Fearful
Thoughts of feeling afraid
I’m not particularly daring — not when there’s a chance (or even the suggestion of a chance) of physical harm befalling me.
There are few things I do fearlessly. There’s no inner daredevil hiding out inside of me. I will never skydive. I’m not getting on the back of a motorcycle. I don’t find riding rollercoasters thrilling. I don’t want to climb Everest or swim with sharks.
I haven’t always been this way. As a kid I was bold. I hadn’t been hurt much, and so I didn’t know how to fear pain. My timidity developed with age — with each cut that needed stitches, each broken finger (of which there were many), and that dislocated shoulder didn’t help any.
Back when I felt my most beautiful and graceful in pink tights and a tutu, I used to want a motorcycle. Riding the bus on my way home from ballet class, I’d pass a motorcycle shop. And each time I did, I would eye the display and daydream about riding my black Harley.
As a kid I’d climb and run and hang upside-down without fear. Now, when I’m running up or down stairs (say trying to catch the subway), I almost always imagine losing my footing, falling forward, and knocking out my front teeth. That fear makes me slow down, or at least hold on to the railing.
