Nothing to Fear BUT Fear Itself, Eh?

Photo courtesy of James Huctwith

I'm a weirdass. I admit it. Oh, that's hardly news. Ask anyone who's known me for more than five minutes and they'll happily acknowledge it. I remember my old roommate Will saying once, "Trev's the only person I know who can and WOULD quote Katharine Hepburn on the subject of bouillabaise." The point is, I let things bother me that shouldn't bother me, and I let real-honest-to-God traumas roll off my back. I sweat the small stuff (as the books tell you NOT to do) and give the real Lear-like tragedies in my life a shrug and an "Oh well, THAT sucks large. I wonder what goes well with peanut butter and crackers?"

See what I mean? Weird.

Case in point; I'm finally relaxed now that I'm back at work. Huh? I took last week off to relax and unwind because I was stressed about my workload, and of course, THAT got only worse because all I did was think about it. I came back on Monday and it was all still there, and was as bad as I thought it was, but having seen it, I felt much calmer and quite cheerful about it. Last week, I was a basket case, an anxious mess, constantly imagining some Golgotha like scene awaiting me at my desk with angry emails and phone messages screaming for my termination at any second and now? Now I'm back and have cleared off a few skulls, (by no means all) and feel quite chipper. I'm not a workaholic by any stretch of the imagination, nor am I addicted to the idea of working, but the thought of failing at it occupies my thoughts constantly WHEN I'm not there. When I'm there, its all manageable. When I'm away it all seems large and gargantuan and hopeless.

Call me a weirdass, but I think I sense a pattern here. An old one.

Take this bike rally for example. Every neuron in my body screams, "YES! DO IT! Its the right thing for you to do!" and I know it is, it FEELS right. But I am so nervous before every ride, like its some great test that I'll fail. I've gotten through it so far, and stuck with it, and I'm getting pledges and I'm slowly succeeding, and the people have been awesome, and when I'm doing it, I feel fine and calm and at peace and not lacking in ability at all. When I'm not doing it, the enormity of what I'm attempting seems overwhelming and I think, "What am I doing? Am I insane? Who am I to think I can do this? Exercise to me is running to the bar without tripping, for last call!" And then I remember, "Wait. You've done difficult things before. You'll get through this. There is physically absolutely nothing wrong with you and no reason in the world why you cannot do this. Don't defeat yourself. You'll only fail if you let this fear grip you this badly again." An image of Churchill rings in my ear, quoting the above maxim in the title, and I think, "Yes Uncle Winston, I realize you had the Luftwaffe, Stalin, Lady Astor and the entire British electorate to give the finger to while I have only steep hills and cranky mini-van drivers to contend with, but let's face it, everything's relative."

But back to this fear however. It never leaves. I remember reading a line once that said, "the greatest gift any parent can give a child is freedom from fear." Oh, how that terrible truth has haunted me. My parents, encouraged us to get out there and live, but at the same time, they were afraid for us. And why not? My brother and I were into everything.

In my case, possibly too much. In addition to being physically reckless, (playing on train tracks, climbing anything climbable) I was loudly opinionated too. I didn't possess any tact and would ask the most embarrassing questions at the worst possible time. Children do this. But I'd made it practically a past-time. Where would it end? For my parents, it must have been too much.

I was terribly strong willed and resolute for someone so young, and I think that intensity frightened them. Something happened, and I think it was the three moves to three different cities (and thus three different schools) that we made in three months that did the damage. By age seven the damage was done, and the loud, opinionated, take charge, bossy snotnose had been reduced to a tearful, whispery, painfully shy introvert. Until that point, I was hell on wheels. I'd climb trees and get stuck in them until I finally found my way down, in amongst much screaming and hollering. I ran headlong into trees, walls, fell off bikes, down the stairs, up the stairs, but I survived. I got through everything, and in the back of my mind, I knew I always would. I got into scrapes, but I never got into anything that would physically endanger me. I was klutzy, and inattentive, but I never wandered aimlessly out into traffic, and if I wasn't paying attention to where I was, some instinct always pulled me back out of harm's way. A guardian angel? Who knows? The point was, I KNEW I would be safe. Despite my outside qualms that last to this day, I know, just KNOW, that deep down, I'll be FINE.

When I went to New York City a few years ago, I stayed out all one night wandering the downtown of Manhattan island, just walking, by myself, in awe of the place, and never in danger for a moment. I knew I was safe, I could feel it, because I fell in love with the demon that is New York (to quote Isak Dinesen) and I knew somehow that it would never allow me to come to any harm. I felt like that all the time as a small child, and the truth is, I STILL feel like that, only I forget to realize that and acknowledge that feeling of safety. I imagine that if I ever am truly in danger, I shall feel naked and the hairs on the back of my neck will stand on end, and I will know, "This is it. The gig is up. Your charm has expired." I don't doubt I'll know the truth of it the minute It starts stalking me. The fear I have isn't real, I know it, but on some weird psychological level I believe that it is. Its not logical, but its there. Like a fear of the dark or heights. I sometimes feel like the prisoner of invisible phantoms. Simone de Beauvoir once said, that "nothing, ever, wipes out childhood." and its true, nothing does. But that doesn't mean you can't rebuild.

I've never forgotten that, and in this time in my late thirties where I am trying to parent myself in a way, I am trying to rebuild and give myself freedom from fear, to rediscover that rambunctious pain-in-the-ass I remember from when I was very, very small, before he got SO unpredictable that he scared the hell out of his parents. I don't remember when I stopped being fearless and started doubting my own strength, it was sometime in my sixth year I think. Moving three times in three months might have done it, or perhaps I was aware of things in my world not being as stable as I would have liked, maybe I sensed adult fear, I don't know. Whatever it was, I came away from that year with the feeling (not articulated until years later) that I was somehow emotionally crippled. The spine hadn't snapped, but something had been lamed, the spirit I suppose. It would be lovely to rationalize it all, but what the hell, I was six. What did I know? Perhaps, that's why I'm doing this Bike Rally. In addition to doing something concrete and contributing to an important cause, I'm reclaiming a small bit of that hellion who dared to do what people said he couldn't do. I often think of Nelson Mandela's inaugural speech when he said, “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frighten us. ” If anything ever summed up my entire being, or struggle, for all of my life, it would be those two lines.

If I've done anything in the last twenty years, I suppose I've been trying to strengthen that quality, to take that lame spirit, and make it bold and strong again. Its quite the job, and I may never succeed fully, but I've got to keep trying. What alternative have I got? To give up, give in? Not bloody likely. All I know is, that when I cross that finish line in Montreal, I know I'll have accomplished two things; to strike a blow for a) a worthy cause that makes life a little easier for those who are suffering, and b) something much smaller and personal that only exists in my memory and my imagination; an old self, an idealized self undoubtedly, but mine nonetheless. It may be a weirdass concept, but I think that's something worth fighting for too.