The Inner Bean

Does everyone reach that stage in life, when fear factors into every decision you make? And I don’t mean just the major decisions, like “Should I tell my job to stuff their pretentious we’ll pay you whenever we fracking feel like policy up their ass…” but even the minor ones, like “Should I leave the house today?”   No don’t get me wrong.  I’m no agoraphobic, despite my daughter’s curiosity on whether or not I ever leave the house… lo, though I do digress.

I keep bringing up to Jason how much I think we need to take more risks.  Risks are scary.  My biggest joke has been that I’m going to become a badass Harley bitch because since I was about eleven I’ve had an irrational fear of driving, especially motorcycles and quads.  I was twenty-one before I even tested for my driver’s license and started to drive myself around because the idea of driving a car around so many careless morons made me want to throw up.

Most of these fears came from my youth.  I grew up with two younger brothers, all of us close enough in age to be party to each other’s likes and dislikes.  Growing up we had a dirtbike at one point, the neighbors had four wheelers, my dad had a moped.  When I was about eleven, my eight year old brother (who taught himself how to ride a two wheel bike without training wheels when he was four years old,) convinced me to take the dirtbike for a spin.  So I did, despite my reservations of imminent death and doom.  I get on, he showed me where the gas was, but not he brakes. I set off into the woods behind the house and panicked when I started to feel like I was going too fast.  Not being familiar with the brake system, I gunned the gas and went flying into a literal tangle of weeds so thick that I didn’t need brakes anymore.  I did need poison sumac and ivy treatment for about a month.

About two years later a girl I grew up with (who was really more like one of the guys than that 1980’s movie about the high school reporter who pretends to be a guy to get the inside scoop, so I will cal her a guyrl,) invited a friend over on his four wheeler.  Everyone took a turn, but when it was my turn, I said no thanks. They laughed and poked me with sticks, finally convincing me there was nothing to be afraid of. Easier said than realized. I started off down the driveway, again having that similar anxiety over the brakes, and when I couldn’t stop I literally flintstoned it, holding the four wheeler against my own leg strength until the guy came down and helped me. I was lucky not o break my legs!!  Needless to say, my guyrl friend and I took a spin down the road and back about half and hour later, with me riding on the back.  She turned to look over her shoulder and saw a car coming, and when she turned she jerked the steering, flipping the four wheeler into our neighbors mailbox.  I landed first, she landed on top of me and the four wheeler landed on top of her.  To this day, I cry when I look at the lawn tractor and wonder what I would do if my wonderful husband wasn’t here to mow the lawn.

The horror story continues… at he time I was around sixteen and all of my friends were getting their license to drive, my dad started to encourage me to drive.  The thing is, encouragement and my dad are not on familiar terms with one another. In fact, they are mortal enemies, I think.   One day while I was backing down the driveway, I stopped at the end.  There was a car coming from the end of the road, but a normal driver could have pulled out in time and not even come near the other car. I start to back out when my dad freaks.  He screamed and started to open the door, hollaring, “What the fuck is wrong with you. I don’t want o fucking die!  Why are you trying to kill me? Fuck fuck fuck!”   Anyone who knows my dad can testify that he really used to talk like that, though meeting him today you might not believe it.

So… I latched onto some friends who had drivers’ licenses after that, and refused to learn how to drive myself until I was twenty-one.

Now, as an adult I look at my life quite often from the perspective of that frightened teenager doing donuts in the middle of the road while her dad screams like a sea captain.  I approach change with extreme caution, and often if it gets too hairy or scary, I back away. When I first went to college in 2002 I was HORRIFIED!  I literally broke out in hives during orientation, and felt completely unsure of myself.  What if they laughed because I was older, what if all those guidance counselors who didn’t believe I could ever go to college were right?  I had always deemed myself fairly intelligent, but what if I was wrong?  What if Math was right and I was stupid?

The moral of that story was that I found out all along that I was right. That I could do it, and it turned out to be an awesome experience.  It even became comfortable to the point where once I was on the verge of graduation I cried because I didn’t want to leave.  Now, despite that experience I feel like I’m right back where I started in a lot of ways. Fear keeps me from stepping outside my comfort zone when I know I need to push the limits and really live. No amount of self-help reading or psychological advice has the power to change that, only I can and I know it.

It’s just fear. Why do we let it factor into so many of our decisions? Why do I let govern my happiness, when I know if I just kicked it to the curb I’d probably be a lot happier with myself and my choices.

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