"Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread
of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you
or forsake you.” - Moses, Deuteronomy 31:6
I think I was about 11 or 12 when I decided to be scared of
everything. The word "everything" may sound like an exaggeration, but
if it is, it's only a slight one. The reasons behind that fear must be complex,
and would surely require months of psychological analysis to discover. All that
you need to know is that I was a scared child. Abnormally so. My mum always
called me "a worrier", from a little before this age up until I was
about 16, and of course she was right. It was easy at the time for us both to
acknowledge it, and hope it would pass, which it did. But what cannot be denied
is the fact that this anxiety, this constant uneasiness with everything and
everyone I came into contact with, was the beginning. You might call it my
first real sin. It was certainly my first memorable one, and quite possibly the
one that has had the biggest influence on my life since. But at the time, (and
of course, I blame neither myself nor my close family for this) it wasn't seen
by any of us as a big deal. I know now that that's how most habitual sins
start.
And like all the other habitual sins that I've survived in
my lifetime, it had a snowballing effect. Starting off small, convincing me
that something terrible would happen despite the lack of evidence, just once a
day. Without my notice. Then again the next day. And then twice in one day. And
then twice in one day, and once before I went to bed. And with this pattern
recurring, and this worry knocking on the door of my mind a couple more times
everyday, it's easy to see how, at such a young age, I was helpless to stop it.
I was too inexperienced, too vulnerable: an easy target. I had no system of
defence- I believed that I had to face it alone. I believed a lie, and in that
way my sin was vindicated in my mind. And by the age of 12, my easily
influenced mind was the home of constant fear, day and night.
The list of things that I was truly terrified of, or that
would happen, is two-fold. Firstly, there was other people. Other KIDS,
specifically. That they wouldn't like me. That they'd make fun of me, and laugh
at me. That they'd attack me. That they'd, at best exclude me, or at worst
bully me. And even as I write this list, I realise that most of these weren't
all completely unfounded. Of course, as almost everyone has, I'd suffered some
bullying in the past, and my 11th year was no different. I'd been made fun of
and laughed at before, but to a greater extent than anyone else my age? Not
really. So why was I so much more afraid than other kids seemed to be? The
reason, I realise now, is very simple. Instead of moving on, forgetting about
the offences caused against me, I remembered them, and I repeated them in my
head. "Why did she say that to me?" "Why did he do that to
me?". And then, I'd try to justify their actions- "She was just
showing off" "He thought I did something to him first". In this constant
system of happening and justifications/reasoning, my sin was giving me a tiny
little intermission from the terror it was inflicting on me. It was appeasing
me, with the most minor reward imaginable. Its rent for living inside my head
was that it would formulate some flimsy reason for why I had suffered so much.
And I could SENSE that they were flimsy- they never stood up
under analysis. When I questioned hard enough, I realised that they made no
sense, were poorly constructed, and gave me no true satisfaction. But still, I
continued with the system. Something would happen, I would feel bad about it
and afraid of it happening again, and my sin would give me a tiny sense of
relief with a reason that was supposed to console me. And I, apparently satisfied
with that reason, THOSE reasons (because there was one for every grievance that
I experienced throughout the day), allowed fear to stay in my head for another
day. The reason I let him stay so long was because I believed another one of
his lies- that he was the only option I had.
But for all their useless and unsatisfactory resolve, to me
these little reasons for WHY something happened were a form of consolation.
They were SOMETHING, at least. In a twisted way, this was a far easier and
preferable arrangement to accept than the one I had with my other source of
fear- the fear from which I would receive no such morsels of consolation. You
see, my fear was not content with making me afraid of my small circle of
friends, classmates and teachers. Why would it have been? Sin is never content
with what it has- it will always demand more from its slaves. As I grew, so my
vision expanded. And as my vision became more and more aware of the vastness of
the world and endless possibilities, the fear inside of me saw an opportunity
to colonise new ground.
I was 11 when I got my first "job"- a paper-round.
You can probably see where this is going- my fear saw an open opportunity to
dominate my life further. The British tabloids have, for years, been a constant
source of fear mongering. They were back then. They still are today. They sell
fear to anyone who's willing to buy it, and they sell you the paper copy for
under 50p. Every morning, I would fill my luminous yellow bag with such paper
copies of fear, and spend 40-45 minutes seeing the same 3-4 headlines flash
before my eyes. "Racist attacks on the rise", fold, open the letter
box, push it through, next. "Chavs stamp helpless father to death",
fold, open letter box, push it through, next. "Perverts in our
schools", fold, open, push, next. Like I've before said- this was a young
and impressionable age, and I had no strategy for dealing with this
information. I couldn't process it properly. I was naive to the concepts of
spin, of media biased... of outright, printed lies. And so I was tormented,
from the moment I got up, by headlines, pictures, words, all of which were
preaching "truth" from the adult world. They set me off on a bad foot
every day. I'd get home, sometimes so scared at what I'd seen that I wanted to
cry. Sometimes I did cry. Not at those moments- in fact, it was usually at
times when a little spark just pushed me over the edge; a misplaced look, an
angry exchange, a teacher losing their temper in class- but I did cry, mostly
in private. And I realise now that what I was crying about was my fear of the
world, and not really realising that that fear was being replenished, renewed
and shoved in front of my eyes every day.
So, I was surrounded by my two sources of fear- from in
front, and from behind. And their relationship with each other was one of
professional admiration, and a mutual ambition to keep me trapped in my
captivity. Furthermore, they were without rest, constantly at work to hem me in
inside my cage of anxiety.
If, for example, I had read a particularly disturbing bit of
news, I would think about it, worry over it, obsess about it, repeat it
non-stop throughout my day. It would follow me home, follow me to the bus stop,
come with me to class, go with me to lunch, accompany me back home, sit with me
at dinner, and chatter away in my head until I fell asleep. It wasn't that I
WANTED to be scared of these things- I just WAS, and I accepted the fear that I
felt as my natural reaction to my reality. I was a scared person, and I didn't
have a strong enough reason to be any different.
If, on the other hand, I hadn't read anything particularly
damaging on the front pages that morning, then my brain would find me plenty of
things to be worried about in my own daily life from its large stockpile.
And if, on rare occasions, at any point during the day I
managed to finally rationalise the event in my mind, I would have a brief 2-3
second break before the other side of my fear would come swooping in. This
became such an intimate habit of mine, that it was almost as if my brain was
saying to itself "Now, what's next on the list of things to worry
about...?".
This was the mind that I started my pre-teens with. I woke
up everyday and went to bed every night fretting over what was coming from the
outside to destroy me, completely unaware that I was being crippled from the
inside, by the enemy between my own two ears.
It must be clear by now that in every way, in every possible
sense imaginable, I was truly a slave to my sin, and that sin's name was fear.
And it must also be obvious that it was a miserable existence, and I was a
miserable child. 24/7, I was suffering from a debilitating level of anxiety and
worry. It showed on my face- it was there for everyone to see. I remember
various people literally yelling at me, "SMILE!!!". Like, getting
genuinely frustrated with me. But how could I? And how could they understand
why I wasn't able to smile properly? We all received the same information,
after all- the same daily bad news from the overbearing media influence in our
lives. We all had people we had to deal with, people who let us down and
sometimes hurt us... in some cases, we had to deal with the exact same people!
Yet, there seemed to be a huge, unbridgeable chasm between myself, standing
alone and helpless, and everyone else on the other side, enjoying the party of
life.
As I stood there, in awe of the great distance between us,
of the depth of the chasm that separated us, I remember asking myself why it
was like this.
"Why can't I be over there, with them?" I asked.
My self-doubt sidled up to me. "They are adults"
he stated, "who've developed characters which don't easily welcome me, or
fear. They've earned their place on the other side".
"And what about my friends?", I asked him. Even my
friends and classmates of my age seemed to me to smile from the inside. I
wanted to know what they knew, and to join them on the other side.
"Well," my Fear stated from behind my other
shoulder, "whatever strategies they've used, it appears to have
worked", as he spread his hand across the scene in front of me, showing me
the crowds of happy, smiling people on the other side of the deep chasm that
lay between us. "I guess you're just not as strong as they are",
chipped in Self-doubt, with a sly wink towards fear from behind my back, out of
my viewpoint. I looked into that gap between us, and I realised that my daily
torment lay in that feeling of separation.
I often wondered if I could bridge the gap somehow...
"Surely it's possible...", I started to think,
"to escape from this side of fear and worry, and join them all over there,
on the happy side of life...".
"You can't", my Self-doubt interrupted.
"But why not?" I asked, naively expecting an
honest answer.
"The gap is too wide for you to jump it. They all
understand too much, you understand too little. You are cannot be like
them".
"But why NOT?" I asked more forcefully. "Why
do I have to worry and be afraid every second of the day, and they DON'T?"
"Why are you upset at US?", Fear retorted.
"WE'RE not making you stay here. Go on then- try and get to the other
side. Even if you make it, to be close to your friends and those around you,
let's see how long you last over there before someone attacks you. Or before
they make fun of your handwriting, or you stupid hair..."...
"...or before you embarrass yourself by just being
there!", Self-doubt chipped in.
"Good one!" laughed Fear, and they hi-fived.
"Then, you'll come crawling back over here, where it's safe...".
We visited the edge of that chasm frequently, the three of
us. Almost every day, in fact. And every time, I was talked out of trying to
escape from the side I was on. Every time, I sighed, and nodded in consent at
Fear's arguments.
"Good slave", said Fear, patting me on my shoulder
and looking across the chasm to my dancing and celebrating friends. So, I was
stuck with him living within me for years. He expanded his influence into every
area of my life- nothing was out of the reach of Fear. There was no escape from
him- no place in the world or time in the day where I could escape his
influence, even for a short while.
But a breakthrough was on the horizon...
When I was about 12, I started going to kickboxing classes.
I still remember the moment, leaving the sports centre (I think after a
swimming lesson) on a warm, June evening, and seeing the A4 laminated poster on
the cork board in the foyer. Its black and white images of two men fighting,
one crouching to an impossibly low stance, and defending himself from another
man who was attacking him from above with a double-footed kick... and a sword.
In that poster, I saw a way out. I saw a way to bypass the fear within me, to
over-ride it, to subdue it, to conquer it. "Fighting", I thought "Being
able to fight, being able to defend myself. That is what I need stop me being
scared all the time. I'll be more confident- I'll have more friends. I'll be
able to talk to girls better- they'll like me more". At least it was a
"strategy" for dealing with the fear of my local circle of contacts.
It was a start. The other fear- the one of the wider world- would have to wait.
On adult reflection, I now realise that this decision to
take kickboxing classes was the first example of my internal rebellion against
my debilitating level of anxiety. It was the first time that I struck out
against it. Before that moment, I had merely been subdued by it, enslaved to
it. Now, I was taking an active measure to disrupt its reign over me. A
positive step, I think all will agree. The truth was, as you can imagine, that
I was tired of being scared. I was weary of being afraid- I was worn-out from
being so terrified all the time. And, in this first case, the result of that
tiredness had led me to do something constructive towards my life- it had a
positive outcome.
However, I cannot deny that in this initial rebellion, as I
prepared to participate in my first trial kickboxing lesson, there was the
tiniest spark of anger. A tiny flicker of rage directed at my oppressor. It's
true- I must have been angry, otherwise I wouldn't have rebelled. But the spark
was only tiny, and unnoticed. Unnoticed by me, and ignored by my fear. However,
that flicker of anger, learning from the success story of fear in my life, had
ambitions of his own...
I don't really remember my very first kickboxing class, but
I do remember being unable to tie my white belt in one of the first classes I
took after I had received my uniform. I remember one of the black-belt
students, a slightly overweight lawyer called Ken, tying it for me around my
waist, and telling me "You'll have to learn to do this by yourself, you
know. I'll show you during the break...". Then, with a wink, he went back
to the first row way at the top of the class, leaving me stood at the back,
hoping that the knot he had tied would hold. Apart from that, I remember very
few of the details of my early days as a white belt. However, a quote from Maya
Angelou might help here:
"I've learned that people will forget what you said,
people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them
feel".
She was right, of course. Apart from Ken taking the time out
to help me with my troublesome belt, I can't really remember what people said
to me at the beginning of my kickboxing career. Or even what they did for me.
And in some cases, even their names and faces are a blur. But despite all of
that, I remember that they were kind to me. They were friendly, in a way I had
never witnessed before. They were calm and open, and they welcomed me with
encouraging, teeth-filled smiles when I entered each lesson. They involved me
in group discussions and jokes during the breaks. They made an effort to reach
out to me, to ask me about my life, and whereabouts I was in it. And,
ironically, despite the fact that we were in an environment where it was
permitted to bash your opponent about, none of them showed me the random acts
of violence that I'd witnessed and been a part of at school. Little did I know,
it would be nearly 15 years before I would find a community that exceeded them
in how instantly and genuinely they cared about me, despite not knowing
me.
And so, with the start of my commitment to learn how to
kickbox began the downfall of my fear. The empire that he had built within me
was a strong one- I'd consented to its construction and maintenance with my
daily capitulation. I'd chosen to believe every word that he'd ever said to me,
and I'd chosen to decide that the voice I was hearing was the voice of reason.
He'd been the sole dictator of the empire of fear, and the empire had spread
throughout my entire perception of everything. It had penetrated every aspect
of my life, and every minute of my day. At it's height, it had left me as a
trembling wreck multiple times on a daily basis. My fear had been truly
merciless and unforgiving to me.
But as I returned and returned to my kickboxing classes
every week, there was an energy within me that was new, and exciting. A
revolution had started, and it's leader's name was Anger.
---
I stood, my ankles weak, on the cold, hard stone floor. The
stone was frigid under my feet- painfully so. I had to keep lifting them to
ease the discomfort, before putting them down on that uncomfortable and
unforgiving surface. My back was against a moist, solid, bumpy prison wall. If
I leaned my head back, I could feel it against my skull. I could see very
little in front of me- just the closest part of the floor, with its large,
square tiles... and then blackness. Total darkness. I breathed heavily in the
darkness, the sound of my breath being loud in the stillness.
Suddenly, from the blackness right infront of me, I felt a
hand take my left wrist. Immediately, I cried out:
"Who's that?!?"
The hand, that strong and muscular clamp, kept hold of my
wrist, and forced it against the wall.
"What are you DOING?!?" I shouted in the direction
of the hand. There was no response, but I could hear the sound of metal tools
being searched for from the floor, clanking together, without rhythm. I tried
not to panic. Instead, I tried to lean my weight against my captured arm,
stretched at a 90 degree angle from me, to see if the hand holding my wrist had
any give to it. It was a strong hand, and it clearly had some weight behind it.
It was forcing my wrist against the wall, and the clanging by my feet
continued...
I tried pulling the other way, but there was even less give
that way, and I wasn't able to get as much leverage.
I tried telling whoever was holding my wrist in place what I
wanted: "Let go of me...", I said through gritted teeth, as I tried
again and again to pull myself free. My other arm turned out to be useless- as
I used it to reach across my body, in the direction of where I at least thought
my captor would be in the darkness, my hand touched nothing. Just black space.
The closest I could get was grabbing hold of his hand, which was firm, hard and
strong, and clamped around my wrist. My right hand wasn't strong enough to
remove his grasp...
"Let go of me...!!!", I repeated, frustrated, and
starting to panic...
At that moment, I saw a cold metal and wide cuff snap around
my wrist, slightly closer towards my elbow from where my captor's hand was, but
still definitely on my wrist. I could hear metal mechanics clanking close to my
hand, and the dark grey and rusting cuff tightened.
"What are you DOING?!?!" I screamed into the
darkness... but it was all I could do. He worked and clanked about, and I
waited for it to be over...
Eventually, the hand's grip on my wrist loosened, and fell
away. But I didn't feel any relief. The cuff was on uncomfortably tight, and
when I moved my wrist, I could hear the sound of the links of the chain hitting
each other, and pulling against the wall. Slowly, I moved my hand forwards, to
see how free I was. It was stopped suddenly with a rattle. My hand barely
extended to beyond the level of my body. I heard my captor clanking his tools
together, and his footsteps walk away from me, on the cold hard floor...
As I heard the creaking sound of a door open, I shouted to
him:
"Wait!!!"...
But there was no response. The door slammed shut, and in the
silence and the darkness together I could only hear my own heavy breathing...
and the sound of the chain whenever I moved the hand which was now chained to
the wall...
