FEAR

Chrissy Ann

In the past few months, I've discovered the subtle differences between being scared and being frightened and being afraid.

Being scared is a rush of adrenaline.  It's roller coasters and watching "The Shining" at night with the lights off.  It's speaking in front of a large group of people.  It's daring.  It's death-defying, even though the possibility of actual death is remote.  It's that tickle in your stomach that may or may not reproduce lunch.  And your head gets swimmy.  And you can hear the blood pounding in your ears.  And your heart attempts to beat through your chest wall.  In all, being scared is delicious because you know that it's momentary.  It's fleeting.  And when it's done, you may just want to do it all over again.

Being frightened is close but more spontaneous.  It's a near-miss car accident.  It's being lost in thought and somebody you never knew was there coming up behind you to ask a question.  It's a surprise birthday party in your honor and that split-second after the first shout rings out.  And you thought everyone had forgotten. Being frightened is thunder and lightening and howling winds.  Being frightened calls for instinctive responses from your body.  And your heart stops.  And your breath catches, prompting you to remind yourself to draw the next one.  And you stifle a scream.  Or maybe not.

Being afraid is much more akin to dread.  It's sensing that someone knows your darkest deed, the secret that could make or break you.  It's putting something important on the line without being entirely sure why.  It's dying quickly.  Or slowly.  It's losing someone vital to your existence.  It's worrying over the worst case scenario.  It's trying to move and not being able to.  It's wanting to feel and yet not wanting to feel anything.  And your stomach roars in upheaval.  And your heart chugs sluggishly within your rib cage.  And your head aches.  And your eyesight goes blurry.  And your otherwise sane thought process gives way to paranoia.  And you let it.

So what are you scared of?  What frightens you?  What makes you afraid? Or maybe the better question in my case: what's left to be afraid of?  As it turns out, plenty. Just when I thought it had all been done.  T-shirt bought.  Movies rights sold.  At the ripe old age of 27, I was secure in my triumph over adversity. It was gonna be cool breezy sailing from here on out.  Truly, what are the odds of my being here writing this silly little piece versus my cashing it all in on a bet that instant karma was going to be more gracious to me in my next life?  Slim, baby.  I've stared down my demons and they all have names. And they blinked first.  What could possibly faze me now? I'm talking about the ultimate, "x-games", double dog dare.  The challenge. The risk.  The act of supreme courage.  For me anyway.

About a million years ago, in another life, when my eyes were bright and my thirst for life was still genuine, a wizard of a boy sold me on "the Fairy Tale".  And I bought it.  My fledgling cynicism had not yet taken root in my soul, so why not?  Better yet, why not me?  And the fairy tale goes like so: The shiny sparkle of true love.  Somewhere out there is someone absolutely meant for you.  And you're not merely going to fall in love, you're going to define your nights and days by this person.  In essence, you'll fall in life with this person.  It will happen.  It's fate.  It's destiny.  Brush up on your harlequin romance, sweetie, because this love will be worth living and dying and killing for and it happens to everybody.  Gimme a break, I was 16.

And since everybody knows that here I sit, not a princess rescued from the dark castle by prince whats-his-name, that somewhere along the way, this fated, destined promise of happiness in a forever sort of way went horribly awry. But I had it, I tell ya!  I was living the fairy tale!  And just my luck, I lost it.  The hows and whys are not as important as the fact that once I found out that the fairy tale was just smoke and mirrors, the walls went up, the moat was dug, and the spell was cast that kept any real emotion I might have had left over laying dormant for a thousand years. My life has become a Hank Williams pain song, leaving only the fear that the fairy tale would either never happen again.  Or that it would.  I can't recall which I decided would be worse. And hey-so far as the fairy tale is concerned, only one prince what's-his-name's per customer, buddy.  Unless prince-what's-his-name was really a frog in disguise and a dress rehearsal for the real prince.  Who really knows for sure?

Who ever heard of the fairy tale giving an encore performance?  We all know the stories by heart.  And we know how they end, so why go into summer reruns with them?

Once upon a time, a girl wandered about the walls and halls of her empty castle, lonely but safe.  She had nothing to fear within these stacks of stones.  No one came, but then nobody ever left either.  The echoes of her own laughter and tears kept her company.  She paid no mind to the passing of time or the curious, would-be visitors, who tried with all their might to beat down the doors and break down the walls.  And she sleepwalked through her days and daydreamed through her nights, constantly reminding herself how lucky she was to have become so hip to flights of fancy and so wise to the pink, gauzy clouds of that grand illusion of love that spelled the end of so many other girls in castles.  Risky business, that love-stuff.  But castles, even of the strongest stone, eventually get beaten down by rain and sun and wind and the world; and begin to crumble and decay.  One day, the girl was wandering the hallways of the castle and she noticed a hole in the rock!  It was about the size of grapefruit.  And she heard a voice coming from the other side of the wall.  And surprisingly, the person speaking was talking to her like he knew her.  He sang the sweetest songs.  And his words were poetry.  And oddly familiar, as if she'd heard them some time before. Impossible, that she'd recognize a voice or words or songs, since she didn't really recall a time before life in the castle.  Days passed and everyday she went to hear the voice and the words and the songs.  And the hole grew to the size of a basketball, then a stop sign, and soon to the size of a Volkswagen Beetle.  Through it, she could feel the warmth of the sun's light and see the technicolor world outside the castle.  In a moment of bravado, she started to crawl through the gape in the stone and as she did, she realized, she no longer heard the voice or the songs or the poetry.  And it occurred to her, just a moment too late, that this was an awful mistake.  The castle rocked and quaked, crashing around her, crushing her, killing her.

I suppose it could've ended happily, but the fact is that it didn't/doesn't. I may be scared of the darkness and loneliness of my castle. I may be frightened by what may or may not be around every next corner.

But I am afraid to leave the safety of my walls and moats. I have sabotaged every relationship since what's-his-name (that's prince, to You!) And I know it. I have willed them all to fail and I know it. I've thrown temper tantrums. I've lied. I've cheated. I've tossed every monkey wrench I can find into the works. I'm afraid to feel anything real for anyone I'm not directly related to (and some of them are iffy). I'm afraid to let anyone close to me; they might steal the best parts of me and leave. I'm so much more than the person I show you.

And I know it.