Up until about 11 or 12 years old, I loved roller coasters. Just about whatever it was, I’d ride it. I got to ride roller coasters every year, because the camp I went to every summer would take us on a field trip to Dorney Park. I rode Steel Force. Which, in my mind, meant I could ride just about anything.
But aside from the Dorney Park trip, that camp sucked, and it sucked hard. After years of protest, my mom sent me to a far superior camp, only they didn’t take field trips. So no more roller coasters for me. Until my physics class went to Six Flags senior year of high school.
A funny thing happened between Dorney Park and Six Flags. I became terrified of roller coasters. Wouldn’t go on ‘em. I didn’t remember being scared as a kid. I just assumed if I’d ridden them, I hadn’t been scared. But even thinking about Six Flags in the weeks leading up to the trip, I was full of fear, a feeling that leapt from my stomach to my throat once we entered the park.
Luckily, my friends were not tolerant of this newfound fear, and had no intentions of spending the day walking around playing carnival games. They were going on Medusa, a giant coaster full of loops that sent you literally head over heels. And I was, apparently, coming with them.
Now, you know the photos they take of you on roller coasters? The ones that cost far, far too much money for any rational person to buy?
Well, my friend bought one.
As you can see, I had a blast.
(And an awesome goatee.)
I don’t remember one second of that ride. I didn’t remember anything about it five minutes after we stepped off. I had been focused on sitting as still as possible, holding onto the handles on either side of me as tightly as possible, and waiting for the ride to be over.
But something magical happened: Somewhere along the way on that ride, I had fun. It took until I got off the rollercoaster for me to realize it, sure, but after that, I was leading the charge from one roller coaster to the next.
Thinking back with a clearer head, I realized that there was never a point where roller coasters hadn’t scared me. But back in camp, I knew how to overcome that fear. It was simply part of riding the roller coasters. But between camp and the high school physics trip, I was never forced to face that fear. So it grew, as fear tends to do. It’s like one of those plants that blooms in the dark: if you lock fear up, or hide it away, it thrives. It grows and grows and chokes you from the inside. That’s how it’s possible to go from someone who writes every day to someone who’s terrified of a word processor. Stay away long enough, and fear blossoms.
For years, I have been obsessed with getting rid of my fear. But more and more, I’m realizing that that’s never been the trick. Getting rid of my fear wasn’t how I got my love of roller coasters back.
It was getting on in spite of that fear.