Real Fear

This is a guest posting from Moonshot


I don’t typically feel the need, as my husband does, to write down my thoughts, or to share them in written form with the world. Those who know me well should not be surprised to know that I usually just blurt my thoughts out to any interested party. However, something has been on my mind more and more over the last few months and particularly this last week, and I thought that perhaps sharing my thoughts would bring me, and maybe even some readers, a little comfort.

I suppose it starts with horror movies, which I have always loved. My parents disapproved of this type of film when I was kid, and I was always a good girl, so I didn’t see many of the horror movies that came out as I was growing up until I moved out of their house. In college and the years just after, I learned to love the thrill it gave me to turn out all the lights and descend into the voyeuristic bliss of watching Michael Myers slash, Jason tear, and zombies gobble. Living in an apartment by myself after I finished school, I would sometimes rent these movies to watch at home alone, all the lights turned out and a pillow nearby to stifle my shrieks. I took a strange pleasure in creeping around my apartment afterwards in terror, every light blazing, phone in hand, checking behind shower curtains and under beds for the bogeyman.

In the last year or two, however, I have noticed that my tolerance for these movies has decreased, and my pleasure in them nearly disappeared. It started when my husband and I, sickened and upset by the gore, got up and left the theatre halfway through the recent remake of “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” and has continued up through my inability to sit through “The Hills Have Eyes” a few weekends ago with friends Taltap and Elsa. A short conversation with those friends followed the movie, in which I argued that horror movies have changed in some intrinsic way, making them unpalatable to me. I was somewhat vague on the exact change, arguing variously that they focus more on torture, that the injuries are more graphic, and the characters more realistic. Taltap tried to disabuse me of this notion, saying that while special effects make it possible to show injuries in greater detail, the basic devices through which these movies disturb and frighten us have not changed. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought over the last week, and have come to the conclusion that the movies have not, indeed, changed. What changed is me.

Back in the days when I used to lock myself in a dark apartment and scare myself witless, I was having fun, but I also believe that scaring myself that way was a cathartic release for real fears. In general, I was not a terribly fearful person, and I tried not to think about the kind of dangers that face a young, single woman living alone. These movies gave me a reason to mentally tick through the safety measures I had taken, to rehearse my strategies for dealing with dangerous situations. In short, I could address my fears of the unlikely possibility of rape or murder, through the guise of preparing myself for an even more unlikely battle with an axe-wielding force of darkness. I could take steps to protect myself and failing those, believe that there always remained for me the option of fighting like hell to protect myself. I could wake up the next morning feeling smug in my false confidence that I could handle any psycho foe, real or imaginary. Some logical part of me understood that it was, in fact, false confidence, but part of me ruled by my emotions could ignore that detail in order to feel better. I felt that I was in control.

So why do these movies no longer serve to lessen my subconscious fears? After much thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that my fears have changed. When I watch these movies, when I imagine the psycho force of darkness, it is no longer myself he chases. It is my loved ones. Just as the unrealistic terrors brought to mind by these movies once helped me to deal with real fears for myself, they now reinforce real fears for my family. I’m not particularly worried about us being attacked by aliens, cannibals, or mystical dream-stalkers. But the feelings that these foes illicit from me on film are too close for my comfort to the feelings I have when considering real dangers like car crashes, illnesses, kidnappers…

You see, I have so much more to lose now than I did even five years ago. I could then, and can now, face the possibility of pain and death for myself. After all, I tell myself, pain is usually temporary, and if I die, well, I won’t be around to feel sad about it. Besides, as I explained, I am perfectly capable of deluding myself into believing that I can control what happens to me. My problem, you see, is that I haven’t been able to delude myself into believing the same about my husband, my beloved pets, my baby. I imagine terrible things happening to those I love, and I understand true terror. I begin to see that some pain could be forever. I feel no comforting sense of control, and I have no last ditch, fight-like-hell plan. I can only tell my husband I love him when he leaves for work, be ridiculously protective of my dog, search the house endlessly for missing kitties who nap unconcernedly in hidden corners, and voraciously read pregnancy and parenting manuals. I superstitiously avoid mentioning these fears in connection with my family, to the point that I find my fingers slowing on the keyboard right now as if they were immersed in molasses. I wish that I believed in prayer, or charms, anything that could turn my love into a magical force-field to surround and protect my family, to take away my worry, to fill me with that youthful, foolish confidence that once came so easily…

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I will become a neurotic worrier anytime soon. I won’t dwell on these new fears overlong, nor will I let them overwhelm or control me. I’ll simply do my best to live well, love my family, and make them happy. You won’t find me hiding in any corners… but I don’t think you’ll find me enjoying gruesome death scenes and lunatic killers anymore either.