I think about all the things that terrify me and it makes me laugh. They are so minute in the grand scheme of things. I think about my plethora of friends who are terrified of being alone; this does not scare me. One friend in particular stands out because she flat out said she was terrified of being alone, which is part of the reason she got married. The idea of marriage terrifies me more than being alone; one can feel irrevocably alone in a marriage as well. And I think of all the unhappy people I know who stay in relationships because they are scared of being alone, and to me that seems a worse fate than independence. I know people who are terrified of death. This does not frighten me. Fixating on death in life is as good as putting your own nails in your coffin. And if I died today, this moment, I can honestly say I love the person I am, and it seems worse to die in hate and irresolutions.
I fear the little things. The irrational things. Like expired food. Clowns. Porcelain dolls. The cryptic old lady I walk by everyday with dark eyes like raisins deep set in her stoic face, silent and staring. I fear being respected. Despite what you may or may not think, it is difficult being a woman in our society, even today. When I meet a guy who actually treats me with respect it terrifies me more than the multitudes I have met that don’t. It seems a strange thing to fear, even as I write this I feel foolish. And really, it just makes me sad because it means I am not used to being respected by men; it means I have been mollified into acceptance of something I abhor.
One of my biggest fears, and one not uncommon, is intimacy. The vastness of a person is infinite. You really never can know a person, never fully comprehend the magnitudes of thoughts, feelings, histories, and entirety of another living being. And to share that vastness with someone scares me to the very core. And I fear the ephemeralness that so many place on intimacy. Perhaps I am not so fickle. I want my moments of intimacy to transcend the bedroom.
But I think what I most fear is not being heard; that no one will read what I write, or if by some slight chance they do, they won’t identify. So maybe I do fear being alone- not corporeally, but metaphysically. Alone with my thoughts. Alone with my fears. Alone with my intimacy. Alone, exposed and on page.