My courage today is directly defiant to Mr. Stevenson's belief. For three reasons you all get a brief glimpse into the dark and twisty tunnels of my anxiety-ridden mind. First, it is rumored to be therapeutic to give the histrionic prone woman inside your head a voice. Second, in the process of my self-analysis, I have found that this hysterical person that sometimes occupies my brain is quite humorous. And lastly, I have been missing my outlet of spilling my guts onto paper (well, rather typing them onto a screen) and after a conversation with my mom today about how my son used to be deathly afraid of a squeaky rubber lamb, and the cow in the neighbors field, this topic came to mind!
I won't eat baked potatoes from a restaurant because I heard this story when I was a kid about a girl getting botulism from one that was wrapped in tin foil.
When I am cooking and go to take something out of the oven, I am struck every time by a split second of total terror that I am going to loose my balance and fall in headfirst.
If there is a plunger next to the toilet, I sit down with great care in order to avoid inadvertently being impaled.
Driving next to semi trucks makes my heart pound wildly out of control. All I can see dancing before my eyes is a vision of my car being sucked underneath.
I have many fears that are legitimately things to worry about. The ones that have a greater chance of actually happening to me than not. Those fears I hold close, never voicing because the mere whisper of acknowledgment brings them one step closer to being reality. These are simply some of the silly, irrational things, like the cow and the sheep. Perhaps I agree with Mr. Stevenson more than I had initially thought.
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