Fear & Worry
Thoughts on Living Scared
Sometimes I feel as though fear and worry have entered my head like a pair of spiders and spun a web of anxiety that catches hold of my other emotions — my hopes and dreams as well — keeping them all stuck until they’re sucked lifeless. Fear is not always the primary emotion. Quite often it is mixed with other hues and colors — the grayed blue of sadness or a fiery shade of anger.
My fear is inversely proportional to my faith. If I believed more (in God, others, myself), I’m sure I’d worry less. Too often I am so focused on some frightful, imagined future, that I am blind to the benefits and blessings of the present. I worry about today’s decisions because I am trying to protect myself (or someone else) from some future consequence that isn’t guaranteed to occur. I’ve replaced the imaginary friends of my youth with many imaginary outcomes (and they’re almost always ominous). And all this predates the coronavirus.
I let fear and worry get in my way a lot. They hold me back from making decisions and changes or taking risks. What I fear is often hypothetical (and unlikely), but even knowing that, I still see it as an obstacle. And if I don’t overcome it, trepidation keeps me immobilized when I need to start making progress.
What do I fear? I fear losing more of my loved ones. I’m afraid that I’m too insecure and too over-confident. I fear that my right leg will always be smaller and weaker than my left. I fear that I will fail in achieving my dreams — and that my failure will not be the result of rejection or a lack of ability, but of defeating myself with weapons of self destruction — that I’ll talk myself out of trying. I fear that I don’t know the way. And while I suspect God is calling me to focus on and follow the sound of His voice, I fear I’m not really listening. I’m afraid that I’m afraid of too many things, and that my fears get in the way of my living. I’m not sure if I’m afraid of death per se, but I’m definitely afraid of all pre-death suffering.
Sometimes I’m afraid of failure; sometimes I’m afraid of success. I’m as fearful of being utterly miserable as I am of being blissfully content. When things are going well for me, I worry that the good will end abruptly or that it will elicit jealousy from others. When things are bleak, frustrating, or disappointing, I fear that it will always be like this.
I’m afraid of the dark — the type of dark that’s so complete is leaves no room for shadows. I’m afraid that I, myself, am the biggest obstacle standing in my way. I’m afraid that I don’t really know what I want — or that what I want is bad or wrong for me. I fear that fear will rob me of my other feelings.
I’m afraid of rats, roaches, skydiving, being in a serious car accident, going to outer space, submerging in a submarine, putting my head in an MRI machine, and losing my car keys. I’m also afraid of being robbed, witnessing a shooting, and being convicted of a crime I didn’t commit. I used to be afraid of falling into a pit of quicksand, but I’ve come to realize the unlikelihood of that.
My first two cats (Carrie and Mr. Big) taught me a few things about fear and overcoming it. When I first brought them home, I had to mediate a peaceful encounter between them and Joey, my sister’s dog. My initial instinct was to hold the kittens and let Joey approach them. I tried with Mr. Big first.
My method failed, and I soon figured out why. I knew the kittens would be safe in my arms and that Joey wasn’t a threat to them, but they didn’t. I then realized it made more sense to hold Joey back because he already knew and trusted me. So for attempt number two, I wrapped my arms around Joey to keep him stationary, and I let the kittens comes as close as they dared to. Within minutes, Carrie and Joey were fast friends. Mr. Big, somewhat scarred (emotionally) from my failed experiment, eventually came around as well.
This is what I learned from that: Always give the more fearful thing the freedom of flight. When introducing two non-equals (e.g., a dog and a kitten), hold the “beast” back. Sometimes I wonder if God does this for us. I suspect that when we find ourselves up against a brutish reality and we feel vulnerable and exposed — as though God’s hands aren’t under or around us, it is because He is holding back our enemy and giving us the freedom to move. We can flee, we can see that God has bound our adversary, or we can approach and perhaps realize the monster we once feared is benign or just a big, friendly puppy.
I have to regularly remind myself that God is much bigger than any of my fears or other mental demons. Nothing is beyond His reach or His power — not even a pandemic. The worst I can imagine isn’t more than God can handle — and it’s also very unlikely to happen.
I don’t want to live in fear. On the surface it looks like I’m prepared or being practical, but sometimes “being practical” is just a shiny façade covering over fear and dulled faith. I don’t want to remain boxed in by the weakness of my belief or shackled by my limited view of what’s possible. I don’t want fear to be the part of my imagination that I have the easiest time believing or that gets the most use. If my worry can’t protect me, then it’s just additional suffering — robbing my present of joy while giving my future nothing.
There is a lot to fear right now. A terrifying disease has spread around the world. How many more will get sick or die? How long will we need to stay inside? When will there be a proven vaccine or cure? There are lots of guesses, but no one knows for sure.
How do I move forward with worldwide uncertainty? If I don’t trust those in charge, how do I find peace? I can’t say what is out there beyond tomorrow or the limits of what I can see, fear, or dream, but life (and death) have taught me there’s only one way to proceed — that it’s only by leaping that I’ll acquire the faith to leap. No matter what terrors prevail or how dark the night. No matter who succumbs and who survives. We can only move forward step by step and one day at a time.
A version of this piece originally appeared on the blog Write Away.
