Fear

Last Thursday, I ran through the pitch dark woods, guided only by a headlamp and my memory of the trails, and serenaded by a spooky-themed playlist I put together just for the occasion. (Not that you asked, but selections ranged from “Thriller” and “Zombie” to half the original “Crow” soundtrack and tracks from both of the first two “Ghostbusters” movies.) And I finished devouring the latest Stephen King novel I had added to my Audible library. (Maybe it goes without saying, but I much prefer fictional horrors to the real ones all around us.)

I’m not “into Halloween,” though, in the sense that I put on disguises and go to parties. I haven’t “participated” in the “holiday” since my sewing whiz of a mom was dressing me — and my Cabbage Patch dolls or little sisters — in painstakingly constructed companion ensembles that dominated the elementary school costume contest nearly every year.

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Even when I drank, Halloween wasn’t a big deal, because I could, and did, do that any old night, in the comfort of my own home, without having to get dressed, much less dressed up. And these days, not having kids means that plopping a plastic pumpkin full of mini chocolate bars on a tray table outside the front door, with a note imploring visitors to share, is what passes for festivities at our house.

New wrinkle this year: the security camera built into our porch light, which revealed the extent to which young folk still honor the “honor system” — they do, to a degree — and the entitlement some apparently feel to use a community candy bucket as their personal trash can. 🤷🏼‍♀️

Human nature can be frightening, no doubt about it, and working as a therapist has plunged me into the deep end of a dark pool that challenges each of us to “sink or swim” as we grow up. I mean, I guess I am the lifeguard in this scenario, which is kinda scary, considering that 5 1/2 years ago, I was flailing around, struggling to stay afloat as my unaddressed demons yanked incessantly at my ankles.

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Getting sober helped me reclaim my soul by forcing me to face, and befriend, my own shadow. Self-importance and insecurity, compounded by high sensitivity, serotonin deficiency, existential dread, and a “gateway addiction” to external validation…I understand it now, how the wholesome little girl in the nursery rhyme getup nearly became one of those sad-sack horror movie clichés who gets offed, and forgotten, within the first half-hour. I thought I was special, but it turns out that my cringey 20-year drunkalog came straight from the boilerplate.

Tale as old as time: Self-medicate with drugs and/or alcohol instead of working on your shit, and one way or another, you’re going down. Use an addictive substance to escape discomfort, to run away from hard things, and over time, you will get addicted — which means running scared on a hamster wheel, potentially for the rest of your life.

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Yes, like the cartoon blob is saying, it’s definitely a “we” thing; there really is no journey on which a person walks alone. Fear, I’ve found, is a constant companion on any path through life, and it’s helpful to paint him as a regular guy in a cuddly green costume who just needs a little guidance to get on the right track. He can get super annoying and occasionally hold you back, but he’s not actually an evil spirit you need to exorcise.

It’s booze that turns him into the bogeyman.

The more I drank to escape scary stuff I didn’t want to deal with, the more that stuff haunted me, like a recurring nightmare, or telltale heart beneath the floorboards, or a dead body you try to dump in the lake but don’t sufficiently weigh down, so it ultimately resurfaces and you get caught…not that I have any experience with that.

In my dreams, I was drowning my sorrows, but my sorrows, they learned to swim… — U2, “Until the End of the World”

^ That song wasn’t on my spooky playlist, but it could’ve been; I mean, the world ending — in a giant fireball, given the insanely unseasonable temps lately — doesn’t seem like that farfetched an idea. Or maybe it’s just that I, personally, am consumed by darkness, from my well-documented obsession with bloody HBO and FX dramas, to my affinity for Lithium grunge rock radio, to my preference for psychological thrillers and horror flicks (and the books that inspire them), to the nonstop stream of true-crime shows and podcasts playing on my TV and phone throughout my leisure time.

Have you ever noticed that, of all the tragic stories of death and destruction on “Dateline” and shows of that ilk, the vast majority involve alcohol? 🤔

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It’s funny that I’ve become a Stephen King fan in my old age. My grandma used to read him all the time, and I was such a wholesome little kid that I remember feeling creeped out just seeing those paperbacks laying on the table next to her armchair. Now that I’ve lived through my own ’lil horror show, I know that King’s alcoholism is what made him such an expert in his genre. He understands the evil that lurks in the hearts of ordinary people and the role alcohol often plays in that evil being unleashed. The characters who end up doing the worst deeds, from Jack Torrance in “The Shining” (book version > Kubrickian adaptation) to Hugh Preist in “Needful Things” (an obscure reference, but this is the story I just finished) are complicated humans who fight, then lose, the battle for their souls by succumbing to their addictions.

Art does imitate life. I think that’s why dark art tends to be my favorite kind. It feels real, but it also reminds me of the real power I possess.

I’ve come to the point where I fear the impact of alcohol more than just about anything life can throw at me — and that’s saying something, given the massive, apocalyptic storm cloud hanging over our heads as the calendar turns to November and we approach Election Day. I say it, because the impact of alcohol is one thing I know I can control when all else seems overwhelming, chaotic, confusing, and beyond my ability to change or help.

I say it because I’ve already survived unprecedented times, in both my personal/professional arenas and in the world around me, without drinking to cope. No, not just survived, but continued to learn through, grow through, evolve through. I kept on walking that path toward “a life worth living” and chose not to turn back to “the same old cycle” when I felt anxious or scared. Which I did, and do. A lot.

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Because I have successfully stayed sober through tough times, I know that no matter what happens out there, I never ever have to allow alcohol to wreak its havoc in here (*points to center of chest 👈🏻, then upstairs to where hubby is sleeping 👆🏻, then in a circle around me to symbolize my tiny sphere of influence, which includes my home and my therapy room…🫶🏻*)

If you can’t beat the fear, do it scared. — Glennon Doyle

^ This has been my assignment since I quit drinking, then found a therapist, then enrolled in grad school to become a therapist, then started unpacking and deprogramming and reparenting — all those hard things you have to do if you want to swim, not sink, in the deep pool of adulthood. I saw that I could use my own experience of nearly drowning with my demons (sorrows?) to be a lifeguard, or maybe more like a lighthouse, for others who might be doggy-paddling out there in the dark.

I know so many of us feel that way right now, and my job as a therapist means sitting right in the thick of uncertainty and fear, doing my best to hold space for others’ emotions while managing my own. The light I shine by continuing to show up and “do it scared” might be all I have to offer; thank heaven for my sobriety, which has given me great practice! 🙏🏻