I'm having an operation next week and I'm scared.
There, I admitted it.
I think about fear far too much, but I also believe that acknowledging fear is inevitably better than desperately pretending what frightens us doesn't exist.
Emily Dickinson wrote a powerful poem about the sudden unexpected appearance of a snake; it obliterated her sense of calm when she was out on for an afternoon's walk.
She describes her sense of terror as feeling like "zero at the bone."
That's sort of how I feel right now.
For many years, I felt this way more often than not; fear was a constant companion. I would cringe if not cower, weep if not wail in trepidation. I was scared to stay home and scared to leave the house.
It took me years to learn to live without fear as a interruption in my life, and I've always been amazed by how many women I know who have fear woven into their daily existence.
What is feared scratches at the glass outside a dark window in every woman's soul. The darkness is the same, the metallic taste of fear is the same, but the individual causes for fear-- the shape of the windows framing the darkness-- are wildly different in their detail although essentially the same at their core.
What do we do when we feel we must face our worst fears? I mean, my operation isn't a life-threatening one (knock on wood-I hope that I don't actually ever need my gallbladder...) but I have to go under a general anesthetic and that is one of my Big Scary Monsters. (Want evidence of my degree of fear: my last operation was a hysterectomy and I had that done with only an epidural, so nervous was I about getting a general.)
Not that all fear is monstrous, of course.
Fear in the right dosage and under the right circumstance protects us --survival and success depend, in part, on being afraid of life's real dangers-- the private fears of our imaginations can paralyze us. Healthy fear can galvanize us to action-- making us run when we need to, or stand and fight when it's necessary-- but imaginary fear offers straitjackets instead of lifejackets, nooses instead of safety nets. The kind of fear I'm talking about can be defined as our having a presentiment of danger when we are actually in the middle of somewhere safe.
But what happens when we can't turn away from fear? Perhaps our fears unmask themselves and turn out to be perfectly ordinary events in the everyday world. But even if they're the nightmare figures we've always feared, at least we'll have made their acquaintance and know them for what they are. We'll know what makes them appear strong, what makes them feel unwelcome, and maybe we'll even learn how to ask them, politely, to shut the door behind them when they leave.
Fears don't last unless they meet some very real emotional and psychological need. Some of is deal with this by negotiating with the universe, making deals and arranging for good luck or hoping against bad luck. We arm ourselves with superstitions, magical thinking, rituals, and rules. The intersection of fear and sense of guilt makes magical thinkers of us all.
So what we can we do? The most effective weapon against fear is humor: humor often addresses the same issues as fear. If I talk about the fact that I feel like a piñata, what with tossing away my internal organs the way I have been these past couple of years, I feel a little better. I am laughing at my nightmare but not dismissing it or diminishing myself.
It's either that or let the fear win, and I'm not prepared to do that again.
But I'm not going to keep piling up gallstones like they're charms on a Pandora bracelet.
Making light of my worries can and does strengthen my ability to confront what makes me anxious-and right now, that's next week's operation. Laughter is stronger than fear-and I'm hoping that a sense of humor is stronger than a general anesthetic.
