Imagine if you will a blistering hot, sweltering, afternoon. The air is thick with humidity and the slight sticky sweet smell of burnt sugar cane.
My friends and I hop on our bikes and head to the river to swim. And one of the best places to swim was down by sportsman creek bridge where the grass slopes easily into the water.
Sportsmans creek bridge was a single lane, wooden bridge when cars drove over it would rattle and shake, I remember that sound so clearly.
The creek runs into the mighty Clarence river which in turn, runs into the pacific ocean, we were pretty close to the headwaters so on high tides the salt water washes back into the fresh. Creating our little brackish slice of heaven.
I was going to tell you a story about growing up as country kid in rural Australia, telling you fun stories of running bare foot through the snake infested paddocks, about riding cows, and jumping off bridges on to sharks.
I wanted to tell you of the hot summers and how the roads melted. The feeling of old wood as we walked across the bridge in our bare feet….
This is not that story, this story is about fear.
If you close your eyes can you recall what your fear feels like? Is it; Sweaty palms, a sinking feeling in your stomach, goose flesh creeps down your arms, your heart beats faster and breath catches in the back of your throat, your voice fades from lips.
Back to the Jumping off bridges, it really sounds more dangerous than what it actually was, honestly the bridge wasn’t that high and the creek was pretty deep and well, I’d jumped off way higher things.
Have you ever jumped off something really high? As I kid I was unafraid of heights or really much of anything. Maybe you jumped off the high dive? Or even just a cannon ball into the pool, or better yet was there a rope swing over a water hole? Or maybe you too jumped off a bridge into the water. Close your eyes, remember the smell of the water, nervous laughter escapes your lips, it’s your turn, you climb over the railing and standing on the wooden beam a few feet over the water, your back against the too hot metal railing, its almost too hot to hold. 2 small steps and you fling yourself off the side of the bridge…You fly….for a moment and then falling through the air for an amazing second and splash too soon into the water, bubbles fizz around you and river weed tickles your feet you as you kick once and your head pops above the surface, gasping for breath, swimming to shore triumphantly.
No sharks were harmed in your attempt to jump on them, you didn’t even get close.
But the thing is, I don’t actually remember the bridge jumping, I remember being told I jumped off that bridge, I remember getting in trouble for jumping off the bridge.. … but I don’t actually REMEMBER jumping off the bridge. I remember jumping off other things, but not the bridge.
I painted you a pretty picture though…almost like I was there.
Did I tell you that I am afraid of heights? I don’t like walking or driving across bridges, or standing on balconies, looking out windows of tall buildings or not so tall buildings. The thought of standing on the sky deck at willis tower makes me want to hyperventilate, 2 years ago when I took my mum on a hot air balloon ride it required chemical assistance and a death grip on my husband’s arm.
And I wonder at what point did I become afraid? Is it the natural progression of growing up and discovering your mortality, or was it the fear instilled in me by the person who, upon finding out about my adventures in bridge jumping, and cow riding, who in fear for my safety lashed out in anger. Everything that I wanted to do was bad and dangerous and I could get hurt or someone could come along and hurt me… I had to be careful….why can’t you be careful?
didn’t I know there were bad people out there, didn’t I know that I could get hurt? Why would you let someone one else tell you what to do…. You need to listen to me and do as you’re told….
it sounds like the punch line of a bad joke; well if what’s his face told you to jump off a bridge, would you…? …well it was actually my idea.
So the sharks, the sharks sound dangerous right?
But really they were pretty small, only about a meter and they were mostly nocturnal, bottom dwelling carpet sharks. Their mouths are not made for people biting. So even if we did manage to hit a shark it wasn’t like it was going to hurt us.
If you hurt yourself you’ll get a scar, and pretty girls don’t have scars, do you know what happens to girls who have scars?
I will disown you if you get a scar.
How many times do you need to be told something until you start to believe it? How long did it take for me to hate just walking over bridges?
I wonder who I could have been if the I didn’t have that fear placed upon me, fear of failure, fear of being hurt, fear of new things fear of my otherness of my own adventurous nature. What if rather than remember the belting I received from jumping off the bridge, what if I remembered the feeling of flying through the air, of hitting the cool water and swimming across those sleeping sharks to the riverbank.
Who could I have become if I had realized sooner that it wasn’t my fear, it was someone else’s?
And that it was not a fear of heights, but fear of the punishment from being myself. And that to escape punishment I had to squeeze myself into a different shape, a shape dictated by someone else. How often do we change our selves to escape fear or punishment? How does that fear change who we are? Does it change us permanently?
I don’t know the answers to any of those questions.
It’s been a long time now.
I am no longer afraid to be myself, but I AM still afraid of heights.
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