If someone were to ask me what I’m afraid of today I would have a bit of a struggle answering. Apart from flying insects and how much the next episode of gLee is going to disappoint me, I fear very few things in my life.
This has not always been the case. I have not always been a fearless man. As a child I suffered from night terrors. I give a lot of credit to my parents for putting up with that. If I had to look my child in its half awake eyes and watch them scream at me thinking I was some Hell-beast from Wichita it would be up for adoption pretty quickly.
As my infant night terrors faded I grew into some upper level toddler night terrors. These basically revolved around a certain obsessive fear that I would pick up somewhere through the media or school. The fear would not allow me to go to sleep at night. As a solution my parents bought a red, soft plastic water bottle that was to contain air that made everything bad go away for the night.
Each night before I went to bed I would wish positive thoughts and energy and blow them into my bottle of hope. Then my mom would squeeze the positive energy throughout the room. Initially this was a monster spray used to ward off not monsters, but robbers, in-home invaders and murderers. Later, it just became a symbol of overcoming fear. In retrospect this is a pretty new age concept, although I’m sure my Mom was just thrilled that she finally had a solution to my obsessive fears.
One day at school I was introduced to a concept so horrifying, and so scary that not even bottled toddler breath could ward it away. The school was giving kids a seminar on fire safety and a real fireman came in to talk to us about the hazards and dangers of flames. It started out innocent enough, but someone must have forgotten to inform Fireman Jack that he was speaking to a group of toddlers. After describing in detail the various degrees of burns, he whipped out a little prop that scarred me deeply.
He presented an ordinary house phone that had been destroyed in a fire. It’s edges were bulbous and black. The receiver drooped like a Dali painting. This was what fire did. I pictured every one of my prized childhood possessions on fire. I vividly saw Beanie Babies aflame, Power Rangers dripping. It was too much to handle. The seed of fear was planted. The seminar continued with a pamphlet and a video demonstrating stop, drop, and roll.
The pamphlets were of little consolation, and as I watched the video of kids stopping, dropping, and rolling I felt increasingly helpless. I kept looking at that melted phone and shuddered at the thought of what fire could do to a person.
The other kids seemed completely aloof. I had just assumed up until the “Question and Answer” segment that everyone was as petrified of fire as I was. Then they began to ask questions about the “Cool” melted phone.
The phone was being described as cool? COOL? Leave it to my idiot peers to find this abhorrent exhibition “Cool”. It was as backwards and as inappropriate as calling a post-taxidermy animal cute.
All I knew was that the phone was horrifying. And then someone asked a question that opened the gateway to childhood-insomnia.
Can people melt too? What an idiotic question. For a second I began to feel better about the whole situation. I knew that people couldn’t melt. And then Fireman Jack replied “Yes, people can melt”.
Now, I’m sure he went on to describe in greater detail the metaphorical aspects of melting, but as soon as I heard the words “Yes, people can melt” I could no longer hear. I shut off all reasoning abilities and I glanced down at my pamphlet. No longer was it a picture of children stopping, dropping and rolling. No, it was children melting.
Fireman Jack ended his seminar on mortifying children and I went home to my family with good, old fashioned American terror deeply instilled in my young mind.
As a side note, notice the backpack I was given in preschool. My mother thought that an 80’s vinyl, black and white checkered purse with reflector clasps and a red strap would make a cute messenger bag. I still have it.
The time finally came for me to go to sleep that night. I couldn’t possibly verbalize my fear. After my mother had sprayed the room with my breath I still felt a binding fear. I stopped my mom and tried to explain what I was so afraid of. My mother sat down and talked to me about fire safety and how I had nothing to worry about. My reaction to everything she said was something like
“BUT PEOPLE DIE IN FIRES!”.
And my mother kissed me goodnight. After about a week me arguing that I would never be safe again because “People die in fires”, my mom talked me through what would happen if there was a fire. We discussed fire safety and she continued to assure me that everything would be fine.
After a few more nights, my obsessive fear with fire had not gotten any better. As my mother repeated every ounce of conversation we had uttered throughout the week I still felt scared. I wondered how long my fear would last, and as my mom finished her monologue about how everything was going to be fine I paused. I really hadn’t been paying attention and before I knew it I had said the wrong thing.
And that was it. My mother had had enough, and she snapped. She began to scream:
“Yes, you can die in a fire. You know what else? You can die by drowning too, but you still go swimming, don’t you??”
And then, in another instant she smiled at me and said “You’ll be fine, Sweet Dreams.”
And she left the room. I sat in a stunned silence for a few minutes and began to think of everything you could possibly die from. Just as I felt the physical manifestation of fear riding in my chest I made a choice not to be afraid. Sure, I could die in a fire- but until I was choking on smoke I wasn’t going to let fear consume me. I knew what to do in case of a fire. Hell, I was probably more well equipped than anyone my age. I closed my eyes and went to sleep. And my mom was right. I made it through childhood without dying in a fire.
This has not always been the case. I have not always been a fearless man. As a child I suffered from night terrors. I give a lot of credit to my parents for putting up with that. If I had to look my child in its half awake eyes and watch them scream at me thinking I was some Hell-beast from Wichita it would be up for adoption pretty quickly.
As my infant night terrors faded I grew into some upper level toddler night terrors. These basically revolved around a certain obsessive fear that I would pick up somewhere through the media or school. The fear would not allow me to go to sleep at night. As a solution my parents bought a red, soft plastic water bottle that was to contain air that made everything bad go away for the night.
Each night before I went to bed I would wish positive thoughts and energy and blow them into my bottle of hope. Then my mom would squeeze the positive energy throughout the room. Initially this was a monster spray used to ward off not monsters, but robbers, in-home invaders and murderers. Later, it just became a symbol of overcoming fear. In retrospect this is a pretty new age concept, although I’m sure my Mom was just thrilled that she finally had a solution to my obsessive fears.
One day at school I was introduced to a concept so horrifying, and so scary that not even bottled toddler breath could ward it away. The school was giving kids a seminar on fire safety and a real fireman came in to talk to us about the hazards and dangers of flames. It started out innocent enough, but someone must have forgotten to inform Fireman Jack that he was speaking to a group of toddlers. After describing in detail the various degrees of burns, he whipped out a little prop that scarred me deeply.
He presented an ordinary house phone that had been destroyed in a fire. It’s edges were bulbous and black. The receiver drooped like a Dali painting. This was what fire did. I pictured every one of my prized childhood possessions on fire. I vividly saw Beanie Babies aflame, Power Rangers dripping. It was too much to handle. The seed of fear was planted. The seminar continued with a pamphlet and a video demonstrating stop, drop, and roll.
The pamphlets were of little consolation, and as I watched the video of kids stopping, dropping, and rolling I felt increasingly helpless. I kept looking at that melted phone and shuddered at the thought of what fire could do to a person.
The other kids seemed completely aloof. I had just assumed up until the “Question and Answer” segment that everyone was as petrified of fire as I was. Then they began to ask questions about the “Cool” melted phone.
The phone was being described as cool? COOL? Leave it to my idiot peers to find this abhorrent exhibition “Cool”. It was as backwards and as inappropriate as calling a post-taxidermy animal cute.
All I knew was that the phone was horrifying. And then someone asked a question that opened the gateway to childhood-insomnia.
Can people melt too? What an idiotic question. For a second I began to feel better about the whole situation. I knew that people couldn’t melt. And then Fireman Jack replied “Yes, people can melt”.
Now, I’m sure he went on to describe in greater detail the metaphorical aspects of melting, but as soon as I heard the words “Yes, people can melt” I could no longer hear. I shut off all reasoning abilities and I glanced down at my pamphlet. No longer was it a picture of children stopping, dropping and rolling. No, it was children melting.
Fireman Jack ended his seminar on mortifying children and I went home to my family with good, old fashioned American terror deeply instilled in my young mind.
As a side note, notice the backpack I was given in preschool. My mother thought that an 80’s vinyl, black and white checkered purse with reflector clasps and a red strap would make a cute messenger bag. I still have it.
The time finally came for me to go to sleep that night. I couldn’t possibly verbalize my fear. After my mother had sprayed the room with my breath I still felt a binding fear. I stopped my mom and tried to explain what I was so afraid of. My mother sat down and talked to me about fire safety and how I had nothing to worry about. My reaction to everything she said was something like
“BUT PEOPLE DIE IN FIRES!”.
And my mother kissed me goodnight. After about a week me arguing that I would never be safe again because “People die in fires”, my mom talked me through what would happen if there was a fire. We discussed fire safety and she continued to assure me that everything would be fine.
After a few more nights, my obsessive fear with fire had not gotten any better. As my mother repeated every ounce of conversation we had uttered throughout the week I still felt scared. I wondered how long my fear would last, and as my mom finished her monologue about how everything was going to be fine I paused. I really hadn’t been paying attention and before I knew it I had said the wrong thing.
And that was it. My mother had had enough, and she snapped. She began to scream:
“Yes, you can die in a fire. You know what else? You can die by drowning too, but you still go swimming, don’t you??”
And then, in another instant she smiled at me and said “You’ll be fine, Sweet Dreams.”
And she left the room. I sat in a stunned silence for a few minutes and began to think of everything you could possibly die from. Just as I felt the physical manifestation of fear riding in my chest I made a choice not to be afraid. Sure, I could die in a fire- but until I was choking on smoke I wasn’t going to let fear consume me. I knew what to do in case of a fire. Hell, I was probably more well equipped than anyone my age. I closed my eyes and went to sleep. And my mom was right. I made it through childhood without dying in a fire.
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