Sooner or later you have to face your fears.
You have to confront Goliath,’ the thing that’s always loomed large over your existence – the dead of night dark… the soaring heights… the closed-in spaces… flying … or circus clowns. Goliath bullies you, taunts you and then talks about your Mama. Mainly Goliath means to have his way with you, to beat you up, take your lunch money — and whatever esteem you have left.
The idea of ‘dealing with’ Goliath, of course, is that you’re supposed to mount all your courage, tap this deep, hidden well-spring of testosterone that allows your ‘inner-Casper Milquetoast’, to rise up and –before God and everybody — thrash the bully within an inch of his life and then dispatch the hooligan Goliath from the outskirts of town!
Of course, facing your fears has long been a rite of passage. It is an ordeal to be endured – and won (!) — in order to establish your manhood (or your womanhood) and to prove once and for all that you and no one else is the boss of you. The ultimate face-off itself is an unwritten law — most likely promulgated by the Self-Help Book author’s lobby as well as companies that market Band-Aids, First Aid kits and analgesics for people who’ve just suffered bloody, open wounds, broken bones and serious bodily harm (even if it is only to your ego.)
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Me? I’ve never been particularly excited about High Noon-ing my Goliaths. There seems to be little percentage in it. I’ve looked into it and found that in the long, sordid history of these kinds of things, the little guy mostly gets his ass kicked and sometimes loses consciousness. Who needs that!?
The truth is David beat Goliath — but only once, which is the reason they made a movie of the whole thing in the first place. A higher truth is in the rematch, the one they didn’t tell you about, the one you can only find out about on the Deep Internet–Goliath tore David’s right leg off and then nearly beat David ‘half to death with his own lower limb.
So when it comes to grappling with my own Goliaths, I’ve learned to listen to the advice of ‘Las Vegas’ and go with the odds, which are usually weighted heavily against the ‘little guy’ — or anyone named David.
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When it comes to my specific phobia, I’ll say this about them: they have not been your run-of the mill, garden variety types such as fear of flying, fear of heights, claustrophobia or say, fear of the dark.
My fears have been an eclectic bunch.
The first I remember was my abject fear of nuns, particularly Sister Mary Katherine in Fourth Grade. It caused me to not repeat the Fourth Grade although I generally enjoyed the view out of the side window of her classroom. I could only surmise Sister Katherine nee Sister Goliath disagreed about the outside scenery as well with the rest of my approach to formal education. I inferred as much as she, using me as a rag-doll prop, invented waterboarding on October 15, 1960. This was the same time I promised not to look out the window anymore. It was also the same time that I, exhausted, waterlogged and under serious duress, confessed to the Lincoln Assassination.
Another one of my Goliaths is an insane fear not of flying — or even airplanes — but of airports themselves and the gauntlet one must brave before even boarding a plane.
Then there’s my irrational fear of making campaign contributions for fear the politicians’ PAC will relentlessly and endlessly hound me with robo-calls and spam e-mail to contribute even more money – no matter who won the election.
I have a fear of mail men. No mail man has ever brought me a cashier’s check, an IRS refund or a scintilla of good news. It is a suspense thriller every time I go to the mail box. It’s either a bill, junk mail and or a summons to jury duty.
My fear of cable caused me to dispatch Comcast and avoid bills five metric pounds by weight –a stack of pages themselves thick enough to make Seabiscuit gag. I am alive today because my phobia of being bludgeoned to death with a baseball bat caused me not to then steal my neighbor’s cable-feed.[1]
As I have reached ‘seniority’ and am not as lithe as I once was, one of my big fears is having to bend over and look for anything I may have dropped on the floor …especially if the object has run itself under the bed or the living room sofa.
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My biggest fear –my huge, big hairy, ugly Goliath — these days is the same one that sends a dagger in the heart of most men: Doctors.
Most men would rather ‘discuss their feelings’ or God-forbid, female gynecological matters than go to the doctor although we would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t call our bluff on any of it.
As it turns out, we men are a stubborn lot, putting off going to the doctor as long as possible –until we’re pissing blood or having chest pains strong enough to bring a Clydesdale to its knees. Statistics show 54% of all men are afraid of doctors. Those of us in the 54% know that the other 46% are either doctors —or liars.
The bald-headed naked truth is I’ve always been a wuss when it comes to doctors’ visits. I liken the experience to being pulled over on the expressway of life and being given the once over by a State Trooper. At best you’re going to get a stern warning to change your fast living, hard driving ways. Or, at worst, you’re going to be identified as a ‘person of interest’, arrested and taken in for further questioning — and no one is ever going to hear from you again.
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Over the years, I’ve done enough self-analysis to figure out that my doctor-phobia is wrapped up in the ultimate disappointment of death. So far, death is something that has always happened only to other people — and I’m bound and determined to keep it that way. To be sure, the jig is going to be up someday and my attitude while in the doc’s office is ‘I just don’t want to be jigged up today!’ For one thing, I’ve got Field Level Tickets on Aisle 123 for this afternoon’s game versus the Cubs. Or there’s a 12 –ounce ribeye at home marinating in beer. If I hear from this new doctor that I have a terminal condition, knowing myself like I do, I’m going to want an immediate Second Opinion which is going to mess up my afternoon plans.
My other concern, my other fear, is that even if I don’t get a terminal diagnosis there are two ancillary worries. The first is that on my way out the door says “Not so fast” and then hands me this long list of comfort foods I can no longer eat. Or the doc tells me I need to get more exercise. “Maybe you could do some bend-overs, Cantrell. Attack that waistline!” For a person like me, both of these are akin to ‘a fate worse than death!’
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Some would say a person with all my fears needs help. And I’m sure there is some doctor whose pioneered some expensive 12-Step Program that is sold during Pledge Weeks on PBS and addresses say, my fear of doctors or say, my fear of airports. I don’t relish the idea of someone taking me and a group of other airport fearful people to show us just how easy it is to board a plane. I’ll drive. I like road trips anyway.
I’ll pass on therapy for the doctor-phobia thing too. Going to one doctor for therapy because you’re afraid to go to visit a physician seems oddly circular — even dizzying. It’s one of these classic “what comes first, the doctor or the doctor” questions. My life is complicated and dizzying enough already.
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Who knows if I will ever overcome all my trepidations, face down and deal with all my Goliaths? I’ve lived a long time with them already and they have become ‘interesting. Also, quite frankly there are better ways of spending my time than jousting with fears. Besides I’ve learned that sometimes if you’re ‘a David’ and you procrastinate long enough, your Goliath will find a better job elsewhere and leave town forever.
Until then maybe I’ll just stay the hell out of Goliath’s way. “Don’t SAY nothing, won’t BE nothing,” I’ll tell Goliath.
Now to be sure, none of this is the most grown-up way of looking at things, but then I’ve never been accused of growing up. Nobody’s perfect.
[1] The editor of the site is convinced I have a ‘pronounced fear of punctuation.’ I counter by reminding him of his own apparent fear of remuneration.