What Really Scares Me!

 

I wrote a whole paragraph about how I’m not easily scared. 

Then I sat and thought for a minute and realised it was totally untrue. I scrubbed the paragraph. I’m scared of lots of things, maybe just not the same things as everyone else. 

I’m certainly not scared of ghosts and ghoulies as I’ve yet to be convinced such things exist. I’ve heard many anecdotes and more recently seen videos of so called ghostly events, but - and I might be tempting fate here - until I actually experience it for myself I’ll remain sceptical. 

And, I think rather naively, I’m not scared of dark alleyways at night, or groups of menacing looking men - for some weird reason I always think I’ll be safe. And so far, I have been.  This is probably not a good way to be, and I have to admit to being much more worried for my daughter and sons, and my eldest grandson now he’s coming up to the time where he might venture out in the dark. 

I am a terrible worrier, and worry and fear are inevitably intertwined. Worry can cover all aspects of my life: the things I’ve done, the things I haven’t done; the things others have or have not done;  what’s been said or not said; how is he? How is she? Why haven’t they replied? What can it mean? Fear is actually an extension of this: The worry of what MIGHT happen.  I get this from my mum, who, each time she hears a news flash about some disaster, convinces herself that at least one of her three children, eight grandchildren or nine great grandchildren is in the vicinity, being blown up, stabbed, burnt or at that very moment falling from the sky in Outer Mongolia.

Like many people, I’m not scared of death, but I am worried about how the grim reaper might take me. I’m scared of family and friends dying, especially prematurely: not just dying but being terminally ill, suffering and in pain.  I worry about the people left behind, which I suppose is perfectly natural, and an inevitable part of the circle of life. When I was about ten I clearly remember telling my mum not to be so nice to me.  When she asked why, I told her it was so I wouldn't be so sad when she died.

My biggest fear, for myself and others, is not physical but mental illness. Having suffered from depression for thirty odd years (much of that time controlled, thankfully) I know how debilitating and unbelievably awful it can be.  I’m scared in case it comes back and can’t be controlled. I’m scared for family members who have also experienced it in the past. And I’m scared for friends and family who have to support those suffering.  

On a lighter note, my family would tell you that one of the things that really scares me is tension.  The tension that comes with waiting for something awful to happen.  Tense films are probably the worst. You know something awful is going to happen but you don’t know what. And you don’t know when. My long suffering husband has left the cinema, many a time, with an arm full of nail marks... And I spent more time looking through my fingers at The Shining than watching the film.  Dave was lucky to get out alive.

On the rare occasions I’m in the house with only my husband for company there have been numerous incidents where I’ve been scared out of my skin. I could open a door expecting a room to be empty and see Dave. Or I could turn round in the kitchen and see him quietly minding his own business.  I’m surprised the screams that come unbidden don’t scare the husband half to death, and I’d like to take this opportunity to apologise to the neighbours who must think somebody’s being murdered.  As for Dave, he just looks at me as though I’ve gone mad. It happens probably twice a week and shows no signs of improving, despite  years of similar experiences. What Dave can’t understand is that I KNOW he’s in the house so whoever surprises me is going to be him.  To be honest, I can’t really comprehend it myself, but after forty five years together I doubt things will change now. 

I’m amazed that the grandchildren aren’t as scared as I am when they play their favourite game with granddad. I honestly don’t know how anybody can stand the unbearable strain of it.  It goes like this: granddad goes upstairs, turns all the lights off and hides. Grandchildren are then called to find him. To me, the tension and fear would be totally unbearable. After searching for some time (tension mounting) granddad jumps out and grabs whoever’s nearest, to loud screams and uncontrollable laughter.  

One of the most dramatic and embarrassing incidents (certainly for my son) occurred many years ago when Joe was about fourteen.  I’d been out and returned to the house, expecting it to be empty.  I pottered around for a while in the kitchen before opening the door to the back room.  Sitting on the floor was a lad I’d never seen before.  Before my brain could register the fact that Joe was sitting next to him (and logic could come into play) my automatic Scareometer went into action in full force. I emitted a loud, high pitched scream that went on for at least thirty seconds. The poor lad stared up at me in horror, before looking worriedly to Joe for some sort of reassurance.  Joe sat, eyes rolled to the ceiling, his head shaking in despair.  I never saw Foggy again but did catch him recently on Facebook, chatting to Joe.  They are now both forty but apparently he’s never forgotten the incident - and is probably still being treated for PTSD. 

And I'm not even going to mention Trump and the state of the world.....

I’m Scared by Jill Reidy 

When I was little 

It was big dogs

And small spiders 

Teachers with frowny faces

And shouty voices

Mrs Thacker who read Brer Rabbit

While we sat cross legged on desks

Forbidden to move

It was peering out 

From behind my mum’s skirt 

To try and answer adults’ questions

It was brown bread and butter 

My uncle Derek 

As he lumbered up the path 

With his size twelve feet

Now

It’s fear of the unknown 

Bad reviews

Getting old

Watching the News

Donald Trump

Sudden noises

Taking risks

It’s being on the edge

About to fall

It’s illness

Feeling trapped

Depression

It’s that landline call

At 3am….

It’s what keeps me awake at night 

And worms its way into my being  

As first light filters through the blinds

Thanks for reading...... Jill