At a recent reading I heard a speaker say that poetry is about love and fiction is about fear but that to him love and fear were the same.
*
In the final few feet of the rocky slope leading up to the Keyhole of Longs Peak, I felt no love for the 14er as I reached out with unsteady hands and stepped forward with unstable feet. I plastered my body against the cold boulders, the only shelter against the 40-mph winds ripping down the mountain side. This deafening roar was the only sound I could hear above the hammering of my heart in my ears.
Even as my type A brain observed that falling was impossible—the wind might knock me over but certainly not off the mountain—my always disobedient body believed anything was possible. Its reflexive reaction refused to recognize physics and physical truth.
Pounding pulse. Pathetic panting. Receding peripheral vision.
*
SCENE 1: In the car
Me (age 10): I don’t think I believe in God.
Mom: Why?
Me (mumbling incoherently): …Santa Claus…not real… people used to… polytheism…the sun… miracles…
Mom: It’s ok. I don’t either.
It’s not okay. The absence of a god makes death final, and thinking about that shortens my breath and makes me cry.
We fall through time toward an inevitable conclusion.
*
Acrophobia. Fear of heights.
The DSM-5 classifies all phobias as irrational fears.
The fear of heights lies not in the height itself but in the irrational thinking about the height, such as the (often unlikely) chance you will fall from it.
My fear of heights is irrational (if you look up into my brain and dissect the complexities of what scares me).
Though related, the fear of heights is different from the fear of falling. And whatever the DSM-5 says, the fear of falling seems rational to me (if you look down at the faraway ground and follow the anticipated fall to its natural conclusion: death).
While the fear of falling is more common, even considered natural, I’m afraid of heights.
*
It’s not that I’m afraid of dying (though there is that).
It’s not that I’m afraid of falling (though there is that).
It’s that I’m afraid I’ll jump.
When I’m near an edge, I feel a terrifying compulsion-like pull to it, calling for me to leap off—though I know I won’t, there is another part of me that fears I will.
*
The first two sentences of Brian Doyle’s 9/11-tribute poem, “Leap,” read: “A couple leaped from the south tower, hand in hand. They reached for each other and their hands met and they jumped.”
Jumping was a choice. But no matter what choice was made, the end would be the same. If waiting for the end was worse than the end, given that it was inevitable, maybe jumping was a relief. I hope it was.
I like to think that the gesture shows that even in the end, if nothing else, there is love.
*
The mall in my hometown has 2 levels. The floor of the upper level has overlooks—some are spaces for escalators, others just opportunities to watch people on the lower level.
Sllllide across the floor to the clear plastic barrier.
railing _____________ Jump.
the
on
up
Climb
F
a
l
l
I used to walk on whichever side of my mom was farthest from the overlook. That way when I felt the gravity-like pull toward it, like the earth was tilting and I was sliding across its surface, I could cling to her leg and keep myself from slipping. She’d keep me grounded.
*
SCENE 2: In the car
Me (age 16): I think I need help.
Mom: …
An acknowledgement that I’d spoken, but no answer.
I starve myself, wondering when I’ll be light enough to fall up, off the earth and into space.
*
The fear of heights sometimes falls into the specific phobia category of space and motion discomfort. We are always moving through space, even when we aren’t aware of it. The problem arises when we become hyperaware of it—when our bodies are moving faster than evolution has prepared our brains to handle, like when driving a car. Or flying in a plane. Or falling from the sky.
The fear of heights is more common in women, but I inherited my fear from my father. He fell out of my life’s orbit when I was 8.
I have a hard time safely locating myself in space and time, so I orient myself in relation to others: my father (before he left), my mom (before I left).
*
My mom loves me. While I have doubted just about everything else in this world, I have never doubted this.
I used to believe she kept me from falling.
What do you want?
My $6 magenta platypus Beanie Baby in my 10-year-old lap. The one I’d agonized over, afraid I’d choose wrong, imploring my mom’s advice. My mom’s eyes find mine in the rearview mirror on the drive home. I chose wrong. Take it back.
What do you want?
A blanket curled around my empty 16-year-old body, my body curled around itself, hidden away in my basement bedroom. Don’t look at me.
What do you want?
To be free. Free to fall. Don’t love me.
But really nothing has ever kept me from falling. Nothing ever could.
I have always been pulled to the edge, to jump.
*
The first text message. Pounding pulse.
The first date. Pathetic panting.
The first kiss. Receding peripheral vision.
I fall over and over again, but my fall is broken each time, so I can do it again.
It’s not a choice, but if it were, I would choose it every time.
*
Several psychological and behavioral studies posit that the fear of heights might be a result of an overreliance on visual signals for equilibrium. When the visual cortex is overloaded, confusion ensues.
When I did gymnastics as a kid, I loved the climbing rope because from the ceiling I could look down and see everything. Now when I climb rope, my friends call out, only half in jest, “Don’t look down!” I train my eyes up on the ceiling concealing the infinite sky and climb toward it.
*
My stomach bottomed out when I pressed the arrow button on my phone. I looked up at the sky, through which I felt like I was falling and where orbiting satellites would relay my text message some 1,500 miles across the country to my sister.
I spent my therapy session earlier in the week dancing around the confession contained in my text. By the end of the hour, I was barely able to keep myself from taking the leap of just coming out and saying it.
As I watched the blue progress bar fill and the “sent!” indication flash across the top of the screen, my body started trembling. I was on edge but (or maybe because) I was not on the edge anymore.
Jump then fall.
*
A hypnic jerk can happen just when you are about to fall asleep. One theory is that the cause is evolutionary, that the primate brain misinterprets the muscle relaxation at the onset of sleep as a sign the body is falling out of a tree. Your brain wakes you up before you can fall, but you can’t escape the sensation.
*
My sister’s reply relieves the feeling of free fall. I’ve landed on the ground still breathing.
She responded to my text, which announced that I had broken up with the guy I was seeing to start seeing a girl, exactly how I expected she would. Like a lawyer is never supposed to ask a question without already knowing the answer to it, I was unwilling to tell someone without already knowing I’d receive support in response. But sometimes a leap of faith is worth the risk.
*
SCENE 3: In the car
Me (age 12): What if I was gay?
Mom: You’re not.
Me: But what if I was? Would you still love me?
I don’t remember her answer.
I had a crush on a guy in my class at the time, so I believed her when she said I wasn’t gay (and she wasn’t exactly wrong, though nor was she exactly right). I could pretend the feelings I’d had for a girl were something other than a crush.
*
Even angels fall, I learn. Since seeing a TV special in my teens, I’ve been fascinated with those whom god cast out of heaven for their rebellion—those who were given freedom to make a choice, then punished for choosing wrong.
*
My mom loves me now. But she doesn’t know.
She’s never been able to keep me from falling.
I have always been pulled to the edge, to jump.
And now I’ve fallen for a girl.
I didn’t choose to fall, but I did choose to jump.
So I’ve let myself fall.
What do I want?
Her fingers brushing against mine, lacing with mine, hand in mine. Never take it back.
I imagine going for a drive to look at Christmas lights with my mom this year, like we always do when I visit for the holidays. I see it play out like this:
SCENE 4: In the car, in my head
Me (age 29): I’m seeing someone.
Mom: What’s he like?
What do I want?
Her eyes on mine, jumping between them and my lips. See me.
Me: She is special. A nurse, like you.
Mom: …
What do I want?
To be hers. Love me.
Me: Do you still love me?
*
It’s not that I’m afraid of falling. I already have. I fell for her; it was as easy as giving in to gravity.
And that’s why the edge is calling.
It’s this leap ahead that I’m afraid to take. The one I know I’m going to make—the one I want to make—the one I’ve decided to make.
My phone is in my hand.
I’ve slid across the slanted floor, climbed up onto the railing, and perched on the edge.
Looking down below, I see the many possible outcomes milling around like mall patrons. A few familiar faces I recognize as friends. Others are mere acquaintances. Some complete strangers. Which one(s) will I smash into? I can’t know.
My mom’s contact information is on the screen.
Pounding pulse. Pathetic panting. Receding peripheral vision.
I’m going to jump.
I press the call button.
Morgan Riedl is a doctoral student at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio where she lives with her rez dog and retired horse (not in the house). She has an MA in creative nonfiction from Colorado State University. Her work is forthcoming in the Sonora Review, and has been featured in Entropy, Essay Daily, and Brevity’s blog.
Photo on Foter.com