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when I was scared
Apr. 18th, 2007 03:17 pmI've had a lot of cause lately to think about when I was much younger. This is, of course, a ridiculous statement as I am neither that old nor that inclined to be removed from nostalgia in general. What I find, though, largely, is that I don't mean "When I was younger" so much as I mean "When I was scared."
I was a scared kid. Afraid of heights, bugs, dogs, horses, airplanes, thunderstorms, being unworthy, hurting the feelings of objects and people, so forth and so on. And what I didn't understand as a kid is that cowardice has nothing to do with how you feel and everything to do with how you act. I didn't grok that it was a choice, and I certianly didn't grok that the choice wasn't not to be afraid, but was to engage things I was afraid of anyway, not as an act of show or personal betterment, but because there was often a return on investment.
By and large, or at least when listening to sea chanteys which are inescapably sad, I find myself glad I was a scared kid and a coward for all sorts of weird reasons from finding compassion for people now that I'd probably be less inclinded to have otherwise to knowing simply and pragmatically that my fear made my childhood easier. My parents didn't want a brave child, and I stood out enough without being brash and fearless on top of it all. But what if I had been? In books being "fearless" (which is a pretty stupid concept if you think about it) always makes people hot -- you know, wind whipping through the hair as one leads the grand adventure. How many characters can you think of that have that sort of fearlessness but are also ugly and awkward? Of course, you'll tell me, books exist largely to make things simpler than they are so as to provide escape, whereas I think books largely exist to remind us that things are often simpler and more possible than we think so as to provide hope.
I'm not sure when I stopped being a coward. Let's make no mistake -- dogs still make me very edgy, horses (even when I'm riding them) do make me moderately nervous, heights I can deal with (but that's with a clenched jaw) and if I thought I was over my fear of flying (flying lessons aside) that flight to L.A. before heading on to Sydney certainly proved me wrong. I do still worry pathologically about objects and people feeling abandoned; and in general fret everything down into nothingness. And, of course, in the words of Bob Holman: "Night Fears: Everyone is in love except you."
But I'm not, by and large, a coward anymore. Even if I often still largely have the habits of a coward -- these include procrastination, self-deprication not followed by the word humour, and the need to really really gear myself up to call it like I see it (despite friends who affectionately call me Defender of the Truth and Master of the Obvious). But I do do better, a little bit every day, even if I still have to rehearse and rehearse the answers to the simplest questions ("how are you?") sometimes.
A long time ago, on Mindvox, when I was very young and trying very hard to brazen through things I really didn't want people to know about me (that I was 19, that I was a virgin, that I was a delicate flower of a girl and not Molly goddamn Millions), someone once asked a general question: "What does it all come down to?"
"Impact," I said. And, of course, I still wouldn't disagree. But I'll also say this, it comes down to things like knowing that we come into this world weak and scared and usually leave the same damn way, which is just fine as long as you catch the details along the way, including the details of that fear and that weakness. I've been hurt far more often by people's cowardice than their macliciousness; and I've done harm to people far more often by the same.
We're all scared, and I'm not saying that it isn't interesting. I'm just saying it's not that important. And it makes me have really different, and often tender, feelings towards the people I knew when I was much younger who had to watch my contortions over this stuff, even as they gave advice, tried to ignore the worst of my spirals, and sometimes even exploited the cards I too readily showed.
We do what we can. And it's more than we think.
I was a scared kid. Afraid of heights, bugs, dogs, horses, airplanes, thunderstorms, being unworthy, hurting the feelings of objects and people, so forth and so on. And what I didn't understand as a kid is that cowardice has nothing to do with how you feel and everything to do with how you act. I didn't grok that it was a choice, and I certianly didn't grok that the choice wasn't not to be afraid, but was to engage things I was afraid of anyway, not as an act of show or personal betterment, but because there was often a return on investment.
By and large, or at least when listening to sea chanteys which are inescapably sad, I find myself glad I was a scared kid and a coward for all sorts of weird reasons from finding compassion for people now that I'd probably be less inclinded to have otherwise to knowing simply and pragmatically that my fear made my childhood easier. My parents didn't want a brave child, and I stood out enough without being brash and fearless on top of it all. But what if I had been? In books being "fearless" (which is a pretty stupid concept if you think about it) always makes people hot -- you know, wind whipping through the hair as one leads the grand adventure. How many characters can you think of that have that sort of fearlessness but are also ugly and awkward? Of course, you'll tell me, books exist largely to make things simpler than they are so as to provide escape, whereas I think books largely exist to remind us that things are often simpler and more possible than we think so as to provide hope.
I'm not sure when I stopped being a coward. Let's make no mistake -- dogs still make me very edgy, horses (even when I'm riding them) do make me moderately nervous, heights I can deal with (but that's with a clenched jaw) and if I thought I was over my fear of flying (flying lessons aside) that flight to L.A. before heading on to Sydney certainly proved me wrong. I do still worry pathologically about objects and people feeling abandoned; and in general fret everything down into nothingness. And, of course, in the words of Bob Holman: "Night Fears: Everyone is in love except you."
But I'm not, by and large, a coward anymore. Even if I often still largely have the habits of a coward -- these include procrastination, self-deprication not followed by the word humour, and the need to really really gear myself up to call it like I see it (despite friends who affectionately call me Defender of the Truth and Master of the Obvious). But I do do better, a little bit every day, even if I still have to rehearse and rehearse the answers to the simplest questions ("how are you?") sometimes.
A long time ago, on Mindvox, when I was very young and trying very hard to brazen through things I really didn't want people to know about me (that I was 19, that I was a virgin, that I was a delicate flower of a girl and not Molly goddamn Millions), someone once asked a general question: "What does it all come down to?"
"Impact," I said. And, of course, I still wouldn't disagree. But I'll also say this, it comes down to things like knowing that we come into this world weak and scared and usually leave the same damn way, which is just fine as long as you catch the details along the way, including the details of that fear and that weakness. I've been hurt far more often by people's cowardice than their macliciousness; and I've done harm to people far more often by the same.
We're all scared, and I'm not saying that it isn't interesting. I'm just saying it's not that important. And it makes me have really different, and often tender, feelings towards the people I knew when I was much younger who had to watch my contortions over this stuff, even as they gave advice, tried to ignore the worst of my spirals, and sometimes even exploited the cards I too readily showed.
We do what we can. And it's more than we think.
