The Fear Paradox

Tunnel vision, shaky hands, racing heart, sweating, blushing, the feeling of dread and impending doom, of lightheadedness, and unease in my stomach. These are common feelings associated with the fear that I used to feel on a daily basis, that many people do. Crippling anxiety, panic attacks, OCD, PTSD, mental illnesses, and phobias of all sorts are on their way to becoming the modern definition of what it means to be human.

Though I didn't know what it was called until years later; I developed agoraphobic symptoms after high school when I found myself directionless in life and defaulted to a defense mechanism I had developed in childhood- hiding. I would hide physically from my mentally unstable Dad, and emotionally I would hide just how afraid I was of him. School became a distraction, but I learned to hide there too; I tried to mask how insecure I felt in my skin, uncertain I was about my home, and that my idea of a good time was hiding on my closet floor with books and whatever art I was working on, while whispering conversations with an imaginary version of myself that was fearless. 

It got better as high school went on because I learned that being attractive trumped being socially awkward and that drinking was the solution to all interpersonal fears anyway. Then things changed after graduation when I wasn't obligated to leave my home for anything other than work, and the previous coping mechanism I had used as a child manifested into one big functionality freeze of phobia, anxiety, and depression. Showing my exposed face in a terrifying world of judgement and embarrassment, kindness and connection, opportunity and decision, physical danger and looking people in the eye; I was afraid of the good as much as the bad, the devastating as much as the mundane.

I felt this way and hid it for years, so I think I appeared somewhat normal for someone in their late teens to early 20's; anxiously lacking a sense of self and brushing everything off as being neurotic, flaky, or sleep-deprived. I'd avoid leaving my apartment whenever possible, and for a couple years before I completely turned to drinking to cope, I found ways to ease my unwarranted fear with extreme preparation. I was nervous going anywhere, but places and faces I hadn't seen yet were worse, especially if the area was open-concept with tall ceilings and large numbers of people. I diligently researched any new restaurants or venues; how to get there, where to park, what it looks like inside, what I would eat and drink, and the best case was when I knew what the staff looked like. If I had the time, I'd drive there first to get familiarized, then on gutsy days I'd go in and ask to use the washroom so I knew where they were. "This is what we trained for," I'd internally narrate when it came time for my return.

I planned small talk and anecdotes, imagined questions I'd be asked, learned to wear something I could fidget with when eye contact started to feel like interrogation, to choose a drink in a low-weighted glass so my shaky hands could go undetected. I'd take a deep breath for a count of 4 followed by a slow release of 8; taking inventory on my breathing when it wasn't my turn to talk, as a means of quieting my pounding heart. I was terrified and I didn't know why, but nobody else seemed to feel that way, so I also hid the fear that was underlying it all; that I was becoming just as mentally unstable as my Dad was.

Things got much easier when I became a full-blown alcoholic, for a little while anyway. I became more fun-loving and outgoing, even considered bold and boisterous at times. Being in a constant state of simmering fear became my sense of comfort and self-deprecating identity, "anxiety is my resting heart rate" I'd joke with a vague air of pride. Valiantly owning this version of myself that revelled in self-sabotage, but felt like someone else entirely. I had made so much progress from the shy and insecure child I always felt like on the inside, except I rarely created art anymore, and I never consulted with that fearless friend of mine anymore. I was someone who submitted to their mental illnesses and wore them as a badge of honour, as so many people do these days. 

I quit drinking for a few reasons, but one of them was seeing the irony that I was now spending my days desperately wishing I was someone else, when in fact I was the one that had curated this character in the first place. I realized what I was really wishing for was to become more myself, and I wouldn't know exactly who that was until I removed mind-altering substances and figured out how to let my fears present themselves without orchestrating my every move to coddling them.

I think when you start healing in that way, things typically get worse before they get better, and you just have to have faith that it's a good thing. I had become used to drowning my fears for so long that I completely forgot about all the agoraphobic tendencies I had developed 10 years earlier, until they started coming back when I got rid of my crutch. I found myself pursuing the same compulsive preparations with events that were supposed to be positive in my life; new jobs, volunteer opportunities, dates, going for walks, casual hangouts with friends, dinners with family. I was riddled with anxiety in normal life engagements again and was reminded of just how exhausting and confining it felt to be so vigilant in these self-preservation tactics, all that try to control the outcome to questions that start with the same thing, "what if...?".

"This is completely normal," I convinced myself at first. It's normal to feel anxious in situations when I'm rebuilding a sober version of me that nobody's met before, including myself. I was just brushing out the cobwebs of my former self, except I was reverting back to the obsessive, phobic behaviour that contributed to all the drinking in the first place. No wonder I self-medicated, having unnecessary anxiety is torture. I couldn't let that become my normal again and questioned what the hell I was so afraid of anyways; saying something stupid, being awkward, making someone uncomfortable, a public panic attack, audibly farting, people looking at me, laughing at me, judging me, hating me, shitting my pants; separately or god forbid, all at once. Now, what are the odds of that happening? And even if they did, it seemed my fear had something to do with appearing human and other people noticing.

What was infuriating was coming back to these trivial anxieties even after some of my actual worst fears had become realized; like people I love dying too soon, being diagnosed with a severe mental illness, and arguably worse- finding out that I felt incapable of handling any of it with grace. I knew if I kept surrendering to my fears, everything I had been through and all the work I had put into getting sober would be meaningless. I quit drinking to bring me closer to the life of my dreams, and being controlled by my life's circumstances rather than how I choose to handle them isn't a part of my dream. If I was struggling just to get out the door and into the world, I knew there was no way I would be able to face the more daunting fears associated with pursuing my dreams.

Instead of fixating on ways to cater to my anxiety; I started focusing on being true to myself despite the fear of criticism, on accepting that tragic events beyond my control can happen and my constant anticipation of them likely won't stop them, and on believing that I have full control over my well-being despite being told I have a degenerative mental illness. My psychiatrist and countless Google searches informed me that having Bipolar 2 Disorder meant my brain would deteriorate over time, that I would be on medication for the rest of my life, and that there was a high likelihood I would succumb early; either to suicide or heart disease from persistent distress. None of my therapy visits or internet searches exposed the realities of the fear-mongering that perpetuates mental illness in our society. While it's important to be aware of the dangers of your disorder, it's also important to know that you are capable of reclaiming autonomy of your own mind; no matter how dire your circumstances, no matter how consuming your fear feels.

Our biggest contributor to these mental fears is the way we talk to ourselves, and I hope you know you can rewrite the way you see yourself whenever you want. I had a habit of only looking at all the times I failed, so I reminded myself of all the next mornings I committed to starting again. Instead of all the times I embarrassed myself, I looked at all the times I found humour and humility after, how it made me more empathetic to others. Instead of feeding into the widespread theory that "the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results", I reminded myself that's also pretty close to the definition of "practice". The "life is short" aphorism that's ingrained in the back of everyone's minds and has helped us turn into impulsive, existential-dread-ridden creatures? I felt better when I started living like I have the time to invest in myself. I stopped participating in the violent-sounding narratives of "battling" our mental illnesses and "fighting" our fears, and decided I'd get to know them and comfort them instead. I talked to them in the way my fearless friend would to that scared little girl on her closet floor:

What if people judge me? The one's who's opinions you value, won't.
What if I fail? We'll find a way to try again.
What if I look like an idiot? We'll get a good laugh.
What if I don't deserve good things? If you work hard and you're kind, you do.
What if I'm inherently bad? You wouldn't be afraid of that if you were. 
What if everyone hates me? People aren't thinking about you as much as you think they are.
What if nobody thinks about me? Tell a friend you love them.
What if I have nothing to offer the world? Compliment a stranger.
What if I die today? What if you have 50 years and all of your dreams left?

These meditations helped, but I knew I couldn't just eradicate my anxiety overnight and that it takes patience to balance a lifetime of nervous system dysregulation. I started thinking about how I could meet myself exactly where I was; acknowledging the past self that still felt scared all the time, while surrendering to complete faith that there was a much more confident future waiting for me, all the while accepting my presence in the state of in-between. No matter how long it takes.

It's just fear, it's just a feeling. 

It's a vital part of our survival as humans, of course, but it's evolved into something that can hurt us more than protect us. I've felt stuck in a state of 'fight or flight' my entire life, with or without imminent danger. I've survived it all so far and actually, it's shown me where I need to change.

I learned to embrace being anxiously fearless by asking myself this question:

If I'm not afraid of the feeling of fear itself, even if I am terrified all the time, doesn't that paradoxically make me fearless?

That might feel like a trick parents use on their naive children along the lines of, "put on these sunglasses and no one will be able to see you", but we know we can have dichotomies exist in us at the same time and they can both be true. Our bodies are proof of this; in every second of our lives, in every cell of our body, we are at once living and dying at the same time. If that mind-bending fact can be true, and it is the most fundamental truth of our lives, then we can certainly be terrified and fearless at the same time, can't we?

In times of anxiety, I repeat these phrases to myself:

"I do not fear fear"
"I'm not afraid of the feeling of fear"
"I am not free OF fear, but free FROM it"

Eventually the opposing forces start to integrate, and continuously welcoming your fears into the safe home you've built for them slowly disarms their power. It takes practice (or insanity depending on how you look at it), and taking care of my physical health too; regulating my sleep, getting more exercise, and not substituting alcohol with sugar or carbs or weed or copious amounts of caffeine. I still have my moments of anxiety and depression, as we all should; being human is really hard and scary, it would be strange if we weren't overwhelmed sometimes. And occasionally the overwhelm still takes priority and I cancel plans or halt productivity, but overall, I have a sense of freedom from all those past versions of myself. All the entities of fear and mental illness and trauma that once polluted me to my soul; that I once felt like I was going to live with forever, and convinced me that my forever might not be very long.

The best part is- minimizing those fears makes room for the ones that feel adventurous and thrilling. The ones that ignite a sincere zest for our precious life and opens our eyes to our most valuable talents. It's like instead of the feeling of fear you get when you're walking alone at night and you feel like you're being watched, it's the fear of jumping off a cliff into a lake after seeing other people make it safely first. If the fear of isolation, criticism, or the unknown may always be there, then we should direct it towards a better outcome. To be afraid of the exposure involved in living up to being everything we've ever dreamed of, or things we never could have imagined. The fear of being more, of coming off as audacious, of shining too brightly, of being things we didn't know we were capable of, and the fear that comes with admitting a part of you always knew.  

Miracles happen all the time- catastrophic odds are defied and moments of heroism are all around us; accomplished by real people with racing hearts and shaky hands and fear. What if there's greatness waiting for us, rather than the other way around? What if all our mental fears are just opportunities for refinement, a part of our adventure? What if all our personal heroes have cleared the way for us, and all we have to do is take the leap?