The Fear and the Hurting

Every ten years or so I eat beets just to see if I still hate them. Sure enough, no matter how you slice, cook, steam, or candy them, beets are the most disgusting food in the world to me. The only time I have ever enjoyed them was shredded for a sweetener in a chocolate cake. Even Oprah can recommend that one, see here.

Some things can be gotten over, some not. I don't even want to get over my hatred of beets, but every now and then I test it out.

Yeah, I'm going up there.

Fear is another thing entirely. Fear has often ruled my life, in big ways and small. Generally timid as a kid, I carry into my adulthood specific areas of anxiety. (See, I've learned a bigger vocabulary now, but the feelings are the same.) I tend not to rush into things, take new experiences cautiously, and don't go where I "have no business" going.

At the age of about four, my sister and I went on the Ferris wheel at the fair. The rocking of the seats scared me a little right away. The wheel went up one stage: I was very frightened. By the time the wheel went up two more stages, I was screaming so much the operator, protesting that he never does this, put the wheel into reverse and let me get off. I couldn't have been more than 20 feet off the ground. It was the Ferris wheel equivalent of the kiddy pool. But I felt totally disconnected from anything solid. I was floating in the air, bound to fall and get hurt.

That fear, not exactly a fear of heights, but it's hard to pinpoint otherwise, has always been with me.

I tested out a ropes course once. Also known as a challenge course, these are the wires strung between poles that you climb and do a tightrope walk while your team mates hold onto the harnesses and cheer you on. Somehow it's meant to teach team work and, yes, make you face and overcome your fear. (I did the Husky Challenge at St. Cloud State University, see it here.)

Well, I did that: I managed (fully tethered and safe) to walk from the pole out to the center of the wire. Yea! faced that fear. Getting back to the pole wasn't as easy.

Once out onto the wire, fear and panic had me. Gentle, calm encouragement from the trainer got me back to the pole. Once hanging on to the pole, however, I could not climb down. This is what is known as being "petrified." For once, mind and body were in total unison: don't move, don't let go.

I told Sean, My Tormentor this story the other day, after bouldering in Joshua Tree National Park. He tried empathy, "Yeah, when I was a kid..."

"I was 35," I said.

 Gene, showing no fear.

The common notion that you can do something to "overcome" your fears is crap, Dear Reader. Face your fears, conquer them once and for all. Crap.

I read that TV's Craig Ferguson had become a pilot to overcome his fear of flying. To that I say, Bullshit, Cheeky Monkey. Some fears are not overcome. They may be temporarily bested, but they are still there and there is no predicting when they will come back.

Bouldering seems a mix of hiking and rock climbing. In Joshua Tree, there are rock outcroppings that go quite high. Not shear cliff rock here, but big boulders arranged in artful compositions.
Think of the scene in Galaxy Quest where Tim Allen is fighting the Rock Monster.

In fact, I could structure an argument that Galaxy Quest is all about facing your fears and becoming a team. That would be very easy, so Reader, I leave it to you to do for yourself.

At Joshua Tree, I had two warning signals. I heeded them and pressed on. Climbing up some of these rocks was difficult, but I first felt really anxious at the very top of one. There did not seem to be enough room for everyone at the top, and the other side was a very quick drop off into oblivion. Cheryl and I held onto each other until we could make the climb down.

There we are huddled at the top (thanks Maria for the photo).

It was the final descent that did me in. We had scaled to the highest peak, a climb that was precarious, but not particularly difficult. I declined to make the final jump across a crevasse as two of our group did. The view was spectacular, and we were all very pleased with ourselves. I was the last in the line to head down, and right away I felt the second warning go off. I watched the others go back the way we came, and a gap that had seemed small on the way over was now practically a gorge going back. Cheryl and Franco talked me through it. Feeling fine, I continued down the rocks.

The next and last challenge was a nearly vertical descent. Here Cheryl and Franco approach it, with Gene below:

From where Gene is standing, it's another drop of about 100 feet.

It probably didn't help that I was the last in the group to make this descent. Or that I couldn't actually see how the others were doing it.

Geologists can explain how the boulders are cut through with harder rock seams (called "dikes" according to the Park Service). One of these seams formed a small shelf just below the rim of the rock. It looked a little like a horizontal staircase. Somehow, I was supposed to use this to get down.

My mind and body were once again working in perfect unison and telling me again: don't move, don't let go of the rock. Cheryl and Franco tried to talk me through it but I could not will my hands to move to the next safe spot nor my feet to lower to the next ledge. I was stuck. It seemed like forever and was probably three minutes.

Sean (who, I suppose, I should stop calling my "tormentor" and call my "teacher") was the first to go down the rock this way, and he bounded back up to help. He not only talked me through the moves, he managed to balance himself and use his own body to steady mine. I rested on him in order to move away from the boulder and down the shelf to the next solid spot.

 Sean, My Teacher, who has no fear.

On the ride home, someone said, "you made it down, though, you conquered your fear."

Not really. I met my fear, recognized it, and yielded to it. I am, and remain, powerless when gripped by this enormous anxiety. In all three of these instances, I got through it with the help of others. I have not "conquered" my fear. It is still there and will, at some time, come back.

I don't know what I would have done if I had been alone on that rock. But then, I would never be there alone.

I will, however, still try new experiences that take me out of my "comfort zone." I will do so knowing that I could be faced with a similar situation. The support of friends, and certified professionals, will get me through.

Oh, and did I mention I sprained my ankle?