Fear of Fear of Fear

I want to share with you all a story of fear—that is, not a piece of fiction that is meant to scare you, using the front of supernatural forces or the inherent insanity of man to induce biochemical reactions. No, ignore that wordy introduction. I apologise, I have lost my hold on words, and on my preoccupation to appear more intelligent. 

Back to the point, I wish to share with you my thoughts on fear. Or, not thoughts. Perhaps instances that has recently brought fear into my tiny, tired heart. All of them merely mundane artifacts of everyday life. What excitement awaits she who has sacrificed her imagination for the sake of an illusion of stability? 

To illustrate the mundane origins of my fears, let me share with you a rather mundane, yet droll incident: this afternoon, I chanced upon a moment in class wherein I had to open a rather heavy door. Needing to go to the bathroom, I stood up, grabbed my pack of tissues, clearly having the intent to relieve myself. I attempted to discreetly walk to the door and to escape to the open field, while causing the most minimal obstruction to the view of the people at the back as I did so. However, upon reaching the heavy door, I found myself being unable to open it. Assuming it locked, I went back in a huff, back into my seat. Minutes later, a boy from class also went to the door, and opened it with little difficulty. Apparently, it had not been locked at all. Feeling very stupid, I rushed in after him, the door closing behind him. I was able to open it this time with no difficulty at all.

What fear could that incident have given me? You’d be surprised. I thought myself very stupid, and besides my embarrassment I felt actual fear that I was losing the ability to do things by myself. I had always been a dependent person, always desperately giving off the facade of being independent. Opening a simple door has been a challenge, and I failed to face up to it.  

So there. Mundane things have recently been causing me fear. Perhaps worry is a more appropriate word. Everyday things in life caused me worry and pain, and that in itself is fearful. Lack of money, loss of interest in friends, and family, and my work. Degenerating into a lazy, directionless fool, without any means of surviving by herself. How scary it is. 

I have other fears as well, ones that most people can relate to, such that sometimes I wonder whether I’m losing touch of reality. Sometimes I am afraid of walking down the street and having everything I have stolen. Sometimes I’m afraid that, walking by myself at night, I get killed. And, naturally, I will never see anyone I love again, will never hold any of them again. I am afraid of losing my direction, of my prayers being fundamentally wrong and never reaching beyond the circle of my own senses. I am afraid of loss. Of losing everything. 

And sometimes I wish for something concrete to be scared about. If I perch myself atop a cliff, slip and just barely grasp and climb up again over the edge, the tremours I’d feel afterward might just be enough to ground me back here on this reality, get me unstuck from the future and the past.