Fears
by
Michael Walker
January 2000
My fears have
to do with sneaking suspicions. The niggling notions I get about things
that are the result of knowing just enough but not quite enough. Those
moments when the reason for fear is on the tip of my brain stem; almost –
but not quite –
defined in my awareness.
For example, for as far back as I
can remember I have been terrified by the sound of flushing toilets. Not
just any flushing toilets, mind you. Specifically they are the one I have
just used in the middle of a night. Standing before the thing, my hand
poised on its handle, I always find my breath halts. Why? What promotes
the overwhelming fear that - as the sound of the flushing begins
--something horrifying will happen? And why, after flushing, do have to
run like a little boy back to my bed, throwing the covers over my head as
if hiding from a monster will protect me? I do not know the reasons why. I
can vaguely guess causes, feel sensations of comprehension, but it’s
never enough.
A similar one is the fear I have
that if I stand too close to a precipice, I will be compelled to hurl
myself off. Just writing about it, I can feel my chest tightening and
almost hear the sound of wind as it races passed my falling body. I don’t
think I would ever do it, but, still the fear is there. Why? What is this
fear about?
I’m
afraid of other things, too; some of them more concrete than others.
I fear that one day I will lose my
mind and become a drooling idiot in a hospital room. Greater than that,
however, is my angst that all my hidden prejudices will then rise to the
surface. Unbridled by the moral and apologetic nuances of society’s
frowning features, I will cast out obscenities, deriding minority groups,
my parents, authority figures, and my friends. Strangers in the halls will
shake their heads and think me a bad guy.
I’m
afraid I will live longer than anyone I know and that the people left will
see me as a tired old man who is better off dead. Pulling my life support
systems, they will think they’re
doing me a favor.
Other days I’m
afraid I will be thoroughly incapacitated in some fashion. Praying
silently for death from within the shell of my body, no one will hear.
Worse, they’ll;
think they’re
justified in keeping me alive another grueling day.
These ethereal, if not fantastic,
fears are real to me. On the other hand, fears of global starvation and of
having a possible blue night in Madison, Wisconsin, do not fathom me. I’m
more afraid that people will hate me and that I won’t
know the reasons why –
or that, knowing the reasons, I will bend over backwards to snare their
admiration.
I’m
not afraid, either, of growing old and losing my handsome features; I fear
more that I will stay youngish forever, while my friend’s
tire and their bodies wear out. That their resentment of me, stemming from
their believe that I don’t
deserve such grace, will lead to abandonment of me or to my imprisonment
and execution.
Sometimes, I fear that society will
corner me and use my psychotherapist’s
notes against me, mistakenly thinking that I really was in need of
counsel. That they will not understand that life to me was a game; that I
sought out excitement and adventure to give me something to write about.
Which, of course, brings me the one big
fear I have about writing in general and my writing in particular. It is
the fear that when I write down my truths, unabashedly and courageously,
people are threatened by my words. That it is more advisable for me, and
better for society, to write fuzzy pieces about warm and cozy living.. And
by suppressing the true flow of my heart, I can somehow achieve a greater
degree of acceptance.
This is one fear I have about writing.
The second is the sneaking suspicion
I have that my writing proves only that I’m
a narcissistic fool.
-- 30 --Back to
writings contents
Copyright © 2000 by Michael Walker
Michael Walker is a freelance writer in Washington, DC. He is also the founder
and proprietor of
DREAMWalker Group.
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