Fear Itself

The other day on NPR, I listened with interest as a reader described his list of personal fears.  It was a quirky and provocative list of everyday things, many of which were not particularly worrisome to me, until I chose to dwell upon them.  It made me take stock of my own fears which, in turn, caused me to realize how my fears had changed over the many stages of my life.

As a very young child, my fears were rooted in home life.  I was afraid my parents would not love me if I misbehaved.  I was afraid my brother would hurt my dolls.  I was afraid we would have peas with dinner.  As I journeyed through a child’s awakening, my fears reflected a growing sense of mortality.   I feared shots at the doctor’s office.  I feared the chicken pox, mumps and German measles that we were all destined to contract.   I feared death, until one day I declared to my mother that death was nothing to be afraid of.  After all, I reasoned, you do not know you are dead, and in that state you could feel no pain.  She ruined this simplistic mental model, however, by pointing out that if were to perish my grandparents would most certainly die of sadness.  Then I feared for their lives, so much closer were they to old age than I.

Education, and the knowledge that comes with exposure to all manner of things, wreaked havoc with my sense of well-being.  It made me increasingly aware of the world around me, which seemed rigged with of all sorts of traps just waiting to ensnare innocent little girls.   There were poisonous plants, which could be disguised as beautiful flora.  There were rockpits and canals that were swimming deathtraps.  There were household poisons, which could be mistaken for benign substances.  What if I accidentally washed my hair with roach spray or ammonia-laced window cleaner?   Cigarettes were bad and could kill you.  Why, then, did my grandmother, and my uncle, and so many others smoke all the time?

It was a rude awakening to realize that we may fear each other.  Increasingly, I was taught that not all people had my best interests at heart; some people lived to do me harm.  I feared that I would not be able to distinguish one from another.  Policemen in uniform were good.  Strangers beckoning you to their cars were bad.  But what if a bad man put on a police uniform?  I wondered whether people were inherently good or bad, or whether we are all born the same and only some became bad.  I was afraid that people I knew and loved could turn out to be bad people.   I became increasingly afraid of bad men who would want to break into my home.  Every night before going to bed I would look out my bedroom window to see if anyone was waiting there to come in.   I would practice hiding under my covers and holding my breath, creating the illusion (in my mind) that I could go undetected in the event of a break-in. 

Then came a broader global awareness.  We were Americans, the lucky ones.  We have liberty and democracy, not to mention the most beautiful lands, and the greatest country on Earth.  Other people in other lands are jealous or resentful.  This, I was taught, was why there were wars.  I saw scenes of war on television, being fought on the other side of the globe.  What if those people came to our country and wanted to have wars here?  I became afraid of guns and bombs falling out of the sky. 

Transitioning into young adulthood, my fears reflected my own growing independence.  I worried about becoming established in a good career and being able to support myself.  I became afraid of the monotonous rhythm of life; adults did not have as much fun as kids.  Would the fun of youthful enterprise necessarily give way to the daily grind I had witnessed in the adult lives of others?  I feared growing old alone.  I worried about whether I could find a lasting love and a great companion with whom to share the good and the bad.  

After marriage, my fears took on a different tone yet again.  I greatly feared for the wellbeing of my husband, frequently experiencing frightening dreams of his demise.  When we bought our first house, I feared the magnitude of it all: a thirty year mortgage, property taxes, repairs, liability.  I feared fires (I actually caused a small fire in our first home because I had stored a collection of acrylic paints in the heater closet), earthquakes, and floods.  More frightening, however, was the fear that our appliances would conspire against me, waiting until the worst possible moment to coordinate an attack on my ability to do laundry, wash the dishes, and cook a meal.

Nothing amped up my fear factor like having kids.  I learned that there is a special kind of helplessness that a mother feels for the wellbeing of her children.  I realize that they may experience pain and disappointment that I am powerless to cure, or solve, or take away.  I fear that they will be hit with too much before they are ready, or that I may not have given them enough strength and knowledge to cope on their own.  I had difficulty watching my son play hockey, more so as he and his teammates got older and bigger, hitting harder and harder.  There are too many reminders across New England of freak accidents that left kids paralyzed.  The single most frightening moment in my life, however, was the first time I handed my son the keys to the car.  Every time one of my kids gets behind the wheel of a car I tell them that I love them; I fear that it will be the last.  When it comes to my children, who are now young adults, I fear that I cannot let go.  I also fear that if one day I can, I will not find another center in my life.

Today, I fear the news.  I see Trayvon Martin, a young boy in Tampa who was shot walking down the street talking on the phone with his girlfriend.  His attacker, claiming self-defense (but with strong evidence to the contrary) remains free.  I fear for our future if people do not learn to embrace diversity and individualism.   I see politicians attacking each other instead of working to making our lives better.  I see wars that have poorly defined objectives, making it difficult to plan exit strategies.  I fear that much that I was taught to believe about America and Americans is largely untrue.

I see people of every conceivable color and persuasion trying to live their lives honestly and peacefully.  I see fear in their eyes that some force they do not see or understand is working to take it away.  I fear that we have lost the ability to find common ground.  I fear that we have forgotten how to compromise.  I fear that we are losing our humanity.  I fear that fear is becoming the law of the land.

Tomorrow's blog:  Practical Magic