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This question posits a binary between (1) listening to fear and (2) moving past it. When one feels fear, one can either listen to it or move past it. We might illustrate this binary like:
This binary suggests that when we feel a fear, the difficult decision we must make is: should I listen to this fear, or should I move past it? I understand this positioning. But I think there’s a more useful one.
When one feels fear, there are several options, which fall roughly into these categories:
Option One. Ignore the fear.
Option Two. Interrogate the fear.
Option Three. Listen to the fear.
In this schematic, where does moving past the fear fit in? Let’s see —
When I ignore the fear, I am unable to move past it. When I try to ignore a fear, my fear is like, don’t put baby in the corner! Trying to do so just makes her more boldly creative — she shows up in weird places, when I’m least expecting it, like when I’m taking a shower, or falling asleep, or even, brazenly, when I’m going to the bathroom. She is determined to be heard and I’m determined not to hear her, so we find ourselves locked in this bizarre dance. Where I run, she follows; it feels like movement, but I’m not going anywhere. She has placed me not on a dance floor but on a treadmill.
Let’s consider the second option, interrogating the fear, which feels like the opposite of ignoring the fear. So maybe this is where moving past the fear can be located; we might be onto something! Determined to dismount from the treadmill, I’m like ok you wanna to talk fears? Let’s talk fears. And then I find myself intellectually sparring with my fear, in the shower, or falling asleep, or, brazenly, on the toilet. We box — I land a few punches, she lands more, she anticipates my moves, she blocks, she has more energy than I do. I collapse — exhausted, defeated, and certain I have no business in this tournament. Again, I have not moved past the fear.
Both ignoring and interrogating fear empower the emotion they seek to disempower, lending her gravitas and an opportunity to debate, respectively. Engaging with fear in these ways only further obfuscates any potential for determining not only if, but also how, we might move past it.
So, we must consider the possibility that moving past the fear is contained within listening to the fear:
I used to have this problem. It wasn’t every night, but it wasn’t uncommon. I would be lying in bed, head on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, and that’s when it would start: a slideshow of nightmarish images. Images like — a man standing over me with sinewy, tall, sharp teeth like those of a fish at the very bottom of the ocean. Or a little boy holding onto my window ledge, terrified and fingers slipping. I’d squeeze my eyes and shake my head and that’s how the slideshow knew: time for the next image!
As I was getting ready for bed, I would tell myself: think about good things. Don’t think about scary things. And inevitably, after my eyes closed, that’s exactly what I did: I thought about scary things. Locked into the worst kind of whack-a-mole, every time I closed one image, my brain created a new one.
I don’t remember why, but at some point, I decided to try a new tactic: I decided to let the slideshow play. I lay in bed, closed my eyes, and was like ok, roll the tapes. Sure enough, the slideshow started. Hooked up to my very own Clockwork Orange viewing apparatus, I watched the images I’d conjured — eyes and mouth wide open, or at least that’s what it felt like. The images were so detailed. So grotesque, so desperate, so full of a variety of horror I had no idea I contained within me.
The man with fish teeth stood beside my bed for a while, looking at me, and I looked at him. His teeth were so thin. I started to wonder — why is he here? how did his teeth get like that? The boy at the window looked mournful. I wanted to ask him: what happened to you? what do you want to tell me? He dissolved into my eyelids before I got the chance. The images droned on as I drifted off to sleep.
I continued to use this tactic nightly, to opt to let the slideshow play at whatever speed it liked. I started to notice repetitions — oh, there’s the fish man. There’s the forlorn child. That’s interesting, I’ve never seen that before. Look at the texture of that one’s skin, where did I get that idea from? Over time, the frequency and duration of the slideshow decreased, until it became a rare, short viewing experience.
Nowadays, maybe once or twice a year, I see a horrifying image as I’m falling asleep. It’s jarring, unpleasant, and also feels like — alright, what has my brain cooked up today?
Granting myself permission to listen my fear allowed me to move past it. Eventually, the fear didn’t really even feel like fear — it felt like curiosity.
Listening does not necessarily include understanding; I still don’t really know what those images were or are about, nor do I know if I’m ready to understand. I do know that I no longer dread falling asleep, and I no longer feel trapped by my darkest imaginations. I do know that I have moved past the fear — but only because I granted myself permission to listen to it.
Instead of trying to ignore fear, or prove her right, or prove her wrong, I take her out to dinner. We get to know each other. We have a lot in common, my fears and I. We eat bread and when the restaurant dims the lights, we tell each other secrets. We flirt. After dinner, we go on a walk. The air is cool; we can see a few stars; we reach for and find each other’s hands.
We don’t move past fear; we move with it.
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