris paribus fantasy.

The coward believes that if he does nothing, nothing will change. If he does not speak, nothing will break. If he does not decide, nothing will be lost. If he does not move, the monster will eventually get bored and leave.

But the monster does not leave.

The monster starts charging rent.

And, as anyone who has dealt with renters knows, kicking one out is a complicated process.

Really, landlords are the devil, renters are no better, the whole housing thing is a scam, and perhaps the only reasonable solution is to shut down society, jump into the sea, and wait a couple million years until we become some dolphin-shaped weird thing that does not pay rent or taxes.

But until evolution grants us tax-free fins, we are stuck here.

With the monster.

With the rent.

With the thing we still have not done.

And with reality.

Have you ever had one of those days when everything feels heavy as fuck?

Has it turned into a week?

A month?

A year?

A few years?

With the right level of depression — and avoidance can absolutely feed depression — and a few hard-to-escape situations, death can start looking hopeful, because it ends every problem.

But it does not solve them.

That is the horrifying truth.

Getting rid of the monster requires work.

Nothing else will do.

Does that mean you should call your high school crush to tell her all the confusing, frankly weird, and out-of-focus things you used to fantasize about the two of you doing?

Fuck no.

Let her be.

Nor do you need to drink a quart of milk if you are lactose intolerant.

But in every person’s life, there are situations that need to be solved. Some of them are actively, even if slowly, killing them. Others are hurting them in ways that would make Pavlov nod approvingly, teaching an otherwise healthy, potentially happy being that happiness is dangerous, privacy is a privilege, and freedom is not for them.

Nobody will fix the situations you refuse to face.

Nobody but you.

“It’s you. You have all the weapons you need. Now fight.” — Sucker Punch

And remember, sometimes all the fight entails, is letting go.