Facing Fear

Yesterday, I went hiking with my husband in a national park in Hong Kong. We went off the trodden path and veered off onto a narrow, craggy trail that looked like it hadn’t been used in a while. This trail was covered on both sides with mulchy earth, gravel, shrubbery, undergrowth and sharp spiky things that scraped my shins and elbows and almost poked my eyes out. It was a steep uphill slog, and after about an hour of grabbing onto rocks and roots imbedded in the ground and crawling upwards along this claustrophobic track, we reached a rock face with no earth, no shrubs, no gravel and no loose rocks or branches to hold on to. The only way up was along a huge slab of imposing naked granite. We were about one thousand, three hundred feet above ground and it was about fifty feet to the summit. I was going to have to climb a fifteen-foot rock wall that jutted out of the side of the mountain at a seventy-degree vertical incline.

My husband led the way and I followed. I was terrified. I imagined losing my grip, falling backwards, the back of my skull cracking open after greeting the sharp edge of a hard and vicious boulder. I wrapped my body over the rock slab, looking only at the next groove that I could grip onto. I blotted out the images of blood, shattered bone and pain that the projector in my mind had decided to screen. I looked at how confident my husband seemed in the situation, I focused on the certainty he expressed that we would be okay. I took faith from him and pushed onwards. I moved like a lizard and was amazed at what my human form was capable of. My shoulders felt strong and simian as I put my weight on my palms, lifting my upper torso and heaving my feet onto the slim flat ledges that started to reveal themselves on the rock’s surface. Slowly I made it on to a bivouac where my husband was waiting for me.

We gave each other a high five and I told him how scared I was and that for a moment, I thought I might fall and die. “But it’s the most alive you’ve felt in a while isn’t it?” he asked. We talked about how overcoming fear was a most exhilarating experience. My husband said that in therapy and self-help books they always talk about overcoming fears, but that even physically, doing the things we’re afraid of makes for tremendous spiritual growth. I had never thought of it that way before. Perhaps pushing our physical limits does develop character, virtues of persistence and courage and increase our faith in positive outcomes. That would explain why the Hindus practice walking on coals, the Thais pierce their cheeks with knives and spikes, and the Satere Mawe boys in the Amazon stick their hands into jars of angry fire ants to prove that they have become men.

As a child, I was afraid of everything. In particular of the sea and of interacting with other human beings. My parents would take me out to a beach in Desaru, Malaysia. This beach was fringed with frothy white foam, its waters were a dark and ominous jade green and it roared. It churned with choppy with waves that were about four feet high and as a five year-old, that was very high. The moment our car pulled into the car park next to the beach I would start whining, not wanting to meet what I saw to be a furious and impatient sea. My parents would do their best to calm me down, telling me know much fun it would be if I would just relax and let the waves cradle me. But I imagined that these waves were intent of swallowing me and dragging me out to sea where the sharks were waiting for lunch. So I would do no more that stick the tip of my toes on the ribbon of foam that licked the shore.

After plenty of coaxing and molly coddling, my parents finally had enough. They stuck two children’s floaties on my scrawny arms and mom grabbing my left arm and dad grabbing my right arm; they dragged me with them into the water. I had no choice but to float along between these two grown-ups who seemed to feel that the sea had no desire to harm us. Once I’d calmed down a little, they would release my arms and I would bob unsupported, except for cheap orange plastic in the sea. I would freak out and paddle my little legs frantically, moving towards my parents. After what seemed like a long push, I’d finally end up in my mom’s arms and would cling to her like a parasite. My eyes and nose would sting from the salt water and I would be desperate to get back on land. But then, with one playful toss, my mom would throw me off her and into the arms of an approaching breaker and before I knew it, a blanket of water would come crashing above my head, filling my nose, ears, mouth and eyes with the burning sensation of salt.

At twenty, I once again had to confront my aversion to the sea. I was dating a man who was the captain of a wooden sailboat in Indonesia. He had built this boat from scratch, was living in it and had invited me to visit. The boat, a pretty, old-fashioned blue and red darling named Shakti was anchored in deep waters about a thousand feet from the shore. To get to sland, I had to swim till my arms, thighs and butt hurt. When I stopped to thread water and get some air, I would look around me and become aware of how vast the ocean was and how tiny I was. I would imagine the millions of living things, some with big teeth and venomous stings that moved below me, perhaps only inches away from my toes. and I would pick up speed and head shoreward. Sometimes the currents were so strong that no matter how hard I kicked my legs and separated the waters with my arms, I would still be at the same spot. Sometimes, the currents would gently push me against a giant coral that would take some skin off my knee. Sometimes it would move me sideways, away from the boat or land and again the fear of being swept away would visit. But I always made it to shore eventually.

Once, I was swimming near the boat. As I neared the bow, I saw a mouth, as large as a cave door approaching me from the other side of the bow. It was a giant fish, like nothing I’d ever seen. I was stuck in the water with a prehistoric monster and I knew I had to get away. I back peddled as quickly as I could to the ladder in the middle of the boat. Thankfully the beast was slow and I managed to pull myself up to safety. My heart was pounding and I felt grateful to be alive. I yelled for my boyfriend and he came running out. We looked down at the side of the boat and saw the thing. It was a thirty-foot long whale shark with a head and mouth that was about ten feet wide. According to my boyfriend, whale sharks are harmless plankton feeders and pose no danger to us humans. He was excited and he put on his snorkels and fins and asked me to do the same. I did as he suggested and we jumped back into the water and swam with the shark. I even rode on the creature’s back. Soon, more whale sharks turned up and we frolicked in the clear water with four of these gentle giants.

Now the fear of people was a different matter altogether. It was the one phobia that always came back no matter how hard I tried to overcome it. Unlike mountains or waves or whale sharks, I have to deal with people on a daily basis, so it surprises me that I haven’t completely overcome this fear yet. I’ve always secretly felt that I carry more anxiety in my body than is beneficial to me. Even on good days, I sense an underlying current of worry and paranoia building up within me for no apparent reason. When I young, my mom would take me to children’s parties, but I never wanted to join the other kids. I would just hide behind her skirt like a mouse.

I find people to be almost as scary as nature, perhaps because both are so unpredictable. Socializing seemed to be fraught with too much potential for turbulence, error and conflict. I have a problem controlling my actions and what comes out of my mouth, which can lead to trouble and also, I cannot predict or control how someone else will react in any given situation, which just makes me feel awkward, uptight and ready to fight or run.

After getting past that protruberant rock yesterday, it dawned on me that the root of all of my fears, including people-phobia was planted in my beliefs. My beliefs about height, about the sea, about big sea creatures, about human behaviour and most importantly about myself. I was lucky to have good people in my life who coaxed me into confronting my fears and who sometimes threw me into situations that I would ordinarily scurry away from. This helped me to see that my beliefs were not as real as they seemed in my mind. That giant rock near the summit was like a solidified mass of all the most negative and foreboding thoughts I held about the world I live in. I know I will come against that rock again and again, but at least today I have the memory of victory to drown out the voices that crie failure and doom. I know I will always make it to the shore or the summit eventually. I know that there are people who I can count on and who love me. I know that I can trust myself, and all of these are bigger than fear.

In the cult science fiction classic Dune, Frank Herbert’s super-being character Paul Atreides says, "I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

Fear cannot be permanent, for if the emotional state of terror were prolonged, we would probably die. I take comfort in that. In my experience, the rewards of walking through fear far outweigh the consolation of never having to feel it.


Copyright, Feb 2012, Michele Koh Morollo