As Fraidy Cat, the title of this essay and of our forthcoming book, clearly suggest, the subject today is fear. Not just fear in general, recounted and analyzed by an impartial outside observer. No, this is personal, debilitating, overpowering fear – the sort that devastated a massive chunk of my own life and continues to do so, if to a far less ferocious degree nowadays.
Essentially, then, Fraidy Cat is a brief personal memoir that covers more than half of my life, starting in adolescence. Close to my entire lifetime, in fact, if I include the periods of years when fears eased at least somewhat – but never quite went away. If there’s any one subject that I feel utterly qualified to cover as a journalist, it’s fear.
Exactly what kind of fear are we talking about? For the most part, we won’t be delving into ordinary, relatively commonplace (though also potentially devastating) fears and phobias. Plenty of people are afraid of heights, airplanes, dark places, reptiles, and so on. For most, those fears don’t hamper their entire lives. If a person simply cannot overcome the fear of water, for instance, the simplest, most effective remedy might be to avoid swimming and traveling on ships.
No, the emphasis here is on frights that persist, that cannot readily be avoided, that interfere with and impair our entire lives. Symptoms of such debilitating fear cover a broad range, but may include vague yet worrisome discomfort, hesitation and unease toward everyday tasks, uncertainty about a slew of everyday issues – all the way to sheer, unabated dread. The phenomenon known as free-floating anxiety is likely to be the most distressing of all, simply because – as its name suggests – it strikes without warning and with little or no evident connection to anything in the sufferer’s daily life.
Even though this essay is relatively brief, I hope to show that (1) for the most worried among us, many or most of our fears and frights may never disappear; but (2) we can, and must, determine and undertake steps to cope with them. “Practice” in coping with fears might not ever send them packing, but it definitely can help ease their impact, making them easier to bear.
Clarification: Please note that I don’t claim to be an accredited expert on any of the psychiatric issues a fearful person might endure. In addition to being a journalist and author, as well as a nearly lifelong sufferer of overwhelming fear and anxiety myself, I am a longtime student of the subject. My hope is that some of what I’ve learned, observed, and experienced over so many years might help some of the most anxious and panicked among us to take Step One on a new path toward fear-reducing living.
My bout with disabling fear – officially diagnosed at an early point as “anxiety and panic reaction” – began at age 17. When the fear finally began to moderate, and I found myself able to lead some semblance of a normal life, I was in my mid-50s. Even today, well into senior-citizen status, daily life remains marred by occasional episodes of mild to moderate fright and anxiety. Or, more accurately, a fear that the dreadful frights of the past might suddenly reappear, possibly even more troubling than before: what’s often been dubbed the “fear of being afraid.”
Fortunately, the worst of it seems to have settled into the background; but one can never really be sure it won’t abruptly leap into action again.
After decades of being unable to travel alone, for example, in the 1990s I began to fly regularly: usually on business but periodically for pleasure. Eventually, I became a million-mile flyer on a major airline. When I finally stopped flying for business reasons more than 20 years later, I couldn’t begin to count the number of trips I’d taken – nearly always alone – including some to foreign destinations.
In addition to describing how such a transformation could happen, with or without the aid of therapists or medications, my hope is that these words might give some consolation to young worriers, in particular, who are struggling to find a pathway into normal life. Unless steps are taken early on to deal with its power, fear inevitably becomes the central focus, the core, of nearly every aspect of daily life. Hopes and plans for the future – whether near term or far off – must be weighed against the stranglehold that fear has on one’s capabilities and aspirations.
No matter what you would like to do during your time on earth, fear is invariably in charge of the final decision on moving forward. Or moving at all, away from what can so easily evolve into mental paralysis.
Whenever someone writes about the horrors of a malady like fear, the finale is almost predictable. Almost always, despite the extreme discomforts endured by the author, over long and repeated periods, a way out is found and acted upon. A solution, while typically difficult to discern and identify, does come to light. Thus, at least a mildly happy ending manages to ensue.
Don’t expect such a finale here. Even though this author managed to scrape together a passably acceptable life, lasting well into old age, the fears that were already evident at age 3 are still there – albeit in different form and strength.
In short, for at least some of the dreadfully fearful among us, the manifestations don’t go away. Sure, various tricks and distractions are likely to be discovered or devised along the way, allowing the afflicted person to squeeze through some difficult situations. But distractions, by definition, do little or nothing to excavate or to alleviate the causes of disabling fear, much less suggest any sort of real solution.
Still, the knowledge that others have made their way through long and intensive stretches of crippling fear, yet survived, just might subdue a trickle of the terror experienced by a sufferer whose fears are still under development. If even one person could be helped to feel less alone in his or her fear-drenched life, my own experience will have had an ultimate purpose.
Not even the most anxious and panicky person in the world suffers constantly from all the possible causes spelled out here. Still, the most fearful among us (including the author) have experienced fear – intense fear – resulting from many, if not most, of them. Yet, those of us who have spent our lives dominated by several, if not dozens of distinct fears, often manage to eke out a reasonably satisfactory lifespan.
Not necessarily the life we’d envisioned and hoped for, it must be said. Yet, for at least part of the time we’ve been on earth, the fears have diminished sufficiently to allow an occasional period of easing back. Maybe measured in years, maybe months. More likely weeks, or days. Sometimes, it could be merely hours, if not minutes. Still, a tolerable, imperfect life beats one that spells success but makes each day, each minute, an obstacle to climb over.
Regardless, those respites need to be savored – despite the likely dread of having those too-familiar fears return at any moment. That prospect might never really go away, or lighten up much. As FDR accurately declared in his famed 1933 Inaugural speech, broadcast on radio: “The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.” He was absolutely right, and not just about fear for the economy or the nation. That forcefully positive attitude also pertains to personal fears.
Difficult? You bet! Impossible? Not at all, though it will certainly feel that way if your litany of disabling fears reaches back a long way. Potential methods to ease the fright might have to be practiced right in the middle of what we almost inevitably interpret as the worst attack ever.
More than 30 years ago, Doctor Abby Fyer, a research psychiatrist, noted that a person’s first panic attack typically occurred in early adulthood (early 20s), adding that 80 percent of sufferers were female. “After recurrent attacks,” she advised, “most victims begin to live in a constant state of dread, anticipating the next panic attack.”
Writing for the Los Angeles Times in the same era, Dr. John Brennan stated that “many people suffer the torments of the damned from phobias.” True enough, but wider-ranging fears – the condition described as “free-floating” anxiety, lacking a single cause – tend to be even more devastating. The freer it is, the harder to deal with or to treat, being tied to nothing specific. All the more so when augmented by the overwhelming dread induced by being intensively afraid that some of even all of the other, more specific fears that have plagued you before may erupt at any moment.
“Face the fear and the fear will disappear,” said actress Carrie Snodgress in an episode of the old Quincy TV series, which added a warning about “what-if-ing.” Most sufferers tend toward that latter activity, imagining over and over what awful thing might happen the next time an attack occurs.
Far better to let the fear pass through you, said another character on that same episode about panic attacks. A tall order indeed, but an essential one.
I must admit that most of the time, my own efforts to work past the fear failed. No surprise there. Yet, some easing did occur periodically, even in the midst of what seemed to be a never-ending bout of extreme fright and panic. All the more reason to abide by the ancient adage: try, try again. And again.
Yet, striving to instill a looser, less frantic reaction when an anxiety or panic attack starts can be a godsend. Every moment when you can take a deep breath, think positively, dredge up at least a reluctant semi-smile, keep your voice steady and calm, is a step toward working past the panic rather than slipping further into the dark, seemingly unknown – but all too familiar – abyss.
A partial guide to recognizing and attempting to deal with intensive fears and phobias comes from a seemingly unlikely source: Monk, a popular TV sitcom of the past. Aired from 2002 to 2009 and still seen in reruns, the series featured the fright-filled but comical exploits of Adrian Monk, a former San Francisco police detective hampered by a massive litany of exaggerated fears.
As portrayed by Tony Shalhoub, Mr. Monk requires and demands the undivided attention of a female assistant, who serves as a nurse and keeper. Among a wealth of atypical duties, she has to be ready at a moment’s notice to supply the hapless detective with wise counsel as well as a disposable, disinfectant wipe upon request, to counter the germs that lie in wait for him out in the threatening day-by-day world.
Serious sufferers from unending fear might not see anything funny about Mr. Monk’s antics. Fictional co-workers put up with his idiosyncracies (their interpretation) because he has a unique special skill: he’s the best detective in San Francisco, fearful or not. Being realistic, not many of us are the “best” at anything, so our successes and failures have to be judged on a different scale.
Monk makes fun of its intensively troubled main character, who claims to be afraid of “everything.” In each episode, he continually demonstrates that endless list of phobias and outright fears, making daily life a never-ending ordeal of anxiety overruling every possible outcome, over and over.
But what if you are actually not so different from this comic character, whose tribulations are played out for laughs. Or at least, smiles.
Nothing funny about that. Yet, unlikely as it may sound, humor could be one possible way to cope, for those whose afflictions aren’t totally destructive of ordinary life. Mockery, especially of oneself, is in fact one way of lessening the impact of round-the-clock fear, worry, and anxiety.
Before leaving the subject, let’s take a brief look at my early life, when fears first struck, leading into development of what would later be diagnosed as “anxiety and panic reaction.”
Childhood Frights
I’ve always been afraid. Since early childhood, for sure.
In a picture taken at age 3 – a studio photograph of myself, nattily dressed in a sailor suit – I looked so relaxed and carefree. But that ease with life wouldn’t last much longer.
An old black-and-white snapshot, obtained a few years ago, suggests quite a different story. This one was shot in the backyard of a boy who lived across the street in my inner-city Chicago neighborhood. His mother took the photo, of the two of us.
As in the formal photograph, I was three years old. Yet, instead of the smiling, seemingly unworried child in that first photo, this one revealed a troubled, frightened youngster. Lost, anguished, out of place, I looked as if I were ready to be led to the gallows, rather than standing for a simple snapshot in a friend’s backyard.
During my first few years of grade school, the die was cast for a lifetime of fear and anxiety. Though I was considered a “smart kid” in the eyes of most teachers and even a fair number of classmates, by First Grade I was already showing signs of both significant introversion and general discomfort with the world around me.
Skipping three semesters in elementary school, by way of what they used to call “double promotion,” didn’t help. Though I was enthused about racing through elementary school as swiftly as possible, that squeezing of time came at a price. With each double promotion, I wound up a little – or a lot – younger than nearly all my classmates. By graduation day from Eighth Grade, I was only 12 years old. Entering high school that fall, I was two months short of my 13th birthday. (Several classmates were already old enough to drive.)
Now, plenty of kids who’ve skipped grades, winding up younger than their mates, breeze through regardless. I was not part of that fortunate group.
A Fifth Grade teacher uncovered a simple explanation for my identity as an introvert and, thereby, for all that resulted from such a status. She cited my left-handedness as a cause for introversion and possibly for additional maladies, conveniently ignoring the fact that some 10 percent of people were left-handed. This was the late 1940s, and she recommended that I be forcibly retrained to become right-handed. My father, to the best of my recollection, had to come to school to protest against that effort. If accurate, that was quite a surprise to me, as he was a strictly working-class man, who ordinarily would never be found anywhere near a classroom.
Whatever the cause, I was indisputably an introvert: shy, fearful, nervous. Uncomfortable with life, with people, and with my surroundings, at every turn.
Taking Chances
Young boys and teenage dudes are supposed to be adventurous, rebellious, willing and eager to take chances. Risk, at least according to the stereotype, is something to be embraced.
I was none of those things. Nowhere near. When other male kids behaved exuberantly and boldly, I invariably held back. Where they looked forward to challenges and new opportunities, I practiced restraint, declining to participate in anything that looked worrisome.
Occasional exceptions came along; but for the most part, I practiced risk avoidance: saying no to proposed activities while the other boys dashed off to parts unknown.
The lasting impact of my own aversion to taking risks was best demonstrated by an invigorating night hike taken by my Boy Scout troop. While the other boys reveled in participating in an adventure into the dark unknown, I’d opted instead for staying comfortably in my bunk, back at camp.
Notes:
For a more personal, intense (if semi-fictional) look at disabling fear, please go to An Invisible Prison: a chronicle of a random hour in the daily life of an agoraphobic man who yearns for a simple sandwich, but endures a seemingly endless panic attack. (angularviews.substack.com)
Fear, anxiety, and panic will be covered further in near-future Angular Views. So will several other potentially disabling mental-health issues, such as obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). Surprisingly, the latter will include a look at an episode of Lena Dunham’s Girls TV series (2012-1), in which her character exhibits some troubling OCD behavior.
A variant of this essay is scheduled to appear in the author’s forthcoming book, Fraidy Cat: Surviving a lifetime of unwarranted fear and fright.
© All contents copyright 2024 by James M. Flammang (Tirekicking Today)
Image Source: © Valeriy Kachaev ... Dreamstime.com (ID 106438348)